#cause the books actually are being written in french because i have a better grasp on french than english

[corneille-moisie]

.... might or might not be working a little on that poison astride and orlège thingie

🤔

🤓

[sureira]

Principles You Can Use From Rowling’s Philosophy of Writing 

by Ruthanne Reid

If you’re like me, you loved the Harry Potter series. Maybe you watched the movies or even visited the theme park, and you wondered about JK Rowling’s writing process and the strategy she uses to write her best-selling books. If you’re like me, though, you’ve also been deeply hurt by things Rowling herself has said. On Twitter, on her website, in interviews, and more, Rowling has promoted harmful views of trans people, and you might be one of her many readers who find it painful, or even impossible, to return to the Harry Potter books you once loved.I understand. Before I dive into the wisdom we can draw from Rowling’s writing process in order to write our first draft (or others), allow me to share a principle with you. Death of the Author: Or, How to Love the Book, Not the Author In 1967, a French literary critic named Roland Barthes wrote an essay called La mort de l’auteur, or Death of the Author, in which he states that any piece of writing should be separated from the author that wrote it. In other words, he believed in judging the written work completely on its own merits, without involving personal beliefs or actions of the author in question. Sometimes, this is possible to do. Sometimes, it isn’t, and we readers have to apply discernment to what we read and the lens in which we view things.I have two examples for you. HP Lovecraft First, HP Lovecraft, whose incredible work literally created today’s modern horror genre. Do you enjoy any kind of tale with Elder Ones, or chaos gods, or even just good old Cthulhu? (I know I do!) His work was so creative, so new, that you’d be hard-pressed to find any horror story that doesn’t show at least some of his influence.Unfortunately, Lovecraft was also an extremely xenophobic racist. Now, I enjoy a good chaos god, and I’ve made the decision to separate his xenophobia from his writing. That means, of course, that I must view critically anything he wrote that implies white English people are somehow the pinnacle of humanity.It means I purposely do not allow his racism to infect my way of thinking. By doing so, I am practicing la mort de l’auteur. JRR Tolkien Here’s a second example: JRR Tolkien, whose work defined modern fantasy. Do you enjoy anything with elves and dwarves or made-up languages? We owe Tolkien for that. He redefined and polished the fantasy genre so well that everything from movies to MMORPGs still use his templates. Unfortunately, he also described his orcs as “squat, broad, flat-nosed, sallow-skinned, with wide mouths and slant eyes: in fact degraded and repulsive versions of the (to Europeans) least lovely Mongol-types.” Yowza. Now, was Tolkien a racist? Not exactly. In fact, according to the standards of the time, he was absolutely liberal and anti-racist. So then what do we do with this bizarro and racially horrifying description? We see it and choose to discard it. Generations of artists and authors have done exactly that, turning orcs into anything but“least lovely Mongol-types,” and aiding this genre.Again, it’s important to see the problem so you can avoid letting it influence your work. We enjoy the good parts while consciously discarding the bad, rather than being influenced by it. So What About JK Rowling? She’s not dead. In fact, she’s still saying harmful things, even as we speak. Instead of listening to her readers, who (at least initially) approached her in love, trying to help her understand, she doubled down, rejected their experience and their words, and in the process, caused an unbelievable amount of pain. Here’s the thing about la mort de l’auteur: it is entirely up to you whether to apply it to what you read, or to simply discard the whole thing and find less troublesome authors. Both roads are valid. In no way do I condone her attacks on the trans community, or her persistent sharing of misinformation. I choose to apply la mort de l’auteur for the simple reason that I benefited from the good things she’s written, and I wanted to share them with you. However, if you aren’t comfortable doing that, you are absolutely welcome to walk away. In fact, I’d suggest these writing articles instead: Neil Gaiman’s rules of writing, or how to create your own rules of writing. Okay. Awkward stuff done. Ready to dive into the process stuff instead? Let’s go! 9 Rules From JK Rowling’s Writing Process Over the course of her writing career, Rowling shared a lot of solid writing wisdom, and in my opinion, eight writing rules stand out—along with a ninth we can apply from her choices since. Whether or not you’re writing your first book like Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone) or last book in a series (like Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows), I think these rules speak to Ms. Joanne Rowling’s philosophy on writing.They are great writing tips for you to reflect on in your spare moments and then apply to your writing process, for short stories, novels, bestsellers, or even the first time you’ve ever attempted a book. Rule One: Protect your writing time “Be ruthless about protecting writing days, i.e., do not cave in to endless requests to have “essential” and “long overdue” meetings on those days. The funny thing is that, although writing has been my actual job for several years now, I still seem to have to fight for time in which to do it.” This is especially hard for those of us with family. Our loved ones come first, and while that is important, our loved ones also need to understand that we need time to write. Setting reasonable boundaries is a crucial step for a writer—even if they’re as simple as, “Mommy needs fifteen minutes of quiet time, okay?” If you have trouble setting boundaries with loved ones, try setting a reasonable boundary for one week. See how it goes. If it’s too much time or too little, tweak it. Establish a routine that signals to others that it’s your writing time, but also lets them know that outside of your writing space, you’re there for them. Not only will this teach the importance of flexibility and discipline to others, but also that your writing is valuable. It’s your work, and your dream! Needing quiet time to write doesn’t mean that you don’t love your family. Your writing deserves your time, too. Open communication about this can help everyone understand and respect that. Rule Two: Treat your writing like a job “You’ve got to work. It’s about structure. It’s about discipline.” It’s easy to forget that writing is a job. We don’t always feel like doing our job. We certainly don’t always feel inspired. To be writers, we must train ourselves to sit down and write even when we don’t feel like it. Those moments are the ones that really matter, even more than the shining, flying, muse-kissed moments.Writing when we don’t feel like it is what turn amateurs into professionals and rough drafts into polished manuscripts. “The muse works for you. You don’t write at her beck and call—you train her to show up when you’re writing. “ Rule Three: Believe you ARE a writer “I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me.” Yes, writing is possible with another job. Yes, writing is possible with other responsibilities. Are you a writer? (I know your inner critic snarled no, but I also know a tiny candle-flicker of unquenchable hope in you whispered yes with so much longing you could cry.) You ARE a writer. That means you write. A runner runs. A painter paints. A cook cooks. You are a writer. You write. Accept this, fight to believe it, and be amazed at how far that takes you. Rule Four: Write what you know “Write what you know: your own interests, feelings, beliefs, friends, family and even pets will be your raw materials when you start writing.” This doesn’t mean you need to experience aliens in order to write about them. It means that all good stories have universal application. A great example is this Google Doodle. (Trust me. I’m going somewhere with this.) Take two minutes and thirty-six seconds to watch this: Halloween 2017 Google Doodle: Jinx’s Night Out It’s adorable, right? Without a single word, this video told an effective story. You felt for the little ghost, both when it was sad and when it was happy, right? News flash: you’re not a ghost. That was universal application. It doesn’t matter what culture you’re from or what language you speak; all human beings know what it is to be lonely, to feel left out, to be frustrated, determined, and to finally be with friends. That story works because the creators used their interests, feelings, beliefs, friends, family and even pets to tell this story. (I’m fond of the kitty, myself.) I’m greatly oversimplifying, but here’s the gist: you already know how to tell a moving story because you live one. If you’ve ever had emotions, ever responded to anything, then you already know what universal application looks like. Listen to the people around you, and apply empathy. You don’t have to be a ghost to write a good ghost story. Rule Five: Read “I always advise children who ask me for tips on being a writer to read as much as they possibly can. Jane Austen gave a young friend the same advice, so I’m in good company there.” Read. Read. Read some more! The more you read, the bigger your arsenal of words will be. The more you read, the better your grasp of metaphor, poetry, beauty, passion, and empathy will be. The more you read, the greater you will be as a writer (and probably human being). It’s like learning more dance moves or impressively difficult notes on an instrument. The more you learn, the better you’ll be. So read in your genre. Read outside your genre. Get in the habit of finding time to pick up a book instead of your phone (unless it’s to open up another book.) You DO have the time to read. Even if that’s just ten minutes a day. Any time counts. And the more stories you read, the more likely you’ll start to implicitly develop the skills you need to become a great writer. Rule Six: Persevere “Perseverance is absolutely essential, not just to produce all those words, but to survive rejection and criticism.” This is one of those unpleasant truths about publishing: you’re gonna get rejected. A lot. I wish there were a way around this. Harry Potter was turned down again and again because that’s just the way it goes sometimes. And it isn’t only publishers: when you get published, and your work is out there, you’ll get bad reviews, too. Mostly, they’ll just be people who don’t understand what you’re doing. Intellectually, you’ll know that. Your heart, on the other hand, is going to break into a thousand pieces. But here’s the secret: you can’t stop writing because of push-back. You MUST NOT stop writing because of push-back. Keep going. Don’t stop. When you get rejected, pick up your pen and keep going (and use the way you feel to put more universal application into your work). And when you’re feeling really discouraged? Remember that when someone doesn’t like your book, they might also just not be your ideal reader. That person just wasn’t your target audience.If your book isn’t to someone’s taste, that’s all right. It will be to someone else’s.Keep writing your book, because your ideal readers need it. Rule Seven: Bring your whole self to the page “What you write becomes who you are … So make sure you love what you write!” Writing is a little like a Mobius strip, in a way: Your beliefs and experiences and feelings all help craft your writing. However, your writing clarifies, corrects, and often reveals your beliefs, experiences, and feelings. As you write, you’ll discover things about yourself. You’ll clarify things, too, because it’s only as you come to write them that you realize they needed clarification in the first place. Now, understand: this means that if you haven’t given yourself a good look to find your biases (we all have them), you will bring those to the page, too. It’s important to see who you are as you bring your whole self to the page. Writing is a brave, bold venture, and life-altering discovery is part of the journey. Rule Eight: Accept that failure is part of the process “Failure is inevitable—make it a strength. You have to resign yourself to the fact that you waste a lot of trees before you write anything you really like, and that’s just the way it is. It’s like learning an instrument, you’ve got to be prepared for hitting wrong notes occasionally, or quite a lot. I wrote an awful lot before I wrote anything I was really happy with.” Failure is normal. Also, it is okay. You’re going to write a lot of crap. You’re going to push past those things and write more crap. It may take you twelve years. It may take you a million words. If it does, then you’re on the right path—the same one your favorite authors walk. Accept that it will take time, and that sometimes, your pencil won’t be your friend. If you accept it, then when it happens, you won’t throw in the towel and set the house on fire. Instead, you’ll be able to go, “Well, dang; that sucked, didn’t it? Knew it would happen. Time to write some more.” Rule Nine: Respect Your Reader Sadly, this rule doesn’t come from writing advice she’s given, but in a way, it’s the final conclusion of the previous eight. This involves bringing your whole self to the page. This involves empathy and universal application. This involves perseverance, never quitting, and willingness to tackle your writing troubles. If your readers value what you created, they will listen to what you say. Your words have the power to uplift or hurt others. None of us can ever really know where someone else is coming from, and it’s essential that both our stories and our interactions reflect respect. Respect yourself enough to be a better person. Respect your readers enough to hear what they have to say. This sounds scary, I know, but I promise you, it’s worth it.

