#devil moon ridge

[stimvampsoda]

MARNIE "THE KID" KIDDMAN

The Horseman of Conquest

"Tell me to pull the trigger. Tell me to put a bullet in your fucking head and I'll do it."

x x x x x x x x x

[wormss-inc]

adopted children + sabe

[subliminalbo]

Classified Information #2: The Sound

From the Carpenter Foghorn Vol. 21, Issue 3

Uploaded by Christopher C. Buchanan 08/25/2018

Life Beyond the Stars? Carpenter State Researchers Capture Mysterious Sound from Space

By Troy M. Bauserman

Since Galileo first charted the moon’s phases, scientists have obsessed over a haunting question: are we truly alone in the universe? For many, all it takes is a glance through a telescope to answer that question. How could we possibly be alone in all that real estate? But the student researchers at CSU’s Department of Astrophysics and Astronomy may be closing in on a definitive answer. It comes in the form of a mysterious sound recorded from the very depths of space.

“There are all kinds of radio signals in space,” explains Sharon Ackworth, a PhD student working out of Carpenter State’s esteemed Weir Laboratory. “Anything that produces a magnetic field will also cast radio waves which we can pick up. And yes, you can translate those radio waves into sounds. But [our sound] is unique from say, a radio wave generated by an atmosphere, because it is a sound.”

“The Sound” as it’s come to be known in the department, is not wholly unique. NASA first captured sound from space in 2003, but sadly these noises remain inaudible to the human ear. “We know we have a sound,” Ackworth says, the frustration heavy in her voice. “We’re just not there yet—technologically—to hear it. Suddenly we’re in an arms race to be the first laboratory to amplify a cosmic sound into an audible range.” A feat that Ackworth notes sounds much simpler than it is, requiring state of the art audio technology to “turn it up” by millions of decibels.

As for what the sound may be, Ackworth hypothesizes that they’ve captured the sound of gas expelled from a black hole. Until we hear it with our own ears, however, I’m happy to believe that our little gray friends are finally reaching out to us from beyond the stars.

“I don’t get it,” Kayla cocked her head to the side as she watched Iris work at her laptop. “You can’t even hear it?”

“That’s the whole point,” Iris said, her eyes glued to the computer screen. “It was recorded before this software existed. Fuck, I can’t believe it’s even real.”

“I still don’t get it,” Kayla repeated. “So, we recorded a sound that isn’t a sound…sure. But if the technology exists now, why hasn’t anyone done this before?”

“Because,” Iris said, glancing conspiratorially through the glass walls of their private study room in the Carpenter State University Library. “The Department of Astrophysics and Astronomy shut down years ago. There was like a whole scandal. A bunch of fellows transferred out and their work was abandoned. After that, The Sound just kind of became an urban legend.”

Kayla leaned in behind Iris’ shoulder. Iris had pulled the audio file from the school’s archives and was now playing around with the sound wave in some fancy audio program that Kayla didn’t recognize (Her question, “What is that, Audacity?” had elicited a sharp snort from Iris). At its native frequency, the sound wave charted a straight line. But slowly, as Iris played with the program, small, periodic ridges interrupted the line’s straight path. It was satisfying to watch the sound take shape, even if Kayla didn’t totally understand the process.

“How did you even find it?” Kayla asked.

“It was buried in CSU’s private server. Bailey hooked me up with access.”

A knock at the glass cut into their conversation.

“Speak of the devil.”

Bailey DuBois entered the study room with her backpack slung casually over her shoulder. The small blonde adjusted her glasses on her nose as she said quietly, “Library’s closing in fifteen.”

“Cool,” Iris nodded.

“No, Iris,” She said. “Like, you need to leave.” Bailey did her best to look stern in the face of old friends, but she’d always been more comfortable with books than people. She glanced around to see if anyone was passing by, then said more quietly, “The confidential server is no joke, Iris. If someone finds out that I let you use my access…”

“Confidential?” Kayla squeaked.

“Relax,” Iris said. “We’re wrapping up now anyway. I copied the file to my computer so I can do the rest from the apartment.”

The tension released from Bailey’s shoulders. “So you found the file?”

“Sure did.”

Bailey stepped further into the room to join Kayla behind Iris. “That’s it?” She asked.

“It’s taking shape right now,” Iris said. “We’re going to leave, I just…I need to hear it first.”

“What are you even going to do with it?” Kayla asked.

Iris smiled then said, “I’m gonna put it in a song.”

Bailey’s laugh pulled Iris momentarily from the screen. “Why not?”

“I thought there wasn’t any sound in space,” Kayla said.

“Technically that’s not true,” Iris replied, turning back to her work on the laptop. “In a vacuum, sound waves can’t go anywhere. But the student who discovered The Sound hypothesized that it was sound moving through space gas or something.”

“Or,” Bailey said. “It could be aliens.”

Kayla backed away toward the glass wall, her arms crossed over her chest. “Is there any chance this thing is dangerous?” she asked. “I mean someone took the time to bury it on the very fucking private and spooky secret server, yeah? You remember what happened to those people in Cuba?”

“I’m pretty sure the government made that up,” Iris laughed, digging into her backpack to pull out a pair of wired headphones. “You can spot for me if you’re so worried. Take these off if I start bleeding from the eyes.”

“Honestly, it’s a moral imperative that we listen to it,” Bailey said. “For science.”

“And rock and roll,” Iris nodded.

Unspooling the cord, she slipped the headphones over her ears and plugged the audio jack into her laptop. She took a deep breath, said something campy like, “To infinity and beyond,” then hit play on the program.

From the Carpenter Foghorn Vol. 22, Issue 5

Uploaded by Christopher C. Buchanan 09/01/2018

“Weird” Weir Laboratory to Close Down: Dean Pulls Funding on Controversial Program Amid Rumors

By Teri Daniels

The Department of Astrophysics and Astronomy is closing down after nearly forty years in operation. The decision was announced in a press statement by Dean of Arts and Sciences Strickland Pierce. Though many departments have been forced to tighten their budgets in the wake of the economic downturn, the Department of Astrophysics and Astronomy is an outlier in Dean Pierce’s plan to maintain funding in STEM.

“It’s purely an economic decision,” Office Liaison Amanda Cline said on behalf of Dean Pierce. “A time of austerity forces us to make tough decisions. We’ve seen that in the elimination of other programs such as the Screenwriting major last year.”

But the decision comes in the aftermath of Dean Pierce’s souring relationship with program director Dr. Philip Weir, Jr. Dr. Weir, whose father bears the namesake for the Weir Laboratory, had endeared his students to his eccentric personality throughout the years, though his behavior had reportedly grown erratic in the weeks leading up to the department’s closure. Dr. Weir had attempted to publish an article in the Carpenter State University Scientific Journal purporting definitive proof of extraterrestrial life. He later barricaded himself inside of the Weir Laboratory with a dozen PhD students, insisting that he wouldn’t leave until he had proven the unpublished paper to be true. An anonymous source claims that the culture inside the Weir Laboratory was in recent years less of an academic community than it was a cult. Following the incident, Carpenter State University declined to press charges against Dr. Weir but dismissed him from his position.

Dr. Sharon Ackworth, head researcher at the Weir Laboratory, has vowed to continue Dr. Weir’s work. “It’s like losing your home in a storm,” she stated. “What can you do but pick up the pieces and move on?”

Kayla backed into the corner of the study room as she watched her friends take turns on the headphones. First Iris, trancing out, head bobbing to the cosmic tones, slowly back and forth on a swivel.

“Take them off!” Kayla cried after a few minutes.

A weak moan trembled from Iris’ lips as Bailey pulled the headphones from her ears. She’d never felt anything like that before. Though she turned to look at her friends, she only saw the outlines of their bodies. Her mind was somewhere else in the universe.

“You’ve got to hear to this,” she managed.

Bailey closed her eyes as The Sound washed over her. It was faint, an echo of something deeper that she knew was there but couldn’t quite hear yet. It was taking shape, just as Iris had described. Something was reaching out, something wanted to be heard. A message filled with pure, uncorrupted power.

“Music,” Iris said when she removed the headphones from Bailey’s ears.

“Music,” Bailey repeated. Her thoughts floated beneath a cosmic mist. Everything felt so still in that moment, as if the entire world had come to a stop. Everything except for Bailey’s heart, which was racing.

It wasn’t fear. It was arousal.

Iris must have felt the same way, because she leaned in close to Bailey, her hands pressing down into the arms of the chair as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her heavy breaths still moved to the tempo of The Sound. Bailey licked her lips unconsciously, fighting a sudden urge to make the space between them as small as possible.

And she would have if Kayla hadn’t interrupted her.

“Are…are y’all okay?” she squeaked from her corner.

“It’s like…we’re so insignificant,” Iris spoke through glassy eyes.

“So small,” Bailey echoed.

Kayla managed to get Iris to pack up her stuff and by the time they were outside of the library her friend had mostly come to her senses. Iris’ initial reaction had shifted to the practical applications of The Sound. “I mean, I’ll still have to play with the decibels but even at this level…wow. It’s not rock and roll, it’s like trance music. Imagine what it’ll do for the club scene…”

That night Kayla turned in her bed, images of her friends under the influence of The Sound ensuring a restless sleep. In the next room, Iris was wide awake as well, slaving away at her computer. She’d tried to sleep, but couldn’t tear herself away from her work. She continued amplifying The Sound until she found sound beneath the sound.

She was certain now that it was a voice. Distant and inaudible, like a conversation heard from the bottom of the ocean. But it was unmistakably something alive and something intelligent.

Iris’ desire to piece together the full range of sounds buried in this single audio file had driven her forward, but when she heard The Voice she was once again sucked into the black hole that was its Power.

Its? Who was it? A being that existed long before the earth and would continue to exist long after.

Fuck, why was that so hot? Why was she suddenly burning up? Why was she soaking through her panties? Iris thought of the look in Bailey’s eyes after she’d listened to The Sound and found herself growing hungry, not just for her friend but for everything. She wasn’t working anymore, abandoning the program to lean back into her chair and explore her wet pussy. But as her fingers rolled over her swollen clit, The Sound pushed through on its own, growing clearer in Iris’ ears as she neared orgasm.

It was unmistakable. An intelligent voice speaking in an unknown language. A message that was meant to be heard, its strange words mixing into Iris’ moans until she was repeating them herself. As she came to The Voice’s Message, Iris felt that some fundamental part of her existence was melting away, lost down some deep, cosmic rabbit hole.

What was left over would be remade by The Voice.

From the Carpenter Watchblog

Uploaded by Jamie Watt 05/22/2018

In Search of a Reclusive Scientist

By Corbin Arroyo

In the short, often strange history of Carpenter State University, few stories are stranger than the sudden meltdown of The Department of Astrophysics and Astronomy. Yet it’s an event that few talk about, buried in the shallow pages of a student newspaper and left there with no critical consideration. At its peak, The Weir Laboratory was an acclaimed research facility that made massive contributions to our modern understanding of space. Many of its student researchers transferred to more notable schools, but in my attempts to reach these former students, none were interested in discussing their history. None, save one, who remained in the area after the department’s closure.

Despite her proximity to Romero, Dr. Sharon Ackworth was not easy to track down. After a brief attempt to salvage the Astrophysics and Astronomy program, she left academia entirely. She now lives a few miles outside of town. Shrouded in a dense overgrowth of trees, you can only spot her trailer from the road if you’re looking for it. That’s how Dr. Ackworth likes it. Her small abode is a shocking contrast to the sanitary, fluorescent glow you may imagine in a science lab. Color has faded in every corner of this place, the wallpaper an off-white trending toward yellow. That’s what I can see of the walls, anyway. Most of it is papered with pages from spiral notebooks, margins filled with obscure and complex equations far above my English major.

Dr. Ackworth clears some space from a small table just off of the kitchenette. It’s cluttered with old cardboard boxes stuffed with files that I assume are everything she salvaged from her department. She later confirms that she took everything from Dr. Weir’s office. An entire history of a college department stuffed into a leaky, old trailer just off a dirty county road. Dr. Ackworth sips from a coffee mug that says “C8H10N4O2” on its face. My mug has Garfield on it. It sits untouched in front of me.