[theparanormalperiodical]

The Real Story Behind Krampus (2017), And The 17 Other Terrifying Christmas Tales And Traditions You NEED To Know About

Christmas is a time for family, a time for laughter, and a time for drinking volumes of alcohol that make your cousins concerned about your emotional wellbeing.

But most importantly, it's a time for demons to hunt down children and stuff them full of straw and pebbles. No, I’m not talking about the Eastenders Christmas Special - I’m talking about the Christmas traditions they don’t put in Hallmark movies.

As Christmas has been celebrated for 2000 years, it has amassed a collation of equally terrifying traditions and monsters that only the dark corners of history could conjure up. 

Although confirmed by the Dickensian tradition of sharing ghost stories (see Matthew Mcconaughey movie - or failing that some old book about poverty in Victorian Britain), it seems we’ve forgotten the true terror behind the most wonderful time of the year!

So, as your favourite paranormal blogger, I’ve taken it upon myself to bring together everything creepy ‘bout Christmas. 

Today’s post is gonna take y’all through the mythical monsters you should be on the lookout for, plus the Christmas traditions that bare a dark, twisted backstory.  

Which is all of them.

Let’s get spooky! 

First, Let’s All About The Monsters Of Christmas

Hands up if you’ve watched Krampus (2017).

Here’s the trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6cVyoMH4QE  

It might not be Love, Actually, nor will it ever score a set of great reviews, but it got everyone talking about the mythical creature titling the film. 

Need a summary?

This dark-comedy/horror film centres around a dysfunctional family at Christmas. When the youngest child loses faith in Santa, he rips up his letter to him, sending a signal to Krampus that he has lost his Christmas spirit and thus must be punished!

Okay, this film doesn’t fit the actual legend that well. But the kid does get dragged to hell - and unfortunately, that’s what sticks closest to the creature titling the film. 

On top of this, the movie features the classic mysterious European grandmother that has a story about the war (as a European I can confirm this). But her story isn’t about an air raid, or some long-gone past ruler; instead, it explains a twisted tale regarding the most famous companion of Father Christmas. 

That being said, it provides an introduction that only scratches the surface of the mythical creatures of Crimbo:

Krampus is the half-goat, half-demon creature that is often witnessed wandering ‘round with Santa Claus. Concieved in the pre-christian era in central europe, his aim of existence was to punish naughty children. 

“So, Santa provides for the nice kids, Krampus provides for the naughty kids? Got it.”

If only it was that simple.

Krampus’s family tree is more twisted than the British royal family - and has a similar collection of dodgy relatives:

Son of the Norse goddess, Hel (ruler of the underworld and the dead), Krampus is a Perchten, a race of beasts born to scare away Winter. Never heard of ‘em? Well, you’ve probably heard of his grandfather, then: Loki.

Given his famous hegemony, it follows that he is always believed to be the Horned God of the Witches, and sticks to a devilish image.

With a dark, hairy body, large fangs and a tongue hanging far below his bottom lip, beast-like is an understatement. Accessorising his frightful look is a grasp of birch branches or a whip, as well as a sack or basket (to put children in and take to hell or save for a quick drink and snack later), and chains.

However, the chains part is still subject to debate: some believe it is an attempt to bind the devil by the Catholic Church in attempt to control him, while others claim it is because Krampus is Santa’s slave.

This directly relates to the position of Krampus and his fellow monsters - they are all believed to be Santa’s companions. 

So, we know who Krampus is. But did you know he has a whole night devoted to him?

Krampusnacht falls on the 6th December, a day from which people put on masks and get drunk, scaring kids. Alternatively, you can dress up and hand out coal, mirroring the Krampus spirit! Nevertheless, both serve as a reminder to children not to be naughty, as does the bundle of golden birch branches you can have in your house. 

Now, who’s ready to get their feminist on?

Frau Perchta is the female counterpart of Krampus. 

This goddess-monster goes about giving good kids silver coins, and giving naughty kids, uh, well, death.

She’d slice ‘em open, and stuff ‘em full of straw and pebbles. But her backstory goes much further than simply murdering children: as she oversees spinning as a part of the 12 days of Christmas, she focuses on people that get their work done.

And if you slack? Then you gon’ get murdered. 

Given her name, it’s obvious that like Krampus, she’s a beast-like creature. But her animalistic tropes only go so far as her feet - just like Krampus’ single goat hoof, she has a swan foot. 

“So, she’s a swan?”

Nope - she’s either regarded as a beautiful young woman, or an old crone. 

Classic Patriarchy. 

Next up is another animal, but this time, it comes in the form of a cat. Unfortunately, the Yule Cat is less Instagram, and more deadly. Yep - this Icelandic beast eats the kids that fail to complete their chores before Christmas. 

Just like Frau Perchta, it can be traced back to farmers attempting to scare their workers into getting shizz done. If they hadn’t processed the autumn wool, they’d be eaten by the cat. If they had, they’d receive new clothes.

You’d better be thankful for those socks, then!

But it turns out the Yule Cat isn’t the only monster from Iceland. In fact, he’s actually the pet of a family of ferocious Christmas beasts!

Gryla and Leppaludi are a couple hell-bent on detecting naughty children. Gryla, the matriarch of this famalam - is a Norse giantess, who wanders round each and every village in iceland. Once she’s found said children, she eats them. 

Often she is described as a beggar, asking for parents to turn over their disobedient children so she can chuck ‘em in her sack, and add them to her signature stew!

Her husband - well, third husband but who’s judging - Leppaludi, is what the Daily Mail would label a benefit-scrounger as he hangs about in their cave all day. On top of this is their 12 children: The Yule Lads.

(God, this has a Daily Mail story written all over it.)

Each lad has a different, um, quirk.

One harasses sheep. One steels tupperware - no, seriously, he makes a point of stealing pots with lids. And another steals candles from children.

So that’s Iceland covered - let’s head back to continental Europe!

Hans Trapp is our next contender for the ultimate creep of Christmas. Trapp is a resident of Alsace-Lorraine, and comes from near the border of France and Germany. But what’s really terrifying about this monster is that he once existed. 

Hans Von Trotha was a French Knight and man of particular political distinction. From his feuds with the church, to his ever-roaming spirit after he died, the following myth was by no means a random creation. However, the backstory to Hans Trapp took a bit of a detour from his past:

Trapp was reportedly a Satanist who would kill children. Yeah, you can see a theme here…

This rich, greedy man was excommunicated by the church, and then exiled to the forest where he would hunt children. Well, he would until struck by a bolt of lightning sent by God. But despite his rather dark past, his backstory is less really-demonic, more redemptive.

A bit like Krampus, he seeks to remind kids to be virtuous, teaming up with St. Nicholas to ensure children would be nice. 

Next is Romanian Werewolves. 

Yep, that’s plural. 

Sure, these man-beasts show up during the full moon, but also makes a point of unleashing their true forms at Christmas. This has merged with caroling in Romania - dressing up as animals and pissing off people busy having a cheeky Baileys rather than see their family is a common occurrence there.

Oh, and they go around and tell you not to have sex.

No, seriously, you aren’t allowed to have sex on Christmas Eve cause Jesus or somethin’. 

The other Christmas mythical creatures include:

Le Pere Fouettard, some fella who tags along with St. Nick, delivering lumps of coal to naughty kids. Well, when he’s not beating them up, that is!

Knecht Ruprecht joins Santa on his rounds too, but he isn’t like Pere, don’t worry! He kidnaps children, instead.

Next up is Zwarte Piet, one of Santa’s helpers who listens at the chimney of family homes to deduce if kids have been naughty or nice. Guys, we got a wholesome helper! Wait - people dress up in blackface to celebrate him?

I think we can all agree that racism is far scarier than anything else on this list…

Lastly, we have Belsnickel. And don’t worry, there’s no racism here. This bloke clad in fur and random clothes asks kids if they’ve been naughty or nice during the year.

Let’s Talk About The Terrifying Traditions

Well, we did it, guys! 

We made it through the monsters behind a Merry Christmas. 

And you can rest easy knowing these are all mythical creatures that can add a smidge of spook to your Christmas. But now it’s time to discuss the spooky side to the traditions we pull out of the attic year-upon-year.

So, no, these aren’t based on myths or religion - its based on historical fact!

Great.

Anyways:

If there’s one thing that defines Christmas - and is currently crippling my bank account - its gift giving.

Thinking of giving someone scissors for the most wonderful time of the year? It will literally cut your friendship or relationship in two. And shoes? The receiver of your gift will metaphorically walk away from your relationship. 

But if you’re looking for a more, uh, positive gift, a wallet or purse should be on your shopping list, instead. 

Wallets with money in them are believed to ward off demons, ghosts, and all other scary things.

Another creepy Christmas fact is the historical origins of mince pies. As a Brit, seeing Americans attempt to comprehend mince pies always figures as a solid meme. But the origin of it doesn’t steer too far from ‘Murican attempts to replicate this Christmas treat.

Back in the 16th century, cannibals would add human meat to pies, selling it off as actual meat. Oh, and this parallels some vague rumour of Santa being a cannibal. Basics, a holy man told him to give gifts to kids instead of eating them. 

In some strange and convoluted way this somehow chocks up to mincemeat now insinuating that there is no meat in there, instead.

*shrugs*

Speaking of tasty treats, why not make sure you stick to the rule of the Baker’s Dozen at Christmas?

When bakers would make batches, they would provide 13 of something instead of a dozen in case something turned out wrong. But they would also provide an extra roll, or a bun, at Christmas!

It’s for that reason that on the 12th day of Christmas, you have to take down your Christmas tree. Fail to do so? You’re gonna have to keep it up all year, then. It’s a mouldy pine tree, or its bad luck.

Our next tradition stakes it claim as the twisting of a Crimbo icon: it’s Santa Claus, himself.

But this time, he takes on an urban legend that I’m sure many actually believe: understandably, ‘santa’ can be traced to ‘satan’, as if it is the unholy being himself but in disguise. And ‘claus’? It can be translated to ‘hoof claws’, a running theme we see with the monsters like Krampus. 

So, could it be the devil in disguise?

Satan aside, who else likes trooping up to midnight mass and singing about the JC?

Well Christmas carols - and even carolling itself - actually sticks to a relatively dark past. Take Good King Wenceslas - this bloke let in peasants and encouraged them to join his bountiful feast! 

Unfortunately, his charitable efforts were not rewarded. He was stabbed with a lance repeatedly outside a church upon his own brother’s orders, and was then dismembered.

Yikes.

Historically, carollers would partake in similarly violent activities, demanding food and drink from their audience. Heck, they would even so so far as to start attacking, raping, and destroying their property! 

Guess it wasn’t a very Silent Night, then…

Our penultimate tradition is that of the Nutcracker: Whether you’re watching it, or using it to have a Christmas-specific nibble, there’s no doubt that this is pretty popular image of the festive season. 

But - and it’s a big ol’ ‘but’ - it’s based on a truly terrifying story.

No, there’s no ghosts, no ghouls, and certainly no demons. But there is a child marriage.

The story goes that a girl, Marie, sees a nutcracker come to life. Her Grandfather than launches into this story of how men can be cursed with the ugliness of a nutcracker. She replies by saying she’d marry one no matter how they looked.

She is then whisked away into a magical world from which she marries a nutcracker. 

This all goes down whilst she is 8 years old. 

Our final tradition of terror is less about the abuse of young girls, and more about evil beings breaking into your house. Merry Christmas?

See, you’d think that people coming down your chimney is reserved for one bloke in particular, but it turns out that European tales of malicious spirits taking the same route is a common tale frequently told. 

Belsnickel does the same, as do Greek goblins in order to terrorise the residents of the house.

So - What’s Your Verdict?

Which tradition left you shook?

And what Christmas film are you now going to watch to try and wipe this from your brain?

Be sure to hit follow to see a real spooky story tous les jours (everyday for the unsophisticated among us)!

At this point, I would tell you to have a Merry Christmas, but I think a safe one where, you know, you don’t get dragged to hell by Krampus, is best. 

[one-deranged-son]

Wormholes to Another World

Originally posted in February 2nd, 2020

Retrieved on December 31st, 2020

Written by Gossamere as John and Froggy as Ian Nashton.

Warning:

This plot is rated explicit for language, description of violence, religious symbolism, gun, blood, and mentions of rape and age gap relationships. Dead dove: do not eat. Reader discretion is heavily advised.

Ian Nashton

"Dad! Come on, let's go inside!"

It was a Saturday morning, but that didn't stop a hyperactive, sugar-fueled Jansen from running about excitedly as soon as the car was parked.

Two days ago was his tenth birthday, and their parents had promised to take him to the museum on the weekends.

Now, Ian wasn't a big fan of history as a subject in high school (because they never teach the interesting stuff, some things tend to be omitted). 

He did, however, love going to museums for the artifacts and not to mention, museums are so full of interesting information, ready for him to absorb.

Even if he wouldn't get the chance to use them at school.

Their parents chose the Royal Ontario Museum, because it had a wide variety of exhibits, basically, something for everyone.

Jansen was 'armed' with an instant camera which he hung around his neck with a strap. He was most excited about the dinosaur exhibits.    He also had with him a notebook and a pen—in case he wanted to write something down. 

Jansen was dressed like a mini Einstein, complete with the patterned sweater. Ian, on the other hand, was dressed in black and grey.

The Nashtons often drove past the futuristic-looking building, but they have only visited the museum once ever since they moved to Toronto. 

Both parents were often too busy with work, while the brothers had school and other extracurricular activities.

"Musée royal de l'Ontario." Ian muttered to himself as he read the sign just outside the museum—he wanted to practice his French pronunciation.

Whilst their father purchased tickets, Jansen's eyes caught sight of a dinosaur fossil display in the main lobby. His mouth gaped in awe as he looked up at the display. He impatiently tugged at Ian's jacket sleeve because he knew he shouldn't go alone to see it up close—luckily, Ian obliged and went along with his younger brother.

Whilst Jansen took a photo of the display (he had to sit on the floor and aim his camera up), Ian read the information board.

"Futalognkosaurus dukei…?" Ian read out with uncertainty, "I think I pronounced that wrong. Hm… discovered in Argentina… that's neat."

Once the developed photo has come out, Jansen wrote the name of the dinosaur on the bottom corner and some brief information on the back. 

"You know, I can take a photo of the information board for you. Dad gave me his camera." Ian offered.

Jansen shook his head with a slight smile, "I'm good! I think I like writing it down."

"Alright, suit yourself, man."

The brothers returned to their parents when they heard their mother call for them. Jansen and Ian were given a map each.

"You two can go anywhere you want, but make sure to stick with each other so we can call you if We need to." Their father explained. "Here, take my phone."

"Don't let him out of your sight, be careful of strangers." Their mother added.

Ian took his father's phone and placed it safely in his other pocket. He then gave an understanding nod and a salute. "Will do! You two can count on me."

Needless to say, Jansen was overjoyed to have been given such permissions, and he energetically walked to where the stairs were.

"Oi! Wait up!" Ian exclaimed as he tried to catch up with the younger boy. "Mom said I can't get you out of my sight. Anyways, where are we going first?"

Jansen points to the second floor of the museum, where the animals—including the dinosaurs—were.

"Oh, right, yeah. Let's go!" Ian puts his arms around his younger brother's shoulder as they went up the stairs. Ian actually wanted to go to the third floor to see the ancient Egypt exhibit first, but he lets his brother lead the way for now.

ㅤㅤ

John

Five years ago, the young man visited the same place.