Dr. Ackworth is barely forty, but a long, thick tangle of rusty-gray hair makes her age difficult to track. Her face looks young. Despite her surroundings, her appearance, I’m certain she could pass for thirty. She doesn’t care about any of that. She hasn’t for a long time.

Her forthcoming account to me of the last days of the Weir Laboratory makes me question why she chooses to live in seclusion. She tells me that it isn’t necessarily fear that’s driven her away from Romero. After all, if she were running from something she’d at least leave the state. No, instead she’s just given up on being heard. In all the years that she’s lived out here, no one has cared enough to ask why.

“Everyone thought that [Dr. Weir] was obsessed with extra-terrestrials,” she remembers. “But that wasn’t the point of his paper. He wasn’t looking for fame or glory, he didn’t want to be the person to prove that aliens exist. It was a warning. At first, we thought The Sound was some sort of natural phenomenon, but we were wrong.”

The Sound that Dr. Ackworth refers to here was recorded by her laboratory in 2005 and became the major point of research in the last years of the Weir Laboratory. An actual sound recorded from the depths of space, one which Dr. Weir and Dr. Ackworth became obsessed with. Inaudible with regular audio technology, but not impossible to hear.

“It wasn’t just one sound though,” she continues. “As we worked with it, we found that it was cascading. Sounds upon a sounds, a voice buried beneath a deep, deep echo. And the more we listened to The Sound, the more it changed us. It burrows into your mind until it’s the only thing that you hear. It’s the only thing that you care about. And you find that it’s not just words, but commands. And you’re powerless to disobey them.

“It moved through the laboratory like a virus, infecting anyone who listened to it. The message was sent to prepare us. An arrival, in which its speaker would inherit the earth and all life that existed within.”

She takes a breath, grips her cup a bit tighter.

“[Dr. Weir] was the first to see what we were becoming. Our obsessive dedication to unlocking every detail of its hidden message terrified him. When he locked the laboratory down, it wasn’t to prove his theory or anything. It was containment. Until the The Sound could be properly destroyed, nobody could leave. He knew that such drastic measures would surely mean the end of his career, and he was right. Everything that you’ve read, the story about program cuts—that was all Dean Pierce’s spin.”

Watching Dr. Ackworth share her story, it’s clear to me that something really happened in that department, something that necessitated a cover up from the highest levels of Carpenter State authority. It drove Dr. Weir to destroy his own reputation, forced Dr. Ackworth to the edge of society. Things like this don’t happen without reason. Was it an evil message meant to prime us for extra-terrestrial conquerors? It’s hard to believe. But reality won’t diminish Dr. Ackworth’s feelings, the years she’s struggled to find anyone to listen to her.

I’m listening, Sharon. And I won’t stop until I find the truth of it all.

The preceding article was retrieved from online archives. It was initially removed from the Carpenter Watchblog by writer Corbin Arroyo at the request of the College of Arts and Sciences. It has been retained on the private server for documentation purposes.

Bailey hadn’t been herself since she’d listened to The Sound.

Even days after, she couldn’t shake it from her head. It echoed in her mind like a bad song.

At night she would drift off into a sleep weighted down by the same vivid dream. There was a figure deep in space. Deep, but not unreachable. It spoke to her, its words locked behind an unknowable language, muffled further by the millions upon millions of light years that separated her from it.

And yet she understood the meaning of its message.

Bailey would awaken, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. The first thing she saw was Iris. The image of her friend in the study room was burned into her memory. Those distant eyes focused on a power so far away, but still stronger than any human on earth. It was the hottest thing Bailey had ever seen.

Iris swung both ways, but as far as sexual orientation was concerned Bailey had never deviated from men. Iris would joke about hooking up, a kind of punk rock desire to make everybody in the room uncomfortable, and Bailey would always laugh it off. But now she drifted off into rough fantasies of Iris holding her down, dominating her.

She could teach me, Bailey thought. She could teach me to be a good flesh puppet.

What was that? Where had that come from?

Bailey tried to resist the urges that her late night fantasies conjured. She avoided contact with Iris, even went so far as to delete her from her contacts. Yet when Bailey wandered the library she caught herself peering through the glass walls of its study rooms. What did Bailey even plan to do when she saw Iris again? She feared to speak the answer into existence.

Work normally kept Bailey grounded, but now she found the library to be the hardest place to think. For her, it was ground zero. She was becoming something now and it couldn’t be stopped.

She was becoming a flesh puppet.

The thought made her drop in a quiet corner among the stacks, aching for release. The top floor of the library had a private bathroom where she would go on breaks to scroll Instagram. Locking herself in, Bailey was barely sitting down before she had her fingers buried in her pussy. Even awake she could hear The Voice, encouraging her.

“Fuck!”

Her cries were pure, unrestrained obedience.

The orgasm broke her. She remained seated, arms hanging limp like a doll’s, as The Voice’s Message filled the space where she had once had thoughts.

She came back slowly. A finger twitch, a jaw click, an eye roll. It was like something had crawled inside of her and was adjusting to its new home.

She took a deep breath.

It was time to see her friends.

The apartment door vibrated with the thumping sound on the other side. Bailey tried the knob and it creaked open. She was met with a mix of voices that she immediately recognized.

The first was Iris, confident and domineering, issuing commands between shallow breaths. The second, distant and hungry, was Kayla submitting to those commands, begging Iris to go deeper. The third voice—Bailey knew it but had never heard it. Not like this. It was The Voice, its alien words pumping through Iris’ sound system as clearly as Iris and Kayla’s cries.

Bailey found her friends in the living room. Iris had Kayla bent over the couch, taking her from behind with a large, black strap on. Beads of sweat trickled down their naked bodies. Kayla’s mouth was wide open, tongue dripping, glassy eyes rolled back into her head as she took the full force of her best friend’s silicone cock.

Bailey was driven to the floor by the massive weight of The Voice’s Message. She tore at her shirt, pulling her bra down to expose her breasts. With one hand she groped; pinching, twisting, rolling her fingers over her nipple. The other hand found its way down into her wet shorts.

Bailey’s moans mixed among her friends as she cried out the words that burned their way into her mind. They weren’t alien when they left her lips. A translated Message for the world to hear: “I am…the Birth of a new species! I will Prepare…my body and my mind for the…Great Arrival! I will Fill whatever need is…expected! I will Preach, I will Build, I will Breed! I will Shape the…soil to The Messenger’s Desires! I am a flesh puppet! My Submission is eternal.”

When Bailey looked up, she saw that Iris was speaking the same words, her eyes looking through her. Kayla too was trying her best to repeat the loop, but she struggled through the pounding. After the two finished, Iris stepped toward Bailey, leaving Kayla motionless on the couch, simply absorbing The Message that repeated over the speakers.

Though Iris spoke freely, her lips continued to move silently to The Message’s words in small breaks between her own. The effect was something uncanny, like a robot imitating a human’s speech patterns but struggling not to process all of the other data around it.

“I was wondering when you’d return,” Iris said coldly, approaching Bailey. “I couldn’t fight it for that long. I let it take me the night we found it. Kayla too. She was so scared at first, but she saw the way. How long did it bounce around your head?”

“So long…” Bailey moaned.

“And now that you’ve heard the complete Message, you know how much work we have to do.”

“So much…”

Iris slipped her finger beneath Bailey’s chin and lifted her head so that she could look down into those empty eyes. Empty, but so full of desire.

Bailey, staring down the face of Iris’ cock still dripping in Kayla’s sex, licked her lips.

“I am ready,” she said, her lips too beginning to move to The Message. “We must prepare my body for The Great Arrival.”

[imasradiantasthesun]

District 12 Family Trees

Here are some family trees I made for my thg fic holding bright! I include a good amount of worldbuilding and fleshing out of some side characters (aka Bristel, Thom, Leevy, and Delly) in it, so I thought hey might as well draw some trees to help clarify my thinking. First, some notes on the structure:

The numbers in brackets are the characters' ages at the time of the Reaping for the 74th Hunger Games. I didn't feel like assigning specific birthdays for everyone, hence just the ages lol. Some characters' ages differ from canon in my fic: Katniss, Peeta, Delly, and Madge are all 18, Prim is 13, and Rory is 12

My use of "clan" here is super arbitrary, it doesn't actually mean anything lol

Names in quotation marks are nicknames/what they go by

Plenty of people in the older generations are dead, again I just didn't feel like specifying it unless it's relevant

Some notes on my decision-making in general:

I accidentally made Katniss and Peeta's maternal grandmothers have the same maiden names please ignore that lmao they are NOT related closely At All, it's a normal amount of distance lol

Ashwin is supposed to be older than Jubilee, not younger!! and Carson is supposed to be younger than River and Rylee (who are twins)!!!

Some of the names chosen for some Seam characters are Indian names, because I headcanon that people from the Seam can be a mix of a ton of different stuff, including South Asian

The idea that Mrs Everdeen's first name is Alyssum (Alys for short) comes from Mejhiren's fic When the Moon Fell in Love with the Sun

I continued the bread theme for Mellark names lol. Mr Mellark's first name is Nick, from pumpernickel. I also once read a fic where Peeta is of Jewish descent, which I really liked, so some of the breads are of Jewish origin: Hal is from challah (which can also be written as hallah), and Bab is from babka

In Holding Bright (which is an au, hence the variety of small changes I have made to canon lol) the Reaping takes place on June 1st (instead of the canonical July 4th), and it's also canon that the Games start exactly one week after the Reaping, so therefore in HB they always start on June 8th. Therefore, the teenaged deaths set after June 1st -- Glory Salsbury, Maysilee Donner, and Ridge Littlefield -- were all in the Games.

As explained in chapter 9 of Holding Bright, Ezra and Petunia Rainwater started a tradition of giving their kids long ass floral names lol. Their first child was relatively spared, with the name Foxglove, though he still went by Fox; their second child, Devil-in-a-Bush (or just Dev) fell in love with a woman who also just so happened to have a super long floral name, Queen Anne's Lace (though she went by Lace). All of Fox's descendants were spared from this naming tradition, to the point where his daughter, Hazelle, gave all of her children only four-letter names. Meanwhile, Dev's descendants got the longest names ever lmao: Chrysanthemum had five children: Morning Glory, Lily-of-the-Valley (aka Leevy), Stairway to Heaven, May Night Salvia, and Forget-Me-Not.

I have a headcanon that in Town they tend to give their children middle names, while in the Seam they don't (why? I don't know <3). In Town middle names came into use because they wanted to honor loved ones who have passed away, but because of the Games and all that it's considered bad luck to give your child the same first name as a deceased loved one

However, because I'm lazy I only wrote out the middle names for the youngest generation because I didn't want to come up with middle names for every single Merchant character lol

Katniss and Prim have middle names because their mother is from Town. Madge's middle name comes from Maysilee, just like Katniss's

I'm going with the popular headcanon that Katniss is indirectly related to Lucy Gray through Maude Ivory. Katniss's father's name follows the same conventions as those of the Covey (name from a ballad + a color). I had originally planned for people to only really know Mr Everdeen as Jet, hence why the family tree says Gordon Jet "Jet" Everdeen, but I have decided against that!! he went by Gordon Jet!!!

The first part of Mr Everdeen's name comes from the Scottish ballad Lord Saltoun and Auchanachie, in which the protagonist, Jeannie, is in love with a poor man named Auchanachie Gordon. However, despite Jeannie's resistance, she is married off by her parents to the wealthy Lord Salton/Saltoun; Jeannie then dies of a broken heart before Auchanachie Gordon returns and also dies. I thought Gordon is a fitting name, considering that Mrs Everdeen left her life in Town, where the wealthier Mr Mellark was in love with her, to marry the poorer Mr Everdeen

The second part of Mr Everdeen's name, Jet, comes from the color jet black; jet is also a type of coal

Some allusions to another canon character + my minor OCs:

Rooba is the name of the butcher in canon, so here she is Delly's aunt

Madge's maternal grandmother, Magnolia, has the maiden name Blackwell. She is distantly related to Maggie Blackwell, the carpenter's daughter who went missing about a decade ago

Thom’s maternal grandmother, Nomi Goodwin, was originally from Town

Bristel's mother, Juniper, passed away from complications at childbirth

Gale's maternal grandmother, Anika, has the maiden name Reeves. Gale is second cousins with Sparrow Reeves, the female tribute from 12 in the 68th Games who made a lasting impact on her district due to the brutality of her death

River & Rylee Ludlow are the 17-year-old twins who tend to pick on Madge a bit. No wonder they're related to Mrs Mellark...