However, the genuine euphoria he experienced when he first stepped into the museum no longer fulfills his heart. Instead, with every step he took, it feels like a knife is being stabbed to his heart.

Jesus Christ, he feels his heartbeat spiking as shallow breaths begin to come out from his throat. A week ago when he revisited the museum, he was so sure that he's going to execute the plan. But now he can't help but lock himself in the stall, throwing his breakfast into the toilet when the realization finally hit him. 

He's going to kill a man. 

"Oh my God—" 

He throws up again. Fingers clenching as he continuously pants out of breath. He doesn't know what he's thinking and he feels like shit for trying to think that he can do it alone! Countless ideas had passed through his mind before he ended up like a sick boy in this goddamn empty toilet, and now he thinks that maybe he should've stayed in a church and become some priest instead of doing... this! 

‘You've gotta be kidding me, kid. I know I train you into some super-soldier, but I ain't letting you handle MY job. When this shit is done, Paul is gonna drop your ass into college, and then you can find yourself some pussies to hump—or probably dicks to ride. Dunno. You kind of giving me that aura to be a potential twink.’ 

He used to scoff at the idea, especially with the twink part, but now when he finally decides to do this Revelator shit alone, he feels like his old man was right. Even after repeatedly reading the plan and studying his target from the worn journal he managed to retrieve, he really still didn't know what it took. 

"Come on, get a hold of yourself." He slapped his cheeks when he finally calmed down for his high. With trembling legs, he straightens his posture. Isaiah—shit—John walked out of the stall and reached out to the door. He's going to do this shit even though it means blowing up some precious dinosaur fossils. He's going to do this for the sake of the late John fucking Monsoon.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

When they reached the second floor, leapt away from Ian's grasp and began to marvel at all the displays. One of the first ones they saw was a large Barosaurus. 

Ian figured that it must have been around 27 meters, at least. Though Jansen skipped that display in favour of the T. rex fossil.

Just like a loose cannon.

Poor Ian was a little overwhelmed with trying to keep up with his younger brother, how can someone have that much energy? He wasn't sure. 

"Can you slow down, you dork?" Ian said, a little exasperated.

"If you walk like that during his time, you'd have been eaten by now." Jansen retorted whilst he gestured at the T. rex fossil with his thumb. 

Alright, fair game. Though Ian still rolled his eyes and smacked his brother upside the head lightly. "Nerd."

Jansen responded by sticking his tongue out at Ian; the latter ignored it. 

Ian looked at the map again and the 'Bat Cave' exhibit intrigued him. Firstly, he was a fan of comic books, and secondly, he thought bats on their own were cool. 

"Hey, when you're done with this area, let's go to the Bat Cave." 

Jansen nodded in silent agreement as he was busy writing something down at the back of his newly acquired photo of the T. rex. Ian squints to try and get a better look at what his brother was trying to do, and he saw a squiggly attempt of a T. rex chasing… somebody. 

Perhaps it was a recreation of a scene from Jurassic Park. Who the hell knows?

Ian began to walk around the exhibit, snapping photos every now and then with his father's digital camera.

"Holy crap…" his eyes were fixated on the Quetzalcoatlus fossil hanging from the ceiling. Now it was his turn to have his mouth agape.

"Quetzalcoatlus northropi, wingspan of about 11 meters—possibly a bit more. Wow… I would so not want to live in the same era as these guys. Yikes, talk about terrifying." Ian muttered to himself, it was a habit. 

The thing he was looking at was almost as tall as a giraffe! And it could fly! If it existed alongside humans, could it have hunted them? Ian grimaced at the thought.

He felt a distinctive tug on his jacket sleeve, it was Jansen.

"I need to go to the toilet."

Technically, Jansen could go by himself, but Ian thought he should come along—because he promised to their mom that he won't let Jansen get out of his sight. 

"Alright. Come on, I'll take you."

Ian led the way to the toilet with Jansen following right behind him. Ian pushed the door open with such force that he… seemed to have hit someone right on the face.

"Oh—oh my god, I am… so sorry!"

Jansen grimaced at the scene and slid past his brother and the stranger—straight into the stall.

Even at a young age, Ian Nashton had an eye for detail, and he noticed that the stranger he just hit with the door had been vomiting beforehand (didn't do a very good job at wiping his face off, perhaps he was in a hurry). 

"A-are you okay? God, I'm so sorry."

ㅤㅤ

John

As he was busy trying to reach for the handle, John (he's still not used to that name) was so caught up with his thoughts that he didn't realize when the door suddenly open and slammed straight into his fucking face. Instantly, he fell ass first 'cause his legs still feel like jelly and his head hurts like hell.

"Ouch-" he whined, rubbing his nose before wiping the edge of his lips when he realized that there was actually a stain of his vomit there. John hoped that the stranger didn't notice it. That would be super awkward.

When he looked up, his eyes caught the sight of two people. A lanky boy with glasses and a plain T-shirt, and a shorter one with scruffy hair, whose clothes look like was straight off imposing as Einstein or someone. Who knows.

Anyway, the shorter one slipped past through him without much care, so John could easily conclude that the one responsible for the situation he's in was the apologetic male. His face was masked in genuine worry and now John's heart ached because this dude is a good man. He didn't actually know him, but John got a hunch about it and now he can help but to cringe at himself because his plan would probably kill this man.

"Shit," John muttered. 

He abruptly stood up and walked past the man. He didn't even say anything in response.

He just wanna get this over with.

ㅤㅤ

Ian

The stranger looked like he was just a few years older than himself. He had short hair, and a hoodie that looked to be two sizes way too big. 

Not going to lie, Ian's first thoughts were that the stranger looked like a stereotypical loner or emo boy from those high school movies.

In those short few seconds of observing his face, Ian noticed the worried—no, anxious—expression on the other boy's face.

Perhaps he was vomiting due to anxiousness? Ian guessed so, but before he could ask again—if the stranger was okay—he went away.

"Jansen? I'll be outside—I'm uh… gonna apologize to that guy I just hit."

Ian Nashton made a split-second decision, and that was to go after the poor boy. The bathroom door shuts before Ian could hear his brother's response.

Ian caught up with the other boy—thanks to his (ridiculously) lanky legs and matched his pace with the other.

"Hey man—I'm sorry for hitting you with the goddamn door. Uh… were you… okay? Back there? I couldn't help but notice you had some…thing on your face."

He wanted him to notice the vomit stains, but he wasn't sure if it would be too weird or not.

ㅤㅤ

John

John was so sure that he would get away this time, but what are the odds? Guess having long legs has its perks, because John was so confident of his speed walking skill, but the peculiar boy stopped his step. 

John almost tumbles backwards and falls on his ass—again. Thank God for his dad's ruthless training, though, now his reflexes are doing a spectacular job.

John takes a step backward. At this point he really, REALLY wanted to run away through the other side, but when he noticed the Einstein rip-off coming out from the toilet, John didn't.

So instead, his eyes flickered to the boy. A frown across his face.

What the fuck?

ㅤㅤ

Ian

The way the boy moved about in the museum made Ian think that he was hiding from someone—that could explain the hoodie and the panicky tone the latter was speaking in.

"I—? Wanted to make sure you were okay? Because it looked like it hurt. And I didn't mean blood, okay? I meant—I noticed some vomit stains on your face." 

Ian shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, looking like this was his opportunity to flex. He heard the bathroom door open again, and out came his brother. 

The moment Ian turned to glance at his brother, he heard fast footsteps walking away from him. 

Another split second decision, he gestured for Jansen to follow him—slowly—as he followed the strange boy.

Truth be told, in the other boy's eyes, Ian must be equally as strange.

"Wait! Just—wait." He now stopped in front of the boy. And so, begins his speech at the speed of light voice.

He wanted to make his point known—and to show off, for some odd reason.

"Like I said, I noticed that you had vomit stains around your mouth, though you didn't bother to wash it off before leaving which makes me think you were in a rush."

'You didn't even wash your hands, they're dry as bones' was what he wanted to add, but Ian refrained from doing so.

"Now, I doubt it was food poisoning because your body language and stammering suggests otherwise. I also noticed the staggered walks and you being unsteady on your feet, it's as if you've been running a marathon.

Was it nerves? Perhaps. Fear? Most likely. You see, the sclera—the whites of the eyes—often show more when someone is in fear.

Speaking of eyes, your eyes also seem to dart from one security camera to another—as if you're paranoid about something.

Conclusion? I think you're running away from someone. Or, you have been."

Ian let out a deep sigh after he was done with that monologue, he only took breaths whenever a sentence ended.

Jansen, who was within earshot of the conversation only shook his head and muttered to himself, "Oh boy."

"You telling me about the museum being crowded also seem to support my theory—I mean… it's a Saturday! Of course it'll be crowded, I'm not worried about it." 

Ian let out a sheepish chuckle, as if he hadn't just gone all Sherlock Holmes with the other boy. However, it seems that Ian was self-aware

That, and he noticed that a few grown-ups were giving them strange looks as they passed by. 