Mrs Mellark's brother, Noah, died in the Games. Her other brother, Elijah, took over the apothecary shop from the Stewards after Alys ran away to be with Gordon Jet

Ivy Fairweather is the Undersees' housekeeper, usually referred to in HB as Mrs Fairweather. She and her husband probably have a ton of kids, but I just didn't feel like writing them all out lol. Ivy's maiden name is Claymore, which is also the last name of another OC, Hetty Claymore, who mysteriously died; Ivy is Hetty's like second cousin whatever-times-removed or something (aka practically a distant aunt)

[6lostgirl6]

Hier Kommt Die Sonne [Prologue]

Van Helsing x The Lost Boys Crossover

Pairing: Poly!Lost Boys x G/n!Reader, Count Dracula x G/n!Reader (Platonic), Dracula's Wives x G/n!Reader (Platonic)

Summary: In an alternate universe as Count Dracula's only heir, you have finally come of age to choose your mate at your own masquerade ball. Well, it's discovered that you may have more than one.

TW: slight movie spoilers, slight gore involving death

A/N: This fic follows the same timeline as the Van Helsing (2004) film, however occurring in an alternate universe where Dracula's goal to bring his children to life doesn't occur but is mentioned. Reblogs are highly appreciated!

1887

On this particular night, this was the exact moment in which he felt like an utter failure for the first time in his immortal life. 

Throughout his previous life centuries ago prior to making his deal with the devil, Vladislaus Dracula always been known as a cunning and devious creature that has transferred into his immortalized being.

Therefore, with the vast knowledge that he picked up over the centuries, he believed that he would have predicted all odds against him and that would be his downfall. His downfall that would involuntary affect his brides.

He could still hear their haunting cries when he finally uncovered the destroyed corpse of Frankenstein's monster under the rubble of the windmill. The Holy Bible was desperately clutched in the monster's rotten grasp, covered in blackened soot and pages threatening to waste away.

Dracula never regretted the things he's done throughout his existence. However, he felt immense guilt for killing the doctor. The miscalculation that resulted in their only chance of bringing their unborn children to life was diminished.

"How could you?!"

The deep anguish in Aleera's voice directed towards him was too much to bear. With a frustrated hiss and voice full of misdirected venom, he ordered his wives to return home, safely.

The last thing he needed was to lose his brides too.

It was the last thing he remembered before he transformed into his bat-form and vanished into the night. It was a desperate act to get away, clear his mind and settle the unrecognizable feeling in his chest. Without much thought, he managed to find himself in the woods.

The woods was completely shrouded in darkness, the soft glow of the moon being an only source of light to guide his way through the stretch of wood and overgrown forestry. Not that he even remotely needed it, given that his vampire abilities allowed him to navigate better than any living creature.

He walked through the thicket, following hidden paths that led him deeper and deeper. His mind was racing, replaying his wives devastating screams and he felt another unfamiliar pang in his ribcage.

He paused in confusion, touching the material covering his chest where his undead heart lay dormant. What could have brought this sudden pain in his chest?

"This feeling..." His mind suddenly conjured. "This feeling is...?"

It made perfect sense now. The unfamiliar feeling that was making his chest hurt when he thought about his saddened brides and his dead children that never would experience life.

He was feeling sadness.

The hollowness he as always felt during his existence has always been his companion. His wives only offering some amount of relief yet he couldn't deny the lack of emotion he held for many centuries.

He cared for his brides truly, enough that he wanted to have children with them. He would never admit this, not even to the devil himself, but he hoped that his children would give him that sense of fullness that he's been searching for. Yet, it wouldn't come to pass.

Now he will remain this way forever.

Suddenly, distant screams alerted the vampire as he stood ridged. His pupils dilated as he searched through the darkened trees and thick brush for the source. Dracula was never scared, however he was territorial and this was his land.

He concentrated more and discovered the source was miles away yet still reachable if he wanted to transform into his bat-form and confront the potential threat. As quick as the screams appeared, they were distinguished. Yet, only one thing was brought to his attention that made his fangs ache.

The fresh smell of blood.

With a growl, he quickly transformed. The sound of flesh expanding and bones shifting, he was in the air, heading towards the direction the blood was coming from.

In a mere few minutes, the vampire landed onto the forest floor, returning to his human form as he took in what he was witnessing.

There was a cabin that appeared to be broken into or attacked by a deadly storm. The windows were completely destroyed and the door ripped from its hinges, claw marks decorating the wood in a destructive pattern. Perhaps, he could find a meal before he returned home to his brides.

Ever cautious, he walked inside the cabin, eyes quickly adjusting to room shrouded in black. He already found the first victim, a male leaned against the wall near the door with his jugular ripped out. The furniture was completely destroyed and ripped apart and he followed the scent of blood towards the kitchen area.

There, he discovered what appeared to be the man's bride. Her lifeless body laying on her stomach with her arm outstretched, reaching towards the cabinet that seemed unbothered. Her jugular was also missing.

Dracula sighed, already knowing this was caused by a ravenous vampire. He lost his appetite, already knowing that he will be stressed the next few weeks until he hunted that vampire down and killed it. Nobody was allowed to hunt on his land.

He turned to walk away, however he stopped when he heard small whimpers coming from the cabinet. He quickly turned back and carelessly pushed the woman out of his way as he lowered himself to face the cabinet.

Slowly, he opened the cabinet and what he discovered inside made him feel like his undead heart skipped a beat. Which he thought was impossible.

It was a newborn. You.

You laid there in a small basket of bread that was cushioning you. Your small whimpers and trembling lip made something inside the vampire snap. He felt something in his chest.

A paternal instinct.

He reached out for you before pulling away slightly, a little cautious that he could potentially hurt you on accident. However, your escalating cries and appearance of tears made him quickly change his mind.

He carefully wiped a few tears away, hushing you softly. Quickly yet carefully, he reached in and picked you up, cradling you to his chest as he brought himself back into a standing position.

He pulled away slightly, looking down towards you. Your cries have returned to only being whimpers but the vampire still felt the need to comfort you, a smile would suit you much better.

Staring at you a little bit longer, his pupils dilated making his eyes appear to be darker than black. He was suddenly hit with a wave of intense emotions. The absolute need to protect, nurture, and care for you.

Was this love? A paternal love one would feel for their child that he's heard many times? Yes, it was.

A smile slowly worked onto his face, his earlier sadness and guilt washing away the longer he watched you.

"It's okay..." He muttered, voice deep and thick with a Romanian accent. "You're safe now." He rocked you a little, a little out of his element but it still felt natural.

Your whimpers began to cease and a sigh escaped you as you settled down against his chest. Instantly, his mind was already made up, you were his. His child to love and cherish for as long as he was immortal.

A small sneeze broke the silence and successfully brought him from his trance and he looked down at you. He stared in confusion as he slowly brought his knuckle to feel your cheek. He could feel the slight chill that began to rival his own the longer he held you in his arms. He knew he was a creature that lacked warmth, however he knew he couldn't risk you getting sick.

Effortlessly, he maneuvered you in his arms to remove his overcoat, wrapping it around you to bring you a sense of warmth.

"Come," He whispered softly, his smile returning on his face as he walked towards the entryway. "You must meet your new mothers."

This night, Count Vladislaus Dracula felt for once in his immortal life completely and utterly full.

"My Sun."

Taglist: Comment if you'd like to be added!!

@misslavenderlady @leiasolo77 @patient1666074 @britany1997 @ghoulgeousimmaculate @scaramantica @nerdy-spooks @rennalight @rottent33th @slaasherslut @monstercollection @henhouse-horrors @emo--chanel

[park-jimin-isnt-real]

🍂 pairing: yoongi x reader (platonic) 🍂 rating: pg 🍂 au: "over the garden wall"-esque 🍂 genre: autumn?? a lil spooky, a lil whimsy, a lil mystery; not quite angst, not quite fluff 🍂 this part: you wake up on a bench in a forest, with no memory before then of recollection of how you got there. the person greeting you gives you three options: going into the Great Unknown (never to be seen again), wandering the woods (until you become an Edelwood tree), or spending a month in Devil Town. 🍂 tw: none for this part 🍂 wc: ~3.5k 🍂 track: Devil Town ~ Cavetown: "Life's alright in Devil Town, yeah, right, no one's gonna catch us now." (subtrack, Come Little Children ~ Adriana Figueroa, FamilyJules) 🍂 devil town masterlist 🍂 main masterlist 🍂 an: ahhh i can't believe it's finally here!! super special thanks and shout-out to @theharrowing for being the catalyst, inspo, and beta for this little project. i really hope you guys enjoy this and please let me know what you think!

"Led thru the mist, by the milk-light of moon..."

A warm forest canopy greeted you when you opened your eyes, the vibrant reds and oranges of the leaves dense enough you couldn't see the sky. The surface beneath you was hard and cold, with uncomfortable ridges digging into your back. The air was a little chilly, a little misty. You looked around, trying to get your bearings.

The tree trunks were thicker than you'd ever seen before, the bark on them nearly black, with strange holes and creases that almost looked like faces. Slowly, you sat up, carefully moving your limbs to stretch them out. You were lying on a bench, you discovered, in a small clearing next to a well-worn path.

Why did you wake up on a bench?

How did you get here?

"Hey." The voice was quiet and calm, but it still startled you. You thought you were alone out here. "How are you feeling?" You turned towards the sound and watched as a person came into view, almost like he was materializing from the mist between the trees itself.

"Who are you?" You asked as you moved backwards on the bench, hoping to keep some kind of distance between him and yourself. If you had a better idea of where you were, you would've run.

"I am the Guide," he answered, coming further out of the shadows. His hair was light and windswept, his face soft, his cat-like eyes deep and sharp. He kept his hands in the pockets of his coat. You weren't sure if that was comforting or not.

He also didn't really answer your question. "What does that mean?"

"It's pretty straight forward," he responded, "I guide. And I know you have plenty of questions, so just get them out now."

For right now, at least, he didn't seem to be a danger to you. If he was, he would've done something by now. Or maybe he was luring you into a false sense of security, getting you to drop your guard, and then he would strike. Still, he was offering answers of some kind, and you were in desperate need of those, however you could get them.

"Where am I?" You asked as you looked around again, hoping for greater understanding of the woods you had awoken in.

"You are in the Unknown."

Your gaze shot back to him, the Guide. "What does that mean??" You snapped more than asked, because while that was technically an answer, it still didn't tell you anything.

The Guide only shrugged, "If anyone knew, it wouldn't be called 'the Unknown', now would it?"

You could only blink at him, at his non-answers that he probably believed to be helpful. It took you a moment to regather your thoughts and move on to the next most pressing question. "Okay, so, what am I doing here?"

He didn't respond immediately this time. Instead, he opened and closed his mouth, the look on his face growing increasingly more frustrated. You glanced down, a movement in his coat pockets capturing your attention. It looked like his hands were shaking, or maybe he was clenching and unclenching his fists.

"I can't tell you that," he finally said, his voice less soft and comforting, carrying a bit of that frustration in its tone.

"Why not?"

"I can't tell you that either," he huffed. You opened your mouth again, but he continued, "And before you ask why again, know that I want to. I always want to. But I can't get the words out of my mouth. I'm not allowed to."

You felt just as frustrated as he looked. "So what can you do?"

That question seemed to relax him again, his body returning to its odd stillness as he continued to stand there. "I can tell you about the options you have now that you're here."

"Options?" You repeated. "Like what?"

The Guide finally pulled one of his hands out of his pockets, holding a single finger up. "Well, option one: you can walk off in that general direction," he gestured to your right, "towards the light, and enter into the Great Unknown." You turned to look where he indicated.

The path that the bench was next to led either left or right, and the way right was significantly brighter than its opposite. Despite the friendly glow, you felt unnerved.

"But don't people always say 'don't go into the light'?" Because going into the light often meant death.

"And you could listen to them," he said. "Those who choose to go into the Great Unknown are never seen or heard from again. But ultimately, that choice is up to you."

So that way was definitely death.

You looked back at him, hoping for something better. "And option two?"