It be like that when you only hear fragments of conversations.

"Sorry—I uh… I'm a guy that notices everything."

Everything except social cues, apparently. 

Jansen huffed and puffed his cheeks in annoyance, he felt that Ian was being weird AND keeping him away from the Bat Cave—which was something he really wanted to see.

The younger Nashton approached John with a friendly and apologetic smile, "I'm sorry about my brother and his idiosyncrasies, he likes to show off."

Ian sputtered and scoffed defensively, "I do not!" That was an obvious lie. "Do you even know what that word means?"

The young boy nodded confidently, "Idiosyncrasy, noun. A mode of behavior peculiar to an individual. Example: one of Ian's little idiosyncrasies is that he likes to observe people to the point where it's borderline creepy."

Despite his somewhat squeaky voice, Jansen spoke as if he was already a university student. It was obvious that he was an avid reader who loved to read things that are way above his reading level.

The younger boy then took off—possibly headed for the Bat Cave. Either way, he provided the definition of 'borderline', too. In case Ian questioned him again about what it meant.

The split second decision that Ian made now was to chase after his brother, but not before he looked back at the stranger. Whom he gave an awkward wave to.

"Uh—bye! I'm sorry for the door!" Then he proceeds to run after his younger brother.

"JANSEN SLOW DOWN, DAMN IT! YOU'RE GOING TO BUMP INTO SOMEONE OR SOMETHING."

ㅤㅤ

John

"Like I said, I noticed that you had vomit stains around your mouth," the boy begins to blabber. John doesn't really know what to expect; his mind is filled with a lot of question marks. "though you didn't bother to wash it off before leaving which makes me think you were in a rush."

He was right. The peculiar boy was right and it was not only because John was bad at details, but it was simply because this fucking boy is good. With every explanation, John's eyes kept on widening. And when the rip-off Einstein decided to join them in the ‘wholesome’ conversation then blabber a motherfucking word that surely shouldn't be able to be said from a kid his age with the same attitude as a spelling bee judge, John's jaw dropped.

What the fuck.

John was so busy thinking about what was going on to the point he almost forgot that his main purpose in coming here. He was so stunned that he almost missed the quick 'bye' and another apology coming from the lanky boy. And John didn't even know what's happening to him since his first reflex is to grab the man by the wrist, twist him so they're staring face-to-face with John's hand steadying him so he doesn't have to suffer the same embarrassment like what John did.

As if that panic attack never happened, John's gaze was intense. Some might think that he was trying to bore holes into the man's skull with his shocking grey eyes, but no. It was the other way around.

His voice was quiet and barely inaudible as he said, "Run."

Then John let go of the grip and stormed away. His plan is already ruined and he could feel his foster parents judging him from Heaven (or Hell) because of it.

Shit. He's distracted. 

ㅤㅤ

Ian

How often does one meet children around one's age who happen to be geniuses? Not very often, apparently.

Ian hadn't gotten far when the strange boy gripped his wrist and yanked him back—as if it was a scene from a cliche TV drama or something.

This boy is definitely stronger than he looks—had he not been wearing an oversized hoodie, maybe Ian would have been able to make more deductions.

"What are you—" Ian stopped abruptly when he gazed into those eyes. He had never seen such an intense gaze come from a kid before, not even in high school bullies. For a short few seconds, Ian thought the boy would shove him away or even hit him.

Ian won't blame him, to be honest.

After what seemed to be an eternal staring competition, the strange boy said something. 

A word. Barely audible and soft, nearly drowned by the museum's ambient noise.

"Run."

Then that boy lets go of his wrist and stormed off to god knows where. 

Ian grimaced as he rubbed his wrist—for god's sake, the kid had an iron grip!

"Run from what?!" He tried to ask, but the boy kept walking away. 

This time, Ian doesn't chase after him. The boy slowly turned around and continued to walk in the other direction.

"What's with him?" Ian whispered to himself as he continued to rub his wrist. What if they bruised? How would Ian explain that to his parents?!

ㅤㅤ

John

What the hell was that? 

John cringes. He's definitely blaming the telenovelas. As John continued to storm away from the boy, he hoped to dear God that his warnings were heard. He didn’t even know why he did that, he just felt like it was the right thing to do. 

He's distracted for sure. 

Well, fuck that. John shook his head and pulled his mask up. He had already caused some ruckus and looking suspicious won't get him anywhere. So now John walks slower and watches as people walk past him, too caught up with the exhibit to the point they don't even notice him. 

Great, at least one of his back-up plans worked smoothly. 

Now John walked back to track his steps, deciding to take the stairs to the ground level and into the security room where he had gracefully hid his stuff in the ventilation. When he reached the ground floor, it was fairly empty, so John didn't hesitate to slam the door open. There were only two bros chilling in the room, five feet apart 'cause they're not gay. One of them shot an incredulous look, but before they could say anything, John aimed his gun at them. 

Their faces dropped, John smirked. 

"What's your password, dear?" John asked the man when he finished blindfolding and securing the cuffs on their wrist. He doesn't really like calling them with pet names, but his old man always does that and he's following it. With a trembling voice, one of the guys answered with his pass code . And of course John didn't waste any time and straight up opened the reminders. 

‘DIRECTOR VISIT.’

John's smirk grew wider. 

Recently he heard that his target, Scott Martin, the director of the museum, is coming over to check the place. And really, John prefers a stealth attack than a motherfucking firework show, but he's the Revelator now. He gotta be... flashy. 

(‘Kid, what's the point of doing this shit if people ain't either trembling or praising yer name?’)

He sighed. 

John places his legs on top of the table, tying the laces of his shoes, extra tight, so it won't trip him later on when he gotta run for his dear life. This is his debut and John ain't gonna mess it up. With his sufficient amount of knowledge, he wiped the security footage of the previous week, destroying the evidence of his presence from the database. 

When he's done with it, his focus reverts back to the current footage. It was still relatively empty even though it's the weekend, but what he cares the most is the very fact that in about twenty minutes, the director should have arrived and John needs to prepare himself for the worse. 

He has dual Glock 26 strapped at the sides of his thigh, an AK-103 for his main support, an M203PI launcher secured on his back, and with that much of a weapon (not to mention how he carries some hand grenades and other spare knives), John realizes how much of a hassle this Revelator job is. 

But he knows he can't back off now. 

Not today, not ever. 

John's eyes were fixed to the screen. For a short moment his mind wanders to the lanky kid and to the absurdity of their encounter. Soon he found himself biting the inside of his cheeks. There's a lot of things to think about and that kid ain’t it. 

In about nineteen minutes the director should arrive. In about thirty minutes the bomb strapped in the airways and hidden behind some exhibits should blow off. 

He gotta be ready for that shit. 

John clasped his hand. 

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen." 

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Just as Ian thought, his younger brother was indeed at the Bat Cave. It was a gallery of a literal bat cave, complete with realistic wax sculptures of twenty different bat species as well as some invertebrates.

The boy had his back turned to Ian, so he snuck up and placed his hands on his younger brother's shoulder in an attempt of surprising him.

"Boo!" Ian exclaimed.

Jansen was visibly startled, but he didn't scream or even make a sound. All he did to respond was to elbow the older one in the stomach.

"You're despicable." Jansen grumbled.

"Dethpicable." Ian repeated, but mimicking a certain cartoon character.

Jansen puffed his cheeks and rolled his eyes—he ignored what Ian just said. "So, where'd your new friend go?"

"Honestly? I don't know. Something weird happened, okay? He just... grabbed my wrist and yanked me backwards. Like a cliché drama scenes." It left many questions in Ian's mind. "I don't know why he did that, and I don't like not knowing."

"Forget that! Gee, what are you trying to be? Sherlock Holmes?!" Jansen's mouth formed a slight pout as he aimed his camera at the ceiling of the cave. The sculptures looked so realistic, he was sure if he didn't know any better he'd guess that they were real bats.

A beep broke the relative silence of the exhibit. It was a text message from dad which read.

'We're at the café right now, come on down if you feel hungry.'

"Hey, mom and dad's at the café, should we go down or not?" Ian showed the phone screen to his younger brother.

Immediately, Jansen shook his head. "Not hungry yet."

Ian responded with a quiet 'ok' and types a quick reply.

Out of the two brothers, Jansen was a much faster reader than Ian, so it didn't take him too long to read everything that was present about the bats—less than ten minutes, actually.

The next gallery was the birds gallery. And upon seeing a crow on display, Ian asked Jansen to take a photo of him and the crow using the digital camera. Ian posed so that he and the crow were facing each other—as if having some kind of thoughtful conversation.

This gallery had drawers that you could pull out with various species of birds on display inside.

Jansen busied himself with those, while Ian was more interested in the ones behind glass cases. Such as the 'flightless birds' display.

The cassowary always reminded Ian of the raptors from Jurassic Park. From the sharp talons, to the shape of the head and the 'expression' the specimen seemed to have.

People often say that lizards like the Komodo dragon were the closest thing humans would have to a dinosaur, but Ian would argue that birds were closer—at least when it comes to theropods.

It was a rather nice way to spend the day, roaming around the museum with minds as absorbent as a sponge. Jansen was obviously enjoying himself, and so was Ian. 

Like ripping candy from a child, the situation quickly changed when there was a sudden, deafening roar of an explosion, and before he could even process the sound, out of the corner of his eyes, the boy noticed a similar sound coming from the air vents. Followed by a fierce column of flames—like a dragon breathing fire from its mouth.

Ian instinctively leapt towards his younger brother and enveloped him in a protective embrace as more of those terrible sounds erupted. Screams from visitors soon joined. 

The side they were on should be reasonably stable enough compared to the opposite wing, but the building was an old one.

As more explosions were heard, the ground shook and some artifacts began to topple over. 

Jansen covered his ears and began to cry out of fear. Ian had the right idea to stay away from ventilation shafts in case more explosions would erupt.

He was terrified, too, but he tried to be as brave as he could for his younger brother's sake.

Immediate dangers were fires, more explosions and the building crumbling. The bulk of the explosion seemed to have come from the ground floor. 

It hasn't even been a year since the World Trade Center collapsed—was that kind of thing going to happen today, too? Were they going to die?

The brothers hugged each other tight as they sat beside a sturdy display with their backs against the wall. Both had tears running down their faces, but Ian was silent and tried his best to analyze the best solution to this situation.

As much as he wanted to keep his eyes shut, he kept them open—and saw that the ceiling threatened to give way and collapse. 

The logical thing to do was to get to the ground floor as quickly as possible—he's heard that stairwells can be one of the safest places (as they tend to be strong, structurally). But neither he nor his brother dared to even move away from their shelter. 

Other visitors on the floor either tried to find cover or run to the stairs in a panicked frenzy. 

Ian tried ringing his father, but both times, the call wasn't picked up—either his parents were already dead, or they were busy with their own survival for now. Ian hoped it was the latter. 

A light had fallen just a few meters in front of them. The noise of the impact caused more screams from other visitors, including his brother, whose sobs got louder and more frantic.

It's easy for others to say 'stay calm' in a survival guide or even a drill, but when the real thing happens, it would be hard to stay calm because the fight, flight or freeze response would kick in.

There wasn't much Ian could do right now, because even if he tried to run to the nearest stairwell, there might be a chance that the ceiling would collapse and crush him—he and Jansen were relatively safer where they are right now.

ㅤㅤ

John

Tick, tock.

John fiddles the sleeves of his shirt in agitation. His heart is thumping furiously against his

ribcage; the cold sweat begins to roll down his forehead as his eyes peers over the monitor. Two more minutes and then the director should enter the building already. Less than 15 minutes later, the bomb should go off.

He can't mess this up. 

What John didn't expect is that his target isn't taking the usual route. He didn't stroll around the exhibits, flashing that disgusting smile of his then locking himself in his office. This time, though, this time is different. He's talking to two of the visitors, but it doesn't seem like they're doing some random, casual chat. Their eyes are glimmering with excitement and delight, and soon, John finds out that the three of them—let's not forget about Martin's guard dog—are going to have lunch in level B1. 

That's where the least of his explosives are located. Probably only three of one kilogram plastic explosives strapped on the vent or the corners of the building. This doesn't go as smoothly as he planned. 

"Motherfu—" 

His words got cut off when a sudden explosion shook the ground. John's eyes widened. Siren blaring all across the hall and in his head. He glances at the clock, the bomb set off three minutes early. 

He was lucky that it wasn't exactly the main attraction, because if his old man was here, John sure he's going to get himself grounded for this carelessness. 

His eyes darted back to the monitor. Everyone was screaming and running like little ants. The T-Rex bone on level two had fallen down like cookies crumbs. John skimmed through the screen looking for Martin, and when he realizes he's running away to the main floor, John curses again. 

"What's going on?" One of the guards barked. The metal cuffs on his wrist rattled by his frantic movement. "What are you doing?!" 

Tsk. He almost forgot about them. 

"Ain't nothing happenin' around here, sweetheart," John cooed, although his face was showing obvious distress. He's glad that he blindfolded them. 

"Be good for me, will ya? Stay still." 

John wore his thermal goggles and stormed out of the room. He could see a lot of people curling away from the explosion spot, trembling and crying their eyes out while struggling to protect their precious organ from whatever will happen next. Some of them are too stunned to move while the others trip and fall while trying to go to a safer place. 

John shot his bullet to the ceiling, everyone stopped moving even though their screams just got louder.

Columns of fire had spread to the second floor as the explosion kept riling up without mercy. Glass shatters and some railings had blasted off from its place. There were four guards surrounding Scott Martin when John arrived at their floor. All of them trying to get their boss to flee from the chaotic scene. Martin, however, seemed to get himself stuck, being pulled back and forth by a hysterical woman. 

"My sons! Scott, my sons are not here!" 

"Madeleine—it's too dangerous here!" 

"I'm not leaving without them!" 

(John's muscle tensed.) 

He throws a smoke grenade at them. Receiving a loud shriek and multiple curse words from their directions. Without a second to waste, he started to aim for their legs. Empty bullets clanking to the ground as it hits his first target in the place he wants. 

"GEORGE!" 

John cringes inwardly. He seems to slip his aim. 

With the rest of the guards, John just disturbs their personal space and landed hard kicks and punches before eventually shooting their feet to immobilize them. Martin was practically blinded by the smoke, but when he saw the shadow of his own demise, he screamed. 

"Y—You! The news said you were dead!" His voice was trembling. He tried to back off only to trip his legs 'cause the body of his stunned guards. 

"Sorry for leaving ya hanging, babe," the Revelator smirked under his mask. Looming over the man who had graciously fallen down, ass first. He can't see his target's face clearly due to the lenses, but he could sense the fear masking each of his words. 

"Got myself into trouble with them FBI dogs, hope you didn't miss me that much." The Revelator squatted in front of the cowering man. He pulled the expensive tie and leaned his face closer. "Have you confessed?" 

The man was trembling, still. When the Revelator takes his goggles off to reveal his steel gray eyes, the color of his target face drained immediately. 

"W—what do you..." 

"SCOTT!" 

The Revelator stopped in his tracks. Ever so slowly, he tears his gaze off from his target into the source of the voice. The previous woman who had hysterically refused to evacuate herself is hugging what seems to be her husband. A trail of blood coming from his leg, courtesy of the bullet. 

"Oh? Are they your friends, Martin?" The Revelator's eyes were cold and intense as he continued to shoot daggers into the woman's eyes. The grip on the other's tie getting stronger and stronger. 

"Tell me, Scott, do your precious friends know about what you did in the dark?" He smirked. "Do they know about the scam you did at the auction five years ago? Do they know about how you graft the fund for this museum? Do they know your excessive lifestyle and your personal preferences on young boys?" 

The Revelator eyes flickered back to the man. He can sense his heartbeat pacing up. John rummaged his pocket. He let go of his grip and walked towards the woman. 

"Here's all of the evidence from the past five years," he said, there's a slight change of tone as he hands a piece of flash disk. The note of his voice was quiet, almost gentle. 

But before the woman could muster any protest, John's attention shifted back to his target. As the Revelator caught the sight of him trying to run away, he shot his legs in an unmistakable accuracy. 

"Alright, I guess you already know about this, and yes, ma'am, I ain't the type to make false threats. I suppose you already know what to do 'cause if you don't, damn shit, I'll fucking call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing. Do the right thing and you'll live, do the wrong thing, then you'll live as well, but ain't so sure 'bout your sons tho. Ain't giving ya any clue 'bout it." 

The Revelator stood back and pulled his target by the collar away.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The Nashton family was full of scientists. Ian and Jansen's parents were no exception, with their father being a physicist and their mother being a marine biologist. 

Their mother has published a book about lesser known sea creatures and it has brought her some taste of fame in the scientific community. As it stands, she actually intended to write more books, perhaps in conjunction with her husband.

A brilliant man, he was, but he doesn't have the patience to sit down and write a book, let alone edit it.

It was a surprise for them to have run into Scott Martin, who was an old friend of Madeleine from her time in university. Scott was beyond delighted to see the pair visiting the museum, but particularly Madeleine as he mentioned that he needed some scientific input from her for a new exhibit.

He was even so kind to invite them to lunch at the B1 café!

However, she thought the bodyguards were a little on the excessive side. Surely a museum director wouldn't need that much, right? Then again, she knew just how much Scott liked to be flashy, perhaps this was one of those times.

Her husband, George, tried to get their boys to come join them, but it seems that not even the prospects of lunch can stop their young minds from being curious.

Everything seemed fine, with Madeleine and Scott chatting away while George listened. Every now and then, he'd chime in with his bone dry humor. 

Not a single one of them would realise the tragedy that's about to befall them.