"Option two is wandering around the woods here," the guide looked around at the trees, "until you eventually and inevitably turn into an Edelwood tree, whose wood—according to legend—is then harvested and turned into oil to be used in some ancient lantern that harbors the soul of the Beast that also wanders the wood."

Now you looked at him like he was crazy. "I'm sorry, what??" He didn't miss a beat or bat an eye, his voice stayed the same even, monotonous tone, he said all of that like it was just another day here, wherever you really were.

"According to legend," he repeated, then shrugging, added, "again, no one really knows. Supposedly, a couple of kids arrived in the Unknown a while back, and they defeated the Beast before taking their leave." He looked away from you again, turning his gaze to the closest tree and slowly looking up. "But if the Beast were truly gone, then why are people still turning into Edelwood trees?"

You paid closer attention to the trees surrounding you now, with their nearly black bark and face-like holes and creases, and felt hundreds of empty eyes fall on you in return. How many people had wandered through the woods here for the forest to become this dense? How many ghosts of screams could you hear echoing on the breeze?

How long would it take the same fate to befall you?

"Is there a third option?" You asked, much more subdued than your recent questions. Part of you wondered if the trees could hear you as well.

"Of course," the Guide answered, and you felt your shoulders relax just a bit at that. "Your third and last option is to spend a month in Devil Town."

You had to close your eyes and take a moment to breathe, to tell yourself to remain calm. "Devil Town."

"Yes. It's not an actual town of devils, that's just its name."

"And no one knows why?" You guessed, opening your eyes to glare at him again.

He merely shrugged, "If we did, it wouldn't be in the Unknown."

You forced yourself to breathe slower, counting to ten in your mind. Yes, the Guide had answered every question you asked, but every answer was a non-answer. They didn't satisfy any of the curiosity you possessed, they simply led to more questions and even more non-answers.

"So my options are, one: definitely death; two: becoming a tree; or three: going to someplace called Devil Town?"

"For a month."

"Huh?"

"If you choose to go to Devil Town, you can only stay for a month," he explained.

"What happens after a month?"

"You get kicked out and you have to make an official choice. Either the Great Unknown, or the woods."

"So if death and tree are my only options in the end, then why bother with Devil Town at all?"

"Well," he started, but then paused. He looked frustrated again, like there were things he wanted to say but wasn't allowed to. Finally, he sighed. "They're your only options in the end right now. Depending on how things go in Devil Town, when your month is up you could have some other, more rare options opened up to you."

That was the first bit of good news you had heard since you woke up. "Like what?"

"Like..." he paused again, still struggling against whatever force was trying to keep him silent. When he spoke again, this time he sounded strained. "Like staying in Devil Town permanently, or, even more unlikely, going home."

You almost stood up in excitement. "If I spend a month in Devil Town, I can go home?"

"Maybe. Again, it depends. There's a lot of things that factor into that becoming an option, and very few have ever achieved it."

"But there's a chance," you insisted.

"Yes," he conceded, starting to relax again.

Part of you wanted to jump up and start heading to the ill-named town, whatever direction it was in, but the other part of yourself held back. "Is that chance worth it?" You dared to ask.

"That's up to you," he responded, yet another non-answer.

You rolled your eyes, wondering when this cycle of questions and non-answers was going to end. "Well, you're the guide! Guide me!"

The Guide shook his head, "I can only guide you towards the Great Unknown or to Devil Town, but you have to choose first."

Something about that made you curious. "Did you choose Devil Town?"

"I did," he nodded, "and then I chose to stay."

"What's it like there?" If this was your best option, you at least wanted to know as much about it as you could before you officially chose it.

He shrugged, "Life's alright in Devil Town. There's not really much to do there, but plenty of people to talk to."

"When does the month start?"

"Once you set foot in the town limits. After that, you have to stay within those limits, or things start getting… messy."

"Messy how?"

"I can't talk about it," he almost snapped, probably getting annoyed at your ability to ask questions he can't answer the way he wanted to. You wanted to ask about that, but figured he wouldn't be able to tell you about that either. "Now, is Devil Town your choice?"

You took one last look to your right, towards where the Great Unknown lied, and then looked up at the trees around you. Death and tree would not give you a chance to get home. You took a deep breath, relishing the cool air, and stood up. "Yes. I'll go to Devil Town."

The Guide nodded, then turned towards your left and started down the path. "Follow me."

You walked behind him in silence. He didn't seem to be much for conversation now that you had made your choice. You looked around as you walked, trying to take in and appreciate your new surroundings, but the trees all looked like they were watching you and you couldn't hear any animals hiding up in the branches. The only sounds you could make out were your combined footsteps on the dirt and the wind rustling through the leaves.

You weren't sure how long had passed before you finally cracked and broke the silence yourself. "Do you have a name?"

"I am the Guide," he responded, rather curtly in comparison to your earlier questions.

"That's a title," you shot back. "Do you have a name? Something people call you when they're talking about you or they're trying to get your attention?"

He didn't answer you right away, and you thought he wasn't going to, that you would go back to walking in silence. After a bit more walking, however, he sighed and said, "I did once. Now I am the Guide, and that's how people refer to me."

"Just, the Guide? There's nothing else?"

"Yes." He stopped walking to turn and look at you, and you nearly ran into him. "Whoever we came to Devil Town as, that's not who we are anymore, so we don't have these 'names'." The Guide turned around again and continued on his way. "You'll understand more after some time there."

You didn't move for a moment, lost in thought wondering what he meant. How did someone just not have a name anymore? And why did he sound a little sad when he said it?

You shook yourself from your ponderings and ran a bit to catch up with him. The last thing you wanted was to get left behind, in fear that you'd end up lost and then turn into a tree anyway. You didn't ask him any more questions, instead letting him guide you in peace.

Soon, you could see a break in the trees ahead of you, and through the mist you could make out the silhouettes of buildings. You started to feel anticipation crawl up your spine as you grew closer, and you wondered at what point you crossed the town limits. Had your month started already?

You could practically feel the mist on your skin as you came out of the tree line, moist and sticky and cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself and walked a bit closer to the Guide, not wanting to lose him. In front of you, Devil Town came fully into view.

The streets were made of cobblestone, with not a sidewalk or stoplight in sight. People loitered around the sides of buildings made of brick, or by lampposts that flickered as if their light was from a candle instead of a lightbulb. Everyone was dressed similarly, in coats that looked fuzzy and warm, with plaid scarves wrapped tightly around their necks. Many of the adults wore formal hats, while children had beanies or earmuffs.

It was like you stumbled into a ghost town that someone had decided to bring back to life, albeit unsuccessfully, and the remnants had yet to fade away again.

As the Guide led you further into Devil Town, an important question came to mind. "Where will I stay?" There were so many small buildings and even smaller shops, but you had yet to see anything that resembled a house or apartment complex.

"With the Fool," he answered, though it didn't give you any more confidence. "He has a book shop with a spare room. That's where most people like you stay until the month is up."

"How do I unlock the option to go home?" You whispered this question, not wanting anyone to overhear you. Home must be a touchy subject for those who were still here. "Is there something specific I need to do?"

The Guide only sighed in frustration, a sound you were starting to get used to. "I can't tell you that." It didn't deter you this time, you simply changed your question.

"What can you tell me?"

He took his time answering you again, this time waiting until the two of you were standing in front of a wooden door. With one hand on the doorknob, the Guide turned to look at you. The intensity of his gaze—locked dead onto yours—forced you back a step.

When he spoke, that intensity was carried through his voice, quiet but pointed. "Devil Town is tricky, and those who are here are trickier. Whatever it is you are running from, it won't catch you here. It can't. But that doesn't mean you're safe. Don't trust anyone, not even me, and especially not yourself."

He didn't give you a moment to recover, to process his words, before turning the knob and pushing inside the building, leaving you to follow after hesitantly.

"Ah, the Guide!" A new, deeper, cheerier voice said. "What brings you here? Another lost soul to harbor?"

You didn't like the term lost soul.

You looked around as they spoke, at the shelves and shelves of books. Or, book. Maybe you were tired or maybe you had become too confused, but it looked like every book was an exact copy of the one next to it: same height, same thickness, same color, same title.

What kind of bookshop only sold one book?

"Yes," came the response from the only person you had met so far. "Is your spare room empty?"

"Of course!" You finally looked at the new person, the Fool, the Guide had said. He was much taller, and was actually smiling at you, with deep dimples in his cheeks. He seemed much kinder than the Guide had when you first met him, but his words outside the shop still reverberated around in your head. "It's right this way," he gestured behind him, "please follow me, miss…?" He trailed off, waiting for you to introduce yourself.

That was when you realized, the Guide had never asked for your name. He never wondered who you were, beyond "another lost soul" to guide through the Unknown.

Don't trust anyone, not even me, especially not yourself.

What scared you the most, however, was that you couldn't answer his question.

"I don't remember," you told them, your voice small and shaky in a way it hadn't been since you woke up on that bench. You were confused, you were concerned, but you hadn't necessarily been scared. "I don't remember my name." You looked back and forth between them, hoping for some kind of help, though you weren't sure what either could offer you.

The Guide merely blinked at your words, probably having heard them before, countless times from countless others he's had to do this with since he chose to stay here. The Fool continued smiling at you, also not concerned but seeming to offer you more comfort.

"That's alright," the Fool shrugged, "you can pick out who you are later. I'll help you, if you like." You wanted his offer to be kind and generous, but it only reminded you of the conversation you had with the Guide on the way here and it only added to the fear that now had a solid grip around your throat.

Still, you walked towards the Fool, wanting to lay down and rest and get a proper moment to think and process everything that had happened. You did try to keep your distance from the bookshelves, still put off by the repeating book.

"Take care of her," the Guide said, taking his own steps towards the door.

"You know I will."

"I know you will try," the Guide sighed, "we'll see what happens. And for you."

You looked back at him, "Yes?"

"Your time has started. Be careful with what you do with it." The Guide turned away, his hand on the doorknob. He didn't turn it, though, instead his knuckles were turning white with how hard he was grasping it. "And whatever you do, stay away from the Loner."

The Guide sounded strained again, like he was specifically trying to get those words out, like it was something he wasn't supposed to be telling you but managed to anyway.. With that final warning, he pulled the door open and exited the bookshop, leaving you alone with the Fool.

"Don't mind him so much," the Fool tried again to comfort you as he led you down a small hallway and up a short staircase. "He tries to act all intense but he's practically harmless." You didn't respond, still worried about too many things, still trying to process everything that was happening.

He stopped outside a simple wooden door and gently pushed it open for you. "Here is your room," he said, "get yourself situated, rest if you like. I'll be downstairs."

You stepped into the space, cozy but still void of any life. A single bed, a chair in a corner, a wardrobe in the opposite one. The window was thin and didn't have much of a view, but it didn't let the cold in.

"Thank you, um..." you trailed off, still unused to the strange naming system. You felt especially uncomfortable calling him the Fool.

"The Fool," he said for you, still smiling. A strange and silly part of you wanted to poke his dimples, just to see if they were real. "And you're welcome. Don't worry too much about forgetting your name. Like I said, we can pick one out for you."

With that, the Fool left you alone, closing the door but not all the way, giving you space but letting you know if you needed something you could go to him.

You went over to the wardrobe, gently tugging on the vintage-looking knobs, worried they would pop out if you pulled too hard. The doors creaked open, showing you clothes similar in fashion to what the people in town were wearing, all dark tones with simple patterns, somewhere between vintage pioneer and modern school uniforms. You shrugged off your current coat, the long, dark brown one you didn't remember how you had gotten, and hung it up on an empty hanger.

Then you tenderly sat on the bed, testing out the mattress before putting your full weight on it. It wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but it was better than the bench you woke up on.

Why did you wake up on a bench?

How did you get here?

What had you gotten yourself into?

🍂 thanks for reading!! 🍂 tagging: @secfir

[use-your-delusion]

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 : 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬:

" Soon enough, the suspected bounty hunter pulls his horse to a stop, a Tennesse Walker with a pretty brown and white coat. His rider slides off as he comes to a stop, and your eyes stay trained on the man as he enters your campground, his eyes taking note of your horse and belongings all left behind beneath the canvas of your tent.

You move quickly and quietly then, keeping your footsteps quiet as you round behind him. He was crouched down, rummaging through your belongings. Anger flared inside of you - trying to turn you into the law was one thing, but going through a lady’s things while she’s not home? That was just disrespectful.

As you near, he held something in his hand that made your heart clench, making it almost painful to breathe as you raise the pistol in your hand, cocking it behind his head.

“Drop it.” "

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7K ish

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Mentions of domestic violence in this story! Lot's of it! As well as the death of a child, and general violence from RDR2 <3

Don't ever force yourself to read what you aren't comfortable with.

A cigarette hangs loosely from your lips as you raise a match to light it, inhaling deeply as the tobacco smoke fills your mouth and lungs. The match still burns, a bright, orange ember against the midnight blanket above you. Its stars shine down on you, almost mocking you in a way as they twinkle and rejoice with one another.

You wish you were a star. So far up in the sky that nothing from this plane of existence could touch you. Instead, you would be the one looking down on the world. Judging the poor souls who sell themselves to the devil to get by. Humans were nasty creatures. Lying, stealing, robbing, killing. All of it. Horrible business that you dream of getting away from, as if the opportunity would ever be so kind as to present itself to you.

Another drag of your cigarette, another minute of the stars judging you.

The moon sits high up on her pedestal, illuminating the world beneath her. She outlines the ridges and valleys of your face, obscured partly by the hat you wear. It had been your fathers; aged and worn but still as loved as the day he had given it to you. Two feathers were tucked between its ribbon, blowing in the wind that passes through your camp.

To think that this was your life now - you went from having everything, from being the woman others envied with your husband and son, a fine house and a fine source of income. Then it was gone, leaving you living out of a tent, cooking poor cuts of meat over a campfire. The only living thing that didn’t want to kill you nearby was the Andalusian who was absentmindedly grazing on a patch of grass, unaware of the danger he was in.

His dark bay coat is illuminated by the orange bath of light the fire gives off, its flames flickering high into the night sky as you stare wistfully into them, wishing you could wake up tomorrow and be anywhere but here.

All your life you’d sworn you’d never kill anyone, whether they deserved it or not, but in the past month or so that promise had been quickly thrown out the window and left to the wolves. Your body count was growing steadily each day, by no choice of your own.

Bounty hunters, traveling from all over trying to bring you in, dead or alive, as the posters read.

You’d learnt fairly quickly how to shoot a gun, and how to shoot one well, at that. Your husband would’ve had your head if you’d ever thought of using his rifle, and a part of you wanted to laugh at how he’d react if he saw you with it now, like an additional limb to your body. The other part of you saw no reason to laugh at anything anymore though, and so you didn’t.

Your face is solemn as you sit, losing yourself in the hypnotizing flames.

Your breath hitches as a flock of birds erupt from a tree, a little further down the trail of the mountain, and slowly you rise to your feet, grabbing the rifle without even thinking about it. Someone’s coming. The sound of heavy hoofbeats grew closer and closer, reaffirming the suspicion. Without thinking about it you throw the gun over your shoulder and run to the cover of some boulders behind your camp, crouching down low in the shadows as you wait for the bounty hunter to arrive.

Your hand swiftly moves to your holster, pulling out a cattleman, also having belonged to your husband not too long ago.

Soon enough, the suspected bounty hunter pulls his horse to a stop, a Tennesse Walker with a pretty brown and white coat. His rider slides off as he comes to a stop, and your eyes stay trained on the man as he enters your campground, his eyes taking note of your horse and belongings all left behind beneath the canvas of your tent.

You move quickly and quietly then, keeping your footsteps quiet as you round behind him. He was crouched down, rummaging through your belongings. Anger flared inside of you - trying to turn you into the law was one thing, but going through a lady’s things while she’s not home? That was just disrespectful.

As you near, he held something in his hand that made your heart clench, making it almost painful to breathe as you raise the pistol in your hand, cocking it behind his head.

“Drop it.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Valentine was a dump, as Arthur had come to work out. Instinctively, his nose scrunches up at the smell of livestock and manure, although he was sure the smell was getting to the wagonful of girls behind him more than it was getting to him.

“Could pick yourself up some bounties in there Arthur.” Uncle nudges him, pointing toward the local jailhouse. Posters were lining the walls but he shakes his head and looks away.

“Got better things to do then go on wild goose hunts.” Arthur responds, his shoulders and jaw tight from holding onto all of the tension of the past couple of weeks.

As the wagon pulls to a stop, the girls filter out, all smiling and laughing and discussing what trouble they could get into in the town. It made Arthur chuckle, their eagerness to go and charm some poor fool into handing over his wallet.

The ground beneath his boots is soft and muddy, but he walks through it without complaint, trailing behind uncle as he complains about one thing or another. The general store sits in front of them, a small building about as run down as the rest of Valentine.

The wooden boards of the structure are weathered and rotting, and Arthur tips his hat at the two men who sit in front of it, lazily smoking their cigarettes.

“You need anything Arthur?” Uncle asks as the two men stepped inside, offering tight smiles to the man behind the counter.

“A drink, if I’m supposed to be putting up with you all day.” Arthur grumbles, walking over the rotting floorboards towards a shelf, with fine whiskeys and bourbons on display.

He reaches for a cheaper bottle of whiskey, taking it to the counter and digging through his pocket for a money clip.

He’s low on cash - the gang's money, along with most of his own, had been left stashed in Blackwater, and there’s no hope of retrieving it any time soon.

While he was a halfwit, Uncle hadn’t had a bad idea when he’d pointed out the bounties to Arthur.

“Hey Uncle,” Arthur calls across the store to him after tucking the whiskey away safely in his satchel. “Keep the girls outta trouble, I’m gonna go have a look at the bounty posters.”

“Thought you said they were ‘wild goose hunts’.” Uncle laughs, mocking his earlier words in his best impression of Arthur.

“Shut up old man.”

He exits the store and unhitches his horse - a Tennesse Walker he’d stolen from some O’driscoll. He wasn’t Boadicea, but he was doing the job for now.

The thought of Arthur’s former horse bought a low, sinking feeling to his gut. There were few things he got to call his own and care about in his dying way of life, but that horse had been one of them. Everything he did, and all the women he saw come and go- Mary, Eliza, she was there with him through it all.

Pulling up in front of the Sheriff's office, he hitches the unnamed horse. At this rate, it’s name was gonna end up being ‘Horse’ if he didn’t think of something better soon.

As he approaches the door, yelling can be heard from inside.

“C’mon! Just head up there and try again, would ya?” A man’s voice asks, almost begging.

“You outta your mind sheriff? Four of us went up there to drag her in and I’m the only one who came back! I don’t care how much your payin’, find someone else to bring the crazy bitch in.”

The second man burst through the door, almost running into Arthur before shooting one last dirty look at the sheriff and walking away.

The sheriff had his hand pinching the bridge of his nose, sighing and muttering something incoherent under his breath, but when he notices Arthur approaching he perks up, a bright, fake smile overtaking his features.

“You a bounty hunter boy?” The sheriff asks, standing up to greet him.

“I can be.” Arthur shrugs. “For the right price.”

“Two hundred dollars sound like a good enough price for you?”

A low whistle left Arthur’s mouth. “Two hundred? You gotta damn serial killer you want me to bring in or somethin’?”

“She may as well be. Nasty woman, that one is. Her poster’s over there on the wall. Y/n Cole.” He points in the direction of a cork board, and sure enough a poster is pinned to it.

“Wanted dead or alive?” Arthur asks, pulling it down to get a better look. A photo of a well put together woman was printed on it, beneath the large sum of money. She was wearing a fine dress, decorated with lace and frills, her neck adorned with an expensive looking pendant, and some silver earrings dangled from her ears. Her hair was curled and pinned back into an impressive up-do, and she looked more like the wife of a mayor than she did a serial murderer. “She don’t look very dangerous.”

“That’s what all the other’s said.” The sheriff sighs dejectedly. “Don’t put anythin’ past her though, she’s been guttin’ the boys like pigs up there. Crazy bitch.” The last part was muttered under his breath, and Arthur was unsure of whether or not he was meant to hear it.

“What’d she do in the first place?”

The sheriff lets out a humorless laugh. “Killed her husband and her son. Shot them both in cold blood. When the in-laws confronted her, she shot them too. She’s been hiding up in the Grizzlies for boutta month or so now, and any man who goes up there lookin’ for her doesn’t come back.”

“Sounds like quite the risk you got me takin’ than sheriff.”

“Pretty little wad of cash will be waitin’ back here for you if you do it though. Shoot her, stab her, tie her up and drag her back here kickin’ and screamin’, I don’t care how you do it, just bring us that Mrs. Cole and we’ll pay for your troubles.” The sheriff shrugs with a sly smile.

Arthur mulls it over for a minute, studying your portrait. You were a pretty woman, he realized, put together and wealthy too, by the looks of it, how hard could it be? The reward was highly encouraging too, two hundred dollars would make quite the difference for the camp, and it would make Dutch pretty happy too.

“Alright.” Arthur mumbled, tucking the poster into his satchel. “You said she was in the Grizzlies?”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“Told you to drop that, Mister.” You reiterate your words, pressing the cold barrel of your pistol against the back of the man's head. He drops the photograph, and his hands come up in surrender as you use your free hand to reach into his holster and pull out his own gun, tossing it away into the snow.

Despite the darkness, you train your eyes and ears into the surrounding forest, listening out for any other presence. No one else had ridden up with the man, but none of the other bounty hunters had come alone so far.

“Where are your friends?” You ask, still scanning the area in search of other men. Your heart pounds heavily in your chest - he seemed far too relaxed for a man with a gun to his head. Something had to be wrong.

“Came alone.” He mutters, before letting out a grunt as the heel of your boot came into contact with the middle of his back, harshly. He’s a strong man, but the kick takes him by surprise and he tumbles forward, landing face first in the snow, your gun never leaving the back of his head.

“Bullshit.” You hiss, landing another harsh kick to his side. “If you came alone then you’re an idiot.”

“I am an idiot, lady!” He protests, hand coming to clutch the side that had just met the end of your boot. “Now stop kickin’ me!”

You still, listening out for any sign of company, but you’re only met with the sound of insects and the crackling of your campfire. Your horse, Shergar, lets out a short whinny, pawing at the ground and clearly annoyed by the strangers presence - a mutual feeling.

“You’re really alone?” You ask, unable to stop the tone of confusion from seeping into your voice.

“Yes goddammit. Clearly a mistake on my part.” He sounds more inconvenienced by the situation than anything, like he was being pickpocketed rather than held at gunpoint.

“Clearly.” You agree with him, your voice quiet. “I gotta admit, I don’t really know what to do now.” You say to him, almost laughing. “Most the time, about five other men come runnin’ outta the bushes, guns ready and knives out. You really were stupid to come alone, y’know?”

“I realize that now.” He rolls his eyes, trying to find a way out of his situation. “Look, you can kill me if you want, but the only thing that’s gonna do is send more men up here on a witch hunt for you, and they won’t mind bringing your limp body back to Valentine.”

“None of the others have managed to so far.” You shrug. “Don’t see why I shouldn’t leave you here with a bullet and keep runnin’.”

“Cause your luck is gonna run out soon, lady.” He points out. “That or you can let me bring you in while you're still breathin’.”

“Bring me in alive today so I can swing tomorrow?” You ask with a humorless chuckle. “I don’t think so.”

“You really are a piece of work, huh?” The man asks, his blue eyes shining with something unreadable.

Before you can respond to him, he flips you over, diving for you and knocking you into the snow. The ice burns your face as you writhe and struggle beneath him until he has you where he wants you. He has you on your stomach, his knee pressing into your back to hold you still as his hands fight against your own to wrestle the gun out of your grip.

“Hey!” You yell out as he manages to wrangle it away from you, placing it into his holster to replace his own gun that you had thrown into the snow. Your hands blindly dart out behind you, trying to reach for him but he keeps his strong hold on you, and one of his large hands comes up to catch your wrists together and pin them on the snow in front of you. “Get off of me!”

“I didn’t like laying in the snow either lady, suck it up!” He retorts as he digs through his satchel for something with his free hand, and you feel your heart drop as he begins looping rope over your wrists, tying your hands together before getting to work on your feet.