When it happened, George hadn't heard a sound that loud in ages, he also hadn't heard his wife curse so freely and colourfully in her native French tongue ever since Ian was born. He was the first to jump into action, putting a protective arm around his wife as they immediately tried to find a safer place. 

They needed to get upstairs to the main floor, otherwise the basement might as well be a cold, stony grave for them both if it gave way.

It seems that the presence of Scott's bodyguards was a convenience as they fearlessly helped the couple evacuate the basement onto the ground floor.

The serene and magnificent atmosphere they saw that morning turned into that of chaos and panic in just a few seconds after they heard the first explosions. 

Not long after they arrived at the main floor, there was a single gunshot, indicating that this was not an accidental explosion but rather, a deliberate attack. 

The gunshot only made everyone's panic increase by tenfold, especially Scott's, as he tried to drag the couple outside to safety. Madeleine stubbornly wanted to stay and look for her sons, and they had an argument. 

George was silent for most of it. While he agreed with Scott that it was too dangerous for them to stay there, he also didn't want to leave his boys behind.

Just at that moment, he felt some vibrations in his left pant pocket—he had gotten a couple of text messages, but before he could check them, his vision was obstructed by a thick cloud of smoke. He heard his wife shriek and curse again, then he heard his own scream as a sharp, searing hot pain struck his left leg.

"GEORGE!" 

Madeleine screamed as her husband slowly fell to the ground. She frantically felt around for where the wound was and when she felt the warmth of the trickling crimson liquid, she took off her scarf and wrapped it tightly around George's fresh wound to help reduce the bleeding.

"Ow, ow, ow—easy, Lena. Easy." George hissed through gritted teeth.

"I'm trying to stop you from bleeding out, dear. I should have said it will hurt a bit, I'm sorry."

The couple mainly ignored the conversation that Scott was having with the attacker, mostly because they were focusing on each other. 

Only when the attacker mentioned a confession did Madeleine turn around to face the two with a confused and horrified expression on her face.

She had heard of The Revelator on the news. She heard about the things that he's done, but more importantly about his (apparent) death not too long ago.

Yet... it seems that death couldn't keep him down, because... there he was: a mere couple of steps away from her and her husband.

Why on earth would the Revelator target a museum's director of all people? Is that why Scott had so many bodyguards with him?

"God... Scott?" Madeleine's voice was soft, almost like a whisper.

What has Scott gotten himself into?

Madeleine couldn't see the attacker's face very clearly, but from the looks of it, she figured that he couldn't have been much older than her eldest son. 

How odd, she had always imagined this figure to be an older man. Perhaps there were multiple 'Revelators' in existence, who the hell knows?

Now it was her turn to have a protective arm around her husband. She tried to return the daggers that was shot into her eyes, but only fear and confusion were present in her dark brown eyes.

The things the Revelator talked about were unknown to the Nashtons, except for Scott's expensive taste, which they thought nothing about as it was not really their business as long as the money came from an honest source.

Madeleine at first didn't believe what she heard, but a quick glance at Scott's face (the smoke had dissipated enough for her to see better), she saw what seemed to be a look of guilt. 

Personal preferences on young boys. Did he mean...?

Her thoughts quickly shifted to her two sons, and how Scott had met them both at a fair. She remembered how he would often stand close to her sons rather than to herself or her husband. Of course, at the time that seemed like nothing to be alarmed about, but with this new information, the thought of what Scott might have intended made her shudder.

When the Revelator started to walk closer, she curled away in fear while George tried to pull her closer.

"Stay back!" George barked, despite knowing that he probably couldn't do a single damn thing with a shot leg.

Puzzlingly, the Revelator didn't brandish a gun or even a knife. No, he gave Madeleine a flash disk instead.

The sudden change of tone was terrifying, naturally. It was a juxtaposition. How can someone so violent have such a gentle voice?

Madeleine observed the flash disk in her hands, not entirely sure what to do with it at that moment. Regardless, she puts it in her pocket. It looked to be a real, functioning flash disk rather than a bomb.

Both of them flinched when Scott was shot with such high accuracy. At this point, though... they were just glad it wasn't them that had gotten shot.

"I-I don't know anything about this! What do you want me to do?!" The woman screamed. She wanted to chase after them for answers, but George held her back.

"George, let go! What if he's done something to our kids?!" She began to get hysterical again, but George pulled her into a comforting hug and kissed the top of her head soothingly.

"Lena, honey. They're alive! They're on the second floor, in the bird exhibit. We could try going after them."

"Not anymore! You're hurt! I can't leave you, nor would I want to risk more injuries!" She sobbed softly into her husband's shoulder, at that moment, she didn't know what to do.

"I told them we were on the main floor. Let's hope they can make it down as fast as possible. You see that flight of stairs over there? That is very close to the bird exhibit upstairs. Their side of the building is rather sturdy. I think they'd make it." George explained as he rubbed the back of Madeleine's head soothingly.

"Shit, shit, shit." Ian hissed when he saw columns of fire that had rose to the second floor. He knew they couldn't stay here forever.

He thought he had heard another explosion from downstairs, but it sounded more like a single gunshot, followed by more screaming.

"W-we're dying h-here, aren't we?" Jansen choked out in between sobs.

Ian's stomach turned. They have had lockdown drills at school before, but nothing ever really happened at their school. Now, this? This was the real deal.

"No, we aren't." Ian's voice sounded so sure, despite his actual uncertainty.

There were more gunshots. Ian counted seven, though he could be wrong, considering that the screams of visitors were competing with the shots.

The boy glanced at the closest stairwell again, should they risk it and run? He wasn't sure.

Five minutes after he heard the first few shots, the phone in Ian's pocket buzzed. It was from his father!

"J! Mom and dad are downstairs! We should probably go down now!" Ian slowly stood up, he tried to pull Jansen up with him as well.

"B-but—" The younger boy started.

"No buts! We have to go, NOW."

Jansen reluctantly stood up and stayed close to his brother as they made a run for the stairwell. Thankfully, the only thing they had to dodge were a few pieces from the ceiling, and they hurried down the stairs.

Upon reaching the main floor, Ian saw his parents on the ground. There was a small pool of blood near his father's left leg, and upon closer look, he saw that his mother's favourite scarf was wrapped tightly around the wound.

"MOM! DAD!" The two boys screamed in near perfect unison as they ran to their parents.

"Ian! Jansen! Thank goodness you two are okay!" Madeleine's voice had cracked as she wrapped both of her sons in her arms. "Your father's been shot, we need to leave."

"I don't think I can really stand. God—it hurts to even move it." George groaned lowly.

"Mom and I will help you up, dad. Come on!"

Ian and his mother had some difficulty getting George back on his feet, but eventually, they managed to do it.

The four of them slowly walked towards the main entrance. They avoided the Queen's Park entrance because George had noticed that that side of the building was threatening to crumble.

ㅤㅤ

John

"I'll do anything you say! P—please... just let me go!"

Amidst the roaring, raging fire, the voice sounded like a mere whisper. The Revelator's steel-gray eyes were fixed to his target while his beloved Glock stayed locked to the man's motherfucking head.

"P—please..." 

"Shut the hell up," John commanded, forcing himself to sound a little bit gruffer to match his old man's voice. He might not have the exact confidence with the previous Revelator, but he now had the same impression that would turn even the fiercest man tremble.

John isn't going to waste that shit. 

Time feels like it runs so damn slow when your head is under immense pressure, and it doesn't just apply to a person who's about to be sentenced to death. Right now, John can't help but to feel his heart beating so fast 'cause this is the fucking first time he did this. Most of the time, John stays in the back line. Helping the OG Revelator wiping out some ‘obstacles’ with his sniping skill instead of coming to the front line.

"Have mercy! I have a chi—"

"I say shut the fucking hell up!" John cuts his words before his target could say anything that might make him feel weaker than he already is. A crease started to form in his forehead as he continued his words.

"When they heard these things, they held their peace, and glorified God, saying, then hath God also to the Gentiles granted repentance unto life, but then they fucking come back to square one. As if the words and prayers and those fucking promises they said are nothing but a load of crap, wherefore you fucking better abhor thy fucking self, and repent in motherfucking dust and ashes."

The Revelator dragged the man again, letting his blood trail stain the floor. Every step he takes felt like it was set on fire, burning and leaving charred marks on his feet. But even when he feels the fire licking his skin and burning the fabric of his clothes, John couldn't care less. 

The fiery mistress danced, leaped and twirled in his eyes. There's an uncanny feeling when he saw how everything turned into dust, when the piles of planks fell and set ablaze at her contact. His heart was beating so fast, John feels he's going to combust.

"You're a fucking freak! A monster! You hear me? You're going to hell for this!"

Scott Martin wailed and squirmed in his grip, but John still couldn't give a fuck about him. His eyes were mesmerized at the sight in front of him.