Before he can start, your legs come upwards, and your feet come into contact with the man’s head, knocking his hat into the snow and eliciting a yelp from his mouth.

“You really are a crazy bitch.” He yells at you as you roll over onto your back, grinning up at him with a dangerous glint in your eye.

“And you’re a damn idiot like the rest of ‘em!” You shout back, spit flying from your mouth as you let out, perhaps the most ill-time laugh in history.

You aren’t quite sure why you’re laughing, maybe from anger or sadness, or from the dread of the gallows that were waiting for you, but you laugh, your head tilts back to face the night sky where the moon sits and watches you from her pedestal.

Your laugh soon turns into a choked sob though as you bite your lip and shake your head. “Do you feel big and tough, huh? Sending an innocent woman to her death?”

“You ain’t innocent.” The man shakes his head, spitting a bit of blood from his mouth. It taints the snow with its crimson color, ruining the innocence of the white sheet. “You killed your son Mrs. Cole. Did you feel big and tough while you shot your own baby? Huh?”

The world around you stops for a minute as anger clouds your mind, and you grind your teeth together so hard you’re surprised they don’t break.

“I have killed many people, but my son was not one of them.” You spit at the man through your clenched jaw. “You don’t know what the hell you’re on about, bounty hunter.”

“All I know, is that they’re gonna give me two hundred dollars for bringin’ you in. Innocent or not.”

“I’ll double it!” You say, not even thinking about the repercussions of your words as the reality of your situation dawns on you. This man holds your life in his palm - he chooses whether you live or die right now, and for the first time since you’ve been hiding out here, you’re powerless and at the mercy of a bounty hunter. “I’ll double what they pay you to let me go.”

He stops fussing with the rope at your legs at that, narrowing his eyes as he looks at you. Without his hat on, you can clearly see his face now. He looks to be mid-thirties, although he’s aged from the sun and the stress of his life, you’re assuming. His eyes are hooded, the bright blue color peeking out from beneath his strong brow bone. A couple days worth of a beard has grown along his jaw, enough to hide his lower face but not enough to hide the sharp jawline, or the scar on his chin.

“What did you say?” He asks quietly.

“I said, I’ll pay you double.” You reaffirm, your eyes pleading as you meet his own. The ice blue color gives away no indication as to what’s going through his mind, and in that moment you gather he’d be a great poker player.

“You’re gonna pay me, four hundred dollars, if I let you go?” He asks incredulously.

Now that he says it out loud, you realize how impossible your promise is, but nonetheless it looks like your only chance of surviving him.

“Yes.” You nod with a thick swallow. “Four hundred dollars.”

He lets out a low whistle, thinking about it. “That’s a lot of money.”

“I am innocent. And I’ll pay you to prove it.”

“And how can I be so sure, Mrs. Cole, that you’ll actually pay me. That you won’t run off the second I cut these ropes.”

“I’ll stay with you. Pay you back as I make the money.” You say, all but begging the man who appears to be considering your offer. “Most bounty hunters are travelers. I’m guessing you’ve got a camp set up somewhere too that you’re livin’ out of.”

“I might.” He shrugs. “But then what? I take you and your promises back to my camp, and then you run off in the middle of the night? You can’t be trusted. You’re a murderer.”

You weigh out your options, wondering what you could do to convince him. You had nothing of value on you, nothing of monetary value at least. The only thing you could offer him as collateral was something you would rather die than part with, but at this point, you dying was seeming more and more likely.

“Untie me.” You say softly, holding your hands out towards the man. “Untie me and I’ll give you some collateral.”

He considers it for a moment, eyeing you carefully, like he was trying to pick up on a lie or trick, but eventually he pulls a knife out of his belt and cuts the rope from your hands. “Don’t make me chase after you.” He warns as you stand on shaky legs and make your way to your bedroll where the man had been digging around earlier.

You drop to your knees, quickly finding what you were after, laying right where he had dropped it. A photograph of your son, when he was only two years old, held up high in your arms as you planted a kiss on the side of his cheek. A wide smile was covering his features, and in the photo your eyes are crinkling with a happiness they haven’t known in a long time.

“Here.” You begrudgingly hand him the photo. “It’s the only photo I have of me and my son. It’s the most important thing in the world to me. I get that back when you get your money. And if I run, I’m leavin’ that behind as well.” Your words are soft, almost defeated as he gently takes the photo from you.

His brows are furrowed as he inspects it, running his thumb along where you stand in it. After a moment, he must deem it worthy because he tucks it away safely into a pocket on the inside of his jacket.

“Grab your things Mrs. Cole.” He says softly, making his way over to his discarded hat and placing it atop his head. “You’re comin’ back to camp.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“You never told me your name.” You point out as the two of you amble side by side, Shergar traveling through the mountain ranges with ease after having spent so long up here with you. The bounty hunter's horse, on the other hand, was skittish, hyper-aware of his surroundings and the cliff edges that surrounded him. A couple times his foot had slipped and a sharp whinny had escaped him, his head throwing back high in the air with the whites of his eyes showing, clearly unnerved this far up in the mountains.

It wasn’t just a fear of falling though, occasionally a wolf howl or a roar from a bear could be heard, causing Shergar to prick his ears nervously towards the sound and add a slight spring to his step, eager to escape the predators.

“Arthur.” The man grumbled, blowing his breath into his hands and rubbing them together to warm them up. “Arthur Morgan.”

“Arthur Morgan.” You tested his name on your tongue, the name slipping out easily.

“And I know your name, Mrs. Cole.”

You shook your head. “That’s my married name. I have no business using it anymore.”

“So what do you want me to call you then?”

You told him your name, your real name, from before you made the terrible mistake of marrying Evan, and he repeated it with a small nod, as you had done with his own earlier.

The sun was up now, beating down on you harshly but still not enough to melt the ice that ran cold through your veins. You had grown used to the freezing temperatures after spending so much time up here, but you could tell Arthur wasn’t enjoying himself at all.

His blue coat was wrapped around himself tightly, the collar brought up to protect his neck from the biting winds.

“You couldn’t have picked a warmer spot to hide out?”

“Not many people wanna come up here unless they have to. Figured it was safer for me than some place down there.”

“Suppose.” He hummed. “You would’ve been up there during that god awful storm then?”

You snorted. “Yep. Though that was the end of it for me. I could barely see three feet ahead of me let alone find or cook food. That and the fact that I probably got hypothermia.”

“Yeah it was like that for us too.” Arthur said solemnly. “We were camped out by Colton for a week or so, me and the rest of my…” he trailed off. “Family.”

“Not a nice place.” You offered. “Hell were you doin’ up there with your family anyways?”

“We’ve both got our secrets.” Arthur shrugged, and you gathered that you wouldn’t get anything more out of him.

“I suppose.” You agreed.

“I mean, I’ve got my secrets.” Arthur corrected himself. “Your crimes are plastered all over the state.”

“I didn’t kill my son.” You said harshly.

“What about your husband? And his family, huh? Suppose you didn’t kill them either.”

“Like you said, Mr Morgan. We’ve both got our secrets.”

The ride continued in silence, a tense air settling over the pair of you as the snow gradually melted away. The mountains grew smaller and smaller behind you, and the air grew warmer. Birds sang and deer hopped about, taking off as you and Arthur trotted beside one another along a makeshift dirt road.

You crossed a shallow point of a river, the water coming up and splashing against your legs and tickling the underside of Shergar’s belly. It washed away the mud that had been caked against his hide from weeks in the mountains, where the only creeks and rivers were frozen or too cold and dangerous to enter.

“Nearly here.” Arthur’s low drawl broke you from your thoughts as he steered off of the road onto a worn trail through the grass. It led through forest for a few yards until you spotted a clearing up ahead, where wagons and tents were set up like a miniature village.

You could hear voices, men and women, even a child, all talking and laughing with one another.

He pulls to a stop before you completely leave the safety and privacy of the woods, a somewhat concerned gaze on his face. His eyes are narrowed and you can see he’s thinking hard about something with his parted lips, his tongue coming out to dart them with moisture momentarily.

“Y’know how we mentioned those secrets that you and me both got?” He asks, turning to look at you and you narrow your eyes.

“Yeah. Why?” Worry seeped into your tone at his own. For a man so sure of himself, he almost seemed hesitant to bring you into the camp.

“This- This family of mine ain’t the best, ok?” He started, stumbling over his words a little. “You owe me four hundred dollars, but that means you also owe Dutch Van Der Linde.”

Your eyes widened. You’d heard that name more and more frequently in your travels lately, and not for anything good.If you could remember correctly, him and his gang were wanted dead or alive for some ferry robbery gone wrong down in Blackwater. Come to think, you’d also heard Arthur’s name thrown around a lot.

“You- You’re in the damn Van Der Linde gang?” You asked, your tone growing in pitch as your arm comes out to slap his bicep.

“Hey, what-”

“You murder and rob your way across the whole country, you’re wanted dead or alive and yet you come here and you judge me for my crimes? Crimes I didn’t even commit!”

At your voice, heads turn in your direction, curious gazes from the women, and bloodthirsty, threatening looks from the men. From behind the trees they still can’t quite see you properly, something Arthur is thankful for as he slaps a hand across your mouth, your hot breath escaping your nose and fanning across his fingers as he shoots you a warning glance.

“Keep your damn mouth shut.” He warns with a low voice, his eyes shooting back to the camp where everyone seems to have gone back to their business.

When he’s sure you’ll stay quiet, he removes his hand from your soft skin, his mouth opening and shutting while he tries to find the right words.

“Look, I’m not gonna take you to Valentine, and neither will Dutch when he hears about our agreement.” Arthur says pointedly. “But there are other men in this camp, who will jump at the chance to hand you over for two hundred dollars, so you keep your mouth shut, ok?”

“Ok.” You nod, feeling a growing pit in your stomach. Suddenly, you were unsure of whether or not coming here was truly the best idea. Maybe you had been safer in the Grizzlies. Maybe you should have taken your chance to run, leaving your treasured memory behind in Arthurs pocket.

As if he could read your thoughts he sighed, hanging his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I’m gonna keep you safe here, ok?” He promises, and you can see in his eyes that he truly means it, although you know that to him, it’s nothing more than keeping the promise of four hundred dollars safe. “But not even I am gonna be able to stop some of these men when they learn the truth ‘bout you.”

“What are we gonna tell ‘em then?” You asked, throwing a worried glance at the camp. “They’re gonna wanna know who I am and what I’m doin’ here with you, won’t they?”

“Yeah they will.” A frown overtook his features as he continued to think. “Alright, we’ll tell ‘em your name is Miss Flinders, from Strawberry. Your daddy just got eaten by a bear or somethin’.”

“A bear?” You ask incredulously, one eyebrow raised. “If my daddy managed to get eaten by a bear, he might just be more of an idiot than you.”

“You got somethin’ better?” Arthur asks, a little offended that you hadn’t liked his suggestion.

“Yeah, I do.” You roll your eyes. “Miss Flinders from Strawberry was running away with her fiance, planning to elope. He took her money and left her stranded. You found her in the hotel there, with nothing left but her horse. Her family won’t take her back, and she’s got nowhere else to go.”

“I personally like the bear, but whatever works for you, Miss Flinders.” Arthur says in a mocking tone.

“We ain’t doin’ the bear.” You deadpan.

“Fine.” The outlaw relents. “But I found Miss Flinders like a drunken harlot begging for money on the streets. I was like her knight in shining armor, offering her a bed and some warm food.”

“Yeah you’re a real gentleman, Mr Morgan.” You draw out his name sarcastically.

“Don’t push me girl.” He warns. His voice had a way of sounding more dangerous than the growl of a wolf, you had come to notice in the short time you’d spent with him, and for all of your confidence you couldn’t deny the effect it had on you, leaving you swallowing thickly from his threat.

When he’s satisfied with your reaction, he gathers up his reins and spurs the Tenesse Walker forward, leaving you to trail behind.

“Uncle Arthur!” A young boy's voice is the first thing you hear when you emerge from the clearing, hiding in the shadow of the man in question.

“Jack!” It’s quickly followed by a stern woman’s voice, and you catch a glimpse of her grabbing a hold of the boy's forearm, dragging him off in the direction of a campfire, a pot of something cooking over it.

“C’mon.” Arthur says to you, dismounting from his horse and waiting for you to do the same.

You can feel curious gazes meeting you as you walk through the camp, Arthur’s hand finding its way to the small of your back to guide you.

“Keep your head down.” He instructs, his tone low as you near a group of men.

“Brought a whore back Arthur?” One of them lets out a drunken yell and a laugh, and you can hear the others laughing and whooping. 

“Shut your mouth Micah.” Arthurs all but growls back at him as you continue to walk through the camp.

Some women offer you odd glances, looks that hold curiosity and even jealousy to some degree as you’re guided to a wagon with a canvas awning. Beneath the awning is a cot and a few other assorted pieces of furniture, holding belongings you can only assume belong to Arthur.

“Just stay here and sit tight for a minute.” Arthur tells you when you reach his wagon, giving you a small push toward the cot that was set up there.

“Where are you goin’?” You ask, making no move to sit down. It felt wrong to intrude on his space like that, whether he’d given his permission or not.

“Gotta find Dutch.” He explains. “Tell him about this agreement of ours.”

“Wouldn’t it be best if I came with you then?” You frown a little, not liking the idea of the two dangerous men talking about you and your bounty while you weren’t there. On some level, you know you can trust Arthur to a degree - after all, he’d had the opportunity to hand you over for the money, and he hadn’t taken it, but you were still doubtful, especially if Dutch Van Der Linde was going to have some hand in your fate.

You’d heard of the notorious outlaw, even before you were on the run. Robbing, murdering, leaving a trail of death and destruction everywhere he and his gang went. And yet, when Arthur, his right hand man came to get you, you weren’t met with a cold, heartless man who wanted to trade you for money at the first chance you got. Instead, he was open to your suggestion, and accepted it, albeit begrudgingly. 

Of course you still owed him money, and lots of it, but he knew that would take time, and he would need patience, but in the meantime you would still be provided with warmth, food and protection from other hunters, something you were beyond grateful for.

“No, just stay here a moment. It would be best if I spoke to him alone.” Arthur sighs, a hand running down his face, as though he were deep in thought. And you suppose he is, how is he supposed to explain to his boss that they had two hundred dollars sitting in their camp, just waiting to be collected on, but they weren’t going to touch it in hopes of it giving them four hundred? With no plan or promise as to how you were gonna get that money?

It makes you wonder on some level why he hadn’t just handed you in when he had the chance to. It would’ve been easier, surely, than going through the trouble of bringing you here and convincing Dutch to let you stay. Of course the promise of double your bounty had some role in it, but now that you knew of the gang, you were confused. They could’ve gotten that money easily if they kept up old habits, which you were sure they did.

Arthur leaves you then, leaving you to awkwardly take a seat on a cot you could only guess belonged to him.

You hate to be nosy, but you aren’t left with much else to do as the rest of the camp carries on its life around you, occasionally throwing you a curious look. Instead of staring back, you let yourself gaze around Arthur’s makeshift room. You take note of the photos he has sitting on a nightstand beside the bed, one of them being a portrait of a beautiful woman with dark hair, perfectly styled behind her. He also has an assortment of weapons lying around, from guns to knives to ammunition. It makes you wonder what sort of business the gang has been getting up to since disappearing from Blackwater, but you figure it’s nothing good.

There’s a large tent set up in the middle of the camp, and you can see the familiar figure of Arthur talking to another man, an imposing looking man who you can only guess to be Dutch Van Der Linde. He’s smoking a cigar, and his face is set into a deep frown as Arthur speaks to him. You watch them with curiosity. Arthur has taken his hat off now, revealing his sandy brown hair that could probably do with a trim, and you watch as he runs a large hand through it, touselling the once smoothed strands.

With your eyes stuck on Arthur, you don’t notice as Dutch turns his head to set his gaze upon you, not until Arthur follows where he’s looking and then you’re quick to divert your eyes from the two men to the sight of some birds beyond them, nesting far up in the trees. Your heart pounds against your chest, trying desperately to leap out as Arthur places the old hat back on his head and makes his way across the camp to you.

Was he going to tell you that you were welcome to stay? Was he going to tell you to pack your things and leave? Was he going to tie your hands together and haul you all the way to Valentine to hand you over for the money? Possibilities run through your mind like a horse running from a wolf as Arthur approaches, and you can see Dutch in your peripheral vision watching the two of you like a hawk.

“You can stay.” Arthur nods his head at you. “Dutch is ok with it, but he wants to speak with you when he has a chance. Make sure he can trust you and all that.”

“I-” your throat runs dry at his words. You weren’t sure if it was from relief of having a place to stay, or fear of having to speak to Dutch Van Der Linde. “Thank you.” You settle on saying, your lips pursed together as your eyes meet Dutch’s from across the camp.

“It ain’t a problem.” Arthur says as he begins moving around his space and picking up several items you couldn’t quite make out. “You can handle yourself and a gun well, Dutch thinks you’ll be good to have around, once we know we can trust you. Until then though-” Arthur cuts himself off as he throws a handful of things towards you, “-you’re my responsibility.”

You furrow your brows and begin to sort through the things he threw at you, finding a bar of soap, some rags, and an old blanket you could use as a towel.

“Is this your way of telling me I stink?” You ask with a small chuckle as you stand up, cocking your head to the side to gaze at the man expectantly.

“You don’t stink, you just look like you could…” He trails off, thinking of a nice way to phrase his next words. “Freshen up.” He settles on. “And maybe run a comb through your hair as well.” He mutters, one of his hands absentmindedly reaching up to brush against your knots.

“Hey!” You say, a little offended, and you lightly slap his hand away. Despite your show though, you don’t protest when he adds a hair brush to the pile of items he’d handed to you.

“You got clean clothes on your horse?” He asks, ignoring the look you tossed his direction.

“What’s wrong with the clothes I got on?” You ask him, furrowing your brows.

“They’re still wet with snow.” Arthur says, like it should be obvious. “But if you wanna sleep damp, that’s your choice.”

Now that he’s mentioned it, you do still feel the dampness of the snow on your clothes, sticking to your skin uncomfortably. It was normal in the Grizzlies - there hadn’t really been any escaping it, but now you were dry, and much warmer than you had been in the mountains, and the thought of dry clothes that would stay dry made your stomach flip with excitement.

“Yeah, I got clothes on Shergar.” You answer him as the two of you make your way to where the horses are hitched.

“Kinda name is that?” Arthur asked, furrowing his brows as the two of you unhitched and mounted your horses.

“I dunno.” You shrugged. “It was his name when I got him, and I liked it.”

“Fair enough.” The man agrees with you, tugging on the reins of the Walker beneath him before gently spurring him forwards.

“Where are we headed anyways?” You ask Arthur, following him on the Andalusian, your hand reaching down to scratch at his neck with your nails.

“More private area of the river.” Arthur explains as the two of you trot out of the forest and onto the worn down dirt path. “You can clean yourself up a bit, and I’ll make sure no one else comes by.”

“So when Dutch said I was your responsibility, he just meant you were becoming my own personal little bodyguard?” You joke, your lips curling up into a smile as you turn your head to meet Arthurs gaze. You can tell he doesn’t want to smile but he does, shaking his head as the two of you trot.

“You’re worth four hundred dollars darlin’.” He explains to you, that low drawl sounding both threatening and alluring at the same time. “Of course you’re gonna have someone followin’ after you.”

The truth behind his statement stung a little. At the end of the day, these people could feed you, give you a place to stay, and keep you safe, but they weren’t doing it for you . They were doing it for your worth. After so long of being by yourself though, their motives didn’t matter to you. As long as you were safe and warm.

“You know I ain’t gonna run off.” You say to him after a minute of tense silence. 

“How can we know you won’t?” Arthur asks incredulously.

“You think I’m gonna leave a bed, warmth, and a steady supply of food? Or that picture you’ve got of mine?” Your heart aches a little as you think back to the photo you had given Arthur of yourself and your son.

Subconsciously Arthur reaches his hand up towards his pocket, brushing his fingers over it as though he was making sure the picture was still there. You note that when you’d given it to him, he’d placed it in his coat pocket, and now as he rode beside you in nothing but his work pants and black button-up, he still had it on him. 

The thought of him moving it onto his person made you worry a little less - at least you knew it would be kept safe, but still the fact that he held your most prized possession worried you.

“We’re here.” Arthur’s voice cuts you off, and he pulls his Walker to a stop as you near a concealed run off of the river. “Go clean yourself up.”

He turns the horse so that his back is to the river, and wordlessly you make your way towards it, shutting your eyes a little as the setting sun reflects off of the water.

For about the first time in a month or so - you feel safe . You have food and water waiting back at camp for you, and one of the most dangerous men in the country is currently keeping watch as you bathe, which in itself is a luxury you hadn’t been able to have in some time.

Perhaps this is a turning point for you, a chance to turn around the pitiful life you’re leading so far and make it into something worth so much more than just surviving to see the sun rise tomorrow. Perhaps you will be given your chance to prove your innocence, and tell the story of a woman who wanted nothing more than to avenge her son and was sentenced to death over it.