The world illuminated on his sight as the fire nestled in her wooden bed, hot ribbons of light sparkling and twinkling anywhere she liked. There are times when she leaped, willing to land wherever her heart's desire. The smoke rose into the ceiling as if struggling to pave its way towards heaven, the ash falling down to the ground like the first flakes of snow.

The Revelator's eyes glanced back at the man, beads of sweat had started to form on his forehead. The warm amber highlighting the anger and desperation coloring his brown irises.

There was something about doing this that he didn't know would feel this... good. As he strapped his target, ropes and tapes around his trembling body, the Revelator could feel the corner of his lips rose into a wide grin.

"Please! For God's sake, please!"

The anger had finally subdued, now replaced by tears and fear.

"You know the deal, sweetheart; the wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God." 

John took off his mask for the briefest second, revealing the smirk underneath it. "It's God's mercy if you managed to get outta here alive, but I doubt that," he whispered before planting a gentle kiss on the man's chapped lips. Grinning even wider as he saw the color across his target face drained even further.

"And let's just say that's the Devil's work if you can still manage to find prettier boys than me."

The Revelator walked away. Leaving the screaming and begging man alone on the second floor of the burning building. The museum had turned into a mortuary, or more likely, a cremation room. 

And despite the sight of splattering blood and charred bodies, John didn't feel anything. Anything but satisfaction and excitement.

Until he reached the first floor again.

"Oh, God.”

He did it. He just left a man, probably sent him to the jaw of death by doing so. He did it. He killed dozens of innocent people and even threatened a mother for this plan.

John's guts twisted and suddenly, his breakfast had managed to escape from his throat. The breath coming out of his mouth feels heavy in his lungs. As he glanced to every corner of the building, his vision slowly turned blurry. The tight sensation in his chest is threatening to kill him on spot. 

He just did that, holy fuck, he just fucking did that. 

He's a murderer. 

John pulled his mask back to cover his face. Struggling to protect himself from the ruins falling from the ceiling as he sprinted towards the front door despite the uneasiness in his stomach and the way his legs feel like it's about to give up on him.

When the blinding light finally hit his vision, John squinted his eyes. It didn't take a long time until he regained his sight and understood the situation around him. 

"Lower your weapon!" A man shouted, So John swept his vision across the land.

There are at least 12 guns pointed at him. The frantic lady he gave the flash disk is helping two kids getting into the ambulance; her husband laying on top of the cot with a scarf in his legs, but that wasn't the main reason why his heart skipped a beat

There's the lanky boy again, and John could've sworn that their eyes locked for a second at that exact moment. 

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The Nashtons have fortunately made it out of the main entrance to safety. They raised their hands when they saw the authorities with their guns, just to signify that they were no threat at all.

"Please—my husband's been shot." Madeleine began, though her pleads were cut short when she caught sight of the ambulance nearby. And the paramedics quickly rushed to their side.

They carefully put George on the stretcher and loaded him on the ambulance.

Madeleine and her kids didn't get in just yet, she was being asked questions whilst Ian and Jansen stayed behind her, listening in. Though they didn't hear much because their mother decided to converse with the officer in French.

"N-no. I didn't see his face. He—er... my friend, Scott Martin. I saw him get dragged away. If what they say is true... Oh God. Poor Scott, I don't really know what he's done to be targeted." 

Of course, Madeleine still had the flash disk, but she wanted to see it for herself before handing it to the authorities. Just like everyone in the family, she has an insatiable curiosity.

(But more common sense than her sons do).

After a few more questions, the officer lets her go. She had just helped Jansen get in the ambulance and was about to help Ian as well.

But they all heard it.

"Lower your weapon!" Somebody shouted. Followed by the cocking of guns.

Ian and Madeleine whipped their heads to look back at the museum, and just as they thought, the attacker from before was there. Even with the mask, Ian could almost instantly recognize that that was the boy from before, the strange boy that he knocked down in the toilet.

Madeleine gasped and tried to hurry Ian into the ambulance, but the boy leapt out of his mother's reach and pointed an accusing finger at the masked figure. He made sure to stand 

"YOU!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. "YOU SHOT MY DAD!" 

Hearing Ian scream those words, Jansen peeked his head out from the ambulance. Sure enough, he remembered the strange boy too—it was the hoodie that he remembered.

George tried his best to sit up in his stretcher, though he couldn't see much. Just some uniformed men and his wife trying to drag their stubborn son back into the ambulance, away from the chaos.

"IAN! Get back inside right now!" His mother was now screaming, she was worried that Ian might get shot as well. So she grabbed him by the wrist and began to pull him away.

"WAIT! J-JUST WAIT!" Ian tried to free himself from his mother's grip. Alas, she had quite the iron grip and Ian's lanky arms were no match for it.

"But—but I saw his face, mom!" 

"And what?! You're going to run over there and get yourself killed?!" Madeleine really didn't want to do it, but she had to get some sense back into her son. "You're a child, an unarmed 13 year old child! Now do as I say and get in the ambulance!" 

At that he saw that his mother had an excellent point. So, Ian settled down and (reluctantly) climbed inside the ambulance where he saw his brother looking visibly frightened and upset. His father was mostly confused.

Ian took one last look out of the ambulance and to the masked figure. Trying to look him dead in the eye. The boy has never felt this much emotion for someone before, and he wasn't even sure what it was exactly. Rage? Hatred? Either way, it was negative.

Madeleine let out a deep sigh and gently pushed her husband back down on the stretcher, "I think you should lie down, dear." 

One of the medics quickly got inside as well, and once the door shut, the ambulance sped off to the hospital.

For most of the trip, Ian had his eyes planted to the tip of his shoes.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you, mom." He muttered softly.

Madeleine's lips formed a soft smile as she put an arm around her eldest son and pulled him closer. She was no longer angry at Ian.

"Shh... it's okay, sweetie.  I know you didn't mean it." 

"Are we going to talk to a detective, mom? I-I still remember his face, okay. I—I ran into him in the toilet. H-he—told Jansen and I to run but I didn't know why." 

His voice was threatening to break, now that the adrenaline has worn off, but Ian still tried to keep himself steady.

Madeleine nodded with certainty and said, "I'm sure after what happened just then, they would want to talk to you."

"I-I should've—I should've done something! M-maybe dad wouldn't have gotten shot. What if I could've gotten a photo of him?" 

Madeleine pulled him closer and ran a hand gently through the boy's hair, hushing him quietly. "Shh, there was nothing you could have done, sweetheart... All that matters now is that we're all safe. I'm sure dad will be okay." 

Although he was also upset and shaken, Jansen decided to help the situation by giving a few gentle—albeit—awkward pats on his brother's back.

Ian made a promise to himself that he would do his best to get stronger, and smarter, so that in the future, he would be able to protect his family better.

ㅤㅤ

John

How does someone keep a straight face while being faced with shits like this? John couldn't even help but glance to the source of the commotion, the boy from before was frantically cursing and muttering inaudible accusations towards him that made some of the police turn their head.

Even as the woman from before practically tried to drag him in the same manner as dog owners trying to tame their barking dogs, the anger in his eyes was stark clear.

But perhaps it wasn't just anger. Perhaps it was also confusion, hatred... determination? 

The Revelator flicked his eyes back to the incoming threats. There's no way he could take every one of them in a single hit. He's no super soldier nor a trained agent, he's just a teenager who thinks that following his father's steps is a good thing to do.

He should've just studied for the college entrance exam. 

A scowl formed on John's forehead, but if someone dared take a peek beneath his mask, they will notice that it was purely caused by fear and frustration rather than anger and blood-thirsty resolution. 

The only thing he could do to wipe out an entire troop is probably by throwing grenades all over them, which obviously going to result in a lot of casualties, but what's the point of doing everything if in the end he'll have to get tossed to jail? 

John gritted his teeth. With a swift motion, he pulls the hem of his hoodie to reveal the strapped explosives across his chest. The cops scramble away, and as anticlimactic as it sounds, all he did was reach out to the M203PI launcher he had clutched to so dearly before. It sounded like a power play, it felt like he was playing god—but that was what his old man used to do. 

Humans tend to make mistakes, they crash so easily and they slip and tumble by their own feet, and so did his old man. 

That day when he watches as John Monsoon bleeds to death, Isaiah thought that it would be the last of him. Yet he runs, as cowardly as it sounds, he runs after the previous Revelator had aimed a gun to his head and told him to go. 

Never did he think that he would end up doing the same path as him. The semi-stable kid who doesn't even know his own birth date, the one who used to look like he wouldn't dare to hurt a single fly, now he's launching grenades with his trembling hands. Cold gray eyes piercing without mercy as he burns everything in sight. 

This isn't right, he knows that. He wanted to live this legacy with the same notable notion that would make people believe in him. He wanted to become the karma for those who weren't able to stand up.

But now that he thinks again, Isaiah realizes that all he tries to do was to fill the empty spot within his heart with hatred and revenge. 

He made a promise that day. Whatever happens in the future, he would protect those he loves. Even if it means he had to fist fight with God himself. 

And if he fails, he's going to burn the world down.