This is your second chance at life, with Arthur Morgan watching over your back to make sure it isn’t taken from you too soon.

~~~

Any feedback or comments are MORE than welcome, and would help me a great deal with motivation to not completely abandon this, however if you're more of a sit back and enjoy the show kinda reader, I completely understand! I am too on some level.

Anyways, I plan on following the order of the missions, obviously starting with Chapter Two at Horseshoe Overlook, and then just moving chronologically and maybe twisting a mission here or there. I also have a few plans on things to add in because why would I ever make life easy for my characters???

Lots of love <3

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Haunting whispers from the Martian landscape make for a spooky 'soliday'

The Perseverance rover lurks in the quiet, cold, desolate landscape of Jezero crater on Mars, a place masked in shadows and haunted by past mysteries. Built to endure the planet's harsh conditions, Perseverance braves the thin atmosphere and extreme temperature swings. Its microphone captures the eerie whispers of martian winds, sending shivers down your spine, and records ghostly dust devils swirling across the barren terrain. Has the microphone caught the sound of a skeleton rattling its bones? We'll leave that up to your imagination.

Recently, Perseverance navigated the sinister slopes of the Jezero crater rim, seeking out a series of ramshackle ridges to uncover the rim's hidden geological secrets. The rover emerged from the shadows to descend into a field of light-toned rocks, illuminating the landscape reminiscent of bones and tombstones. Along the way, the rover encountered dark bedrock at Mist Park. Perseverance would then face another daunting climb back up the crater rim, venturing deeper into the great unknown.

Unlike vampires or other creatures of the night, Perseverance needs rest after long days of exploring the mystifying Martian landscape. As night falls, the rover sleeps after watching the sun sink below the horizon, casting ominous shadows across the landscape. The chilling winds howl through the night like a haunting lullaby for the fearless explorer. However, Perseverance sometimes wakes up from things that go bump in the night.

While instruments mostly conduct their scientific measurements during the day, they are not afraid of the dark, often tasked with observing what lurks in the shadows and gazing at the martian night sky. Perseverance occasionally looks up to image the auroras and to get a glimpse of Phobos and Deimos, Mars's two moons.

Mars is like a hotel where you can check in and out, but you can never leave. It has become a graveyard of long-dead landers and rovers, but Perseverance is nowhere near ready to leave the land of the living. In fact, the ghosts of past rovers and landers guide Perseverance on its journey. As we continue to uncover the secrets of Mars, we are reminded of its past and the mysteries that still linger. Join us in pondering the mysteries of Mars as we explore its haunted history.

IMAGE: NASA's Mars Perseverance rover acquired this image, which was selected by the public as the rover’s “Image of the Week,” of the martian landscape on the Jezero crater rim using its Left Mastcam-Z camera. The image was acquired on Oct. 22, 2024 (Sol 1306) at the local mean solar time of 13:45:41. Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/ASU

[solivar]

Ghost Stories On Route 66

Chapter 13

The path beneath his feet was did not glitter, nor was it silver flecked with hints of shimmering color that rippled as he moved, as his steps carried him forward. In fact, it barely qualified as a path at all, two hand-spans of walked smooth sand and dirt and stone amid ankle-catching, winter dead ground cover, wending along the exposed brow of a hill scattered in stunted junipers and the occasional dead pinõn, trunk and branches bleached even whiter in the moonlight. Overhead, the nearly full moon shone cold and clear, companioned by a hundred million stars and a thin film of cloud dragged across his face by the wind, blowing hard and fiercely out of the north. That wind cut through his clothes without effort, scourged the warmth from his flesh with a whip made of oncoming winter, wrapped him in curtains of dust and grit that found their way down his throat and into his eyes, stuck to the tracks of moisture already streaking his face.

He had no idea where he was, and he found that he could not entirely bring himself to care. He was cold, colder than he could remember ever being before in his life, so cold he had to take the continued existence of his extremities as a matter of faith, so cold his chest ached and throbbed and burned with it. He couldn’t quite bring himself to care about that, either. His head spun with weariness and every part of him that wasn’t numb with cold ached with exhaustion, with exertion, as though he’d run until he could run no further and still couldn’t stop, his legs carrying him forward through no conscious wish or desire of his own.

I was running away from something, the thought curled unbidden through his mind, something I didn’t want to see , and then graciously, mercifully, his mind declined to show him what that was. And so he walked on and did not look back, knowing there was something behind him that he had fled rather than face.

The footprints he left in the sand were bloody.

He walked forever or perhaps for less, and came to a place where the path, such as it was, split: one branch continuing along the brow-ridge of the hills, the other curling down the slope between clumps of juniper and tussocks of dried grass hissing in the wind into the slender valley between two rises, the floor lost in the shadow of taller trees and the swirling gusts of passing dust devils. Something in that comforting patch of darkness beckoned to him, tugged at the cold filling his chest and the fatigue dulling his mind, called him to come to it, to step into its cool and lay down in its shade and finish freezing and he could think of no reason not to do so.

The path down was even narrower than the path above, canted at terrible angles, edged in sharp tumbled stone and razor-edged grass, and by the time he neared the bottom he had so little strength or coordination or balance left that, when his bloody feet skidded out from under him, he could do nothing but fall. He came to rest at the base of the rise, battered and bloodier than he had been even a moment before, not broken but too tired to do more than roll to his side and rest his face in the sand, let the wind comb through his hair and curl into his ears and whisper soundless exhortations to get up get up it is not far now get up come to me.

He opened his eyes and pushed himself up on arms that trembled with exhaustion, looked into the patch of moon-shadowed darkness before him, the boles of cottonwoods clustered around some small source of surface moisture. A place to rest , a soft, nearly silent voice whispered within him, and he forced himself to his knees, and from there to his feet. A place to lay down among the tangled roots, in the cold and dark, and sleep. He took an unsteady step forward.

Something caught him by the hand -- something warm and damp and full of sharp teeth, with which it was enormously gentle -- and stopped him from going any further.

Hanzo looked down into a pair of lambent green eyes, eyes attached to a long white muzzle, sharp-pointed ears, a sleek, long-backed, broad-shouldered body. Not a wolf but enough like one that it gave him pause, along with the fierce intelligence and gentle sorrow in those palely glowing eyes. Under the force of them, he let his knees fold back underneath him and sat still as it released his hand and nosed gently over him, finding every place that ached and throbbed and hurt , licked the blood and dust and tears from his face. When it was done, it -- he , Hanzo thought -- sat back on his haunches, turned that long face to the sky, and howled, a gently rising ululation that echoed off the moonlit hills and carried and he came close and sat patiently to wait for an answer. His fur was almost impossibly warm when Hanzo rested his face in it, buried his hands in it, smelled of free flowing water and the first-budded leaves of spring, moss and loam and forested hills, and it was all he could do not to sob aloud as he felt the ice inside him beginning to crack.

The answering howl was closer -- far, far closer, and deeper, and colder, the sound of a savagely hungry creature on the hunt, with the scent of its prey on the wind and the wounded thing it pursued in sight. A low growl welled up in the chest of his companion and he came to his feet, hackles rising, and Hanzo threw his arms around that muscular neck, dug his fingers into his ruff to hold him back, even as the blood ran to ice in his veins.

“You have to run,” Hanzo whispered desperately, those clever white ears flicking back in surprise as he spoke. “You have to go . That thing -- it’s coming for me , if you’re still here when it arrives it will kill you, you have to --”

The wind, already fierce, roared through the trees in the valley floor, snapping branches with a sound like shattering bones, driving a wall of sand and grit and dry fallen leaves before it that enveloped them completely. Hanzo’s eyes stung and watered and through the blur he saw it: the sickly bilious yellow-green radiance of its eyes, the warped and distorted coils of its too-long body, the contortions of its too-many legs, its muzzle-face a nightmare of sharp teeth and bifurcated tongues. The growl beneath his ear rose from a warning to a challenge.

The Serpent-Wolf threw back its obscenely misshapen head and laughed .

It was the most terrible thing Hanzo ever heard, soul-flayingly contemptuous, and it took all his remaining strength to hold his companion back from launching himself at the thing, fangs bared. “No. No, please. I don’t want you to be hurt. Please. ”

Come to me, then, and I will let it be. Its words echoed, soundless, inside his skull, in his bones and blood and the deep places of his soul, foul and slithery and diseased. Come to me and they shall all be safe.

“Liar,” Hanzo said, from between clenched teeth, and turned his face enough to almost meet its gaze.

Come. It crooned, pleading, nearly curling in on itself as the intensity of its desire, the enormity of its hunger rippled through its form. I will harm nothing that does not keep you from me, beloved. I swear it.

Hanzo’s stomach churned and he buried his face again in that impossibly soft and warm fur, felt the creature guarding him go still with something like horror. Beloved. His body wanted to physically reject even the possibility, his mind was teetering on the edge of a completely therapeutic tumble into shrieking madness, and somewhere inside him, some soft and sick and horrible voice whispered: Yes.

Yes. This is why you came here. This is why you were called here. This and this alone: the only true bond, the only true bondmate, a thing like you could ever have.

He knew it then, and the knowledge was a colder, darker knot inside him than even the scars Minamikaze had left him with. He spoke the words aloud because doing so made them feel more real. “You are...you were a dragon. ”

YES. It felt, it tasted, like triumph, fierce with a tainted, twisted sort of joy.

Hanzo sobbed, tearless, and turned to face the thing that hunted him, the thing that had, once, been a dragon. “Swear it. Swear it on everything that you once were. You will not harm them. Not my brother. Not the ranger. Not my friends or his family. Swear it. ”

You have my word. My word, upon everything that I once was and that we will be. Its eyes burned, ravenous, and Hanzo’s stomach twisted tighter. Come to me.

His companion growled again, the sound sliding into a pleading whine. Hanzo caught his ruff in both hands, pressed his forehead to that pale wolflike muzzle, and whispered, “Go. Go to the others. Hurry. ”

A rough, wet tongue pressed a kiss to his forehead and his companion pulled back, but did not flee, lips peeled back, teeth bared. Hanzo braced his fists on his thighs and gathered his strength, worked his aching feet back beneath him, forced himself to rise. The Serpent-Wolf coiled in the shadow of the trees, twisting itself into maddening knots in its agitation, and in them he could now see the mangy, scabrous remnants of once-sapphire scales, the pathetic tatters of a once-golden mane. Its pallid eyes were hot with desire, a low, spine-curlingly hideous crooning dripping out of its maw along with far too many tentacular black tongues, and Hanzo wondered, as he limped toward it, why it came no further, made no attempt to close the distance itself.

He was less than a half-dozen paces away, close enough to nearly taste the sickening miasma that rose from its corrupted essence, when he heard someone scream his name.

Don’t turn around, that soft and sick and horrible voice whispered in the back of his mind and it froze him before he could move, before he could look, hand half-raised to reach for the twisted thing that had waited centuries for his coming. Don’t look back. There is nothing for you there.

Beloved, the Serpent-Wolf’s voice curled inside him, intimate, defiling, please.

He stepped back, once, twice, and the thing coiled before him shrieked in rage and hurled itself at him, twisted foreclaws spread wide, and he braced himself for the impact, for something horrible beyond human comprehension to pour itself into his flesh, whether he willed it or not.

The impact, as it happened, came from a completely different direction -- the side -- and it involved all the air being driven out of his lungs by the force of it, even as someone wrapped their arms around his head and back to protect them when they hit the rocky ground together, a significant distance away. Light flared, warm and bright and pure , and he felt it wash through him like a cleansing wave, chasing away the cold and dark and the longing for both. He opened his eyes -- when had he closed them? -- and found Zenyatta kneeling defensively over him, a trio of golden spheres orbiting them, the radiance enveloping them so dense it seemed nearly solid. One long-fingered hand still cradled his head and another rested in the center of his chest; his eyes glowed from within, a hot golden-white, matching the brilliant filaments etching themselves into place over his dark skin. When he spoke, his voice was resonant in a way it had never been before. “Be still, my friend. You are injured and this thing has worked its influence upon your mind and soul.”

The Serpent-Wolf laughed again, the sound no less excoriating for repetition, and lunged at them, its coils lashing, foreclaws raking down to strike and recoiling in a burst of hard golden light. It twisted back on itself, rising impossibly high on the gnarled column of its spine, foreclaws chipped and smoking, and came back down again, jaws agape. Its fangs grated against against that sphere of golden light as though it were a solid thing, stronger than steel, almost brighter than the sun, and Zenyatta lifted his hand away from Hanzo’s chest, called a fourth orb into existence to bolster it. Fangs as long as a large man’s hand lodged in it, tearing gouges, sending cracks spreading across the surface. An involuntary sound of pain escaped Zenyatta’s throat as one of his orbs shivered and cracked, as well, and Hanzo croaked, “Zen, no -- stop -- you can’t --”

“I can.” Serenely and a fifth orb flickered into existence. “This thing will not have you will it is in my power to prevent it.”

Prevent it? The Serpent-Wolf’s voice was caustically silken. For the amusement that gives me, I will eat you last, little halfthing.

Its jaws flexed, snapped shut, and the shield shattered with a force that slammed them both into the ground with stunning power. Hanzo took the chance to shove Zenyatta away with all the strength he could muster, away from the serrated jaws and carrion-eater breath and horrifically prehensile tongues hovering inches from his face, the coils and talons pinning him to the dust.

“You promised me their lives,” Hanzo rasped, glaring up into eyes the size of his head, and tried not to gag as the stench of its laughter gusted over him.

I lied. The tip of a tongue, cold and slick, slid across his cheek. Do you know what he saw, when he looked into your soul? When he looked upon all that you were and would be? He saw US. You are mine. You have always been mine. Even he could not keep you from me and neither shall these --

It reared back with a shriek of agony, pulling itself fully off the ground and jerking Genji, sword planted deep in its armor-plated side, along with it. The whipcrack of its spine dislodged both the blade and his brother, sent both flying, Genji hitting the ground in a roll that brought him back to his feet, the blade skittering away among the rocks. It wheeled on him and howled its pain and hate, jaws wide enough to swallow him in a bite, and his stupidly brave beloved idiot of a brother held his ground, his own teeth bared, and roared back with a dragon’s voice, the air shimmering green and gold around him.

“ Genji!” Hanzo and Zenyatta howled, almost with one voice.

Between one moment and the next, the wind died, the air stilling completely in that little valley even as it continued to howl along the heights, dragged more shreds of cloud across the face of the moon. The cold sharpened and deepened, driving knives of frost into his lungs, and the light shone bloody in the hollow between the hill and the cottonwood trees, overcoming even the heavenly brilliance of Genji’s companion, overwhelming the Serpent-Wolf’s bilious and repellent effusions with contemptuous ease, knife-edged talons of shadow racing across the earth to leap at it, even as it fled, hurling itself into the sky. The shadows pursued, forcing it higher, and for an instant its hideous form was silhouetted against the moon, the shadows dissipating in its cool light, and it hung there, glaring hatred at all of them.

I will have you. Its voice slid into all of their minds, poisonous and malevolent. And when I do, the first thing we will feel will be his blood on our claws and the first thing we will taste will be his heart between our teeth.

Dust and cloud enveloped it, washed over them, and when the sky cleared again it was gone.

“Hanzo,” Zenyatta’s hands came to rest on his shoulders as he struggled to his knees, held him in place as Genji joined them, his brother’s arms closing around him. “Please, do not move more than you have to -- you are injured.”

His body took that opportunity to make its categorical refusal to do more than fold up against Genji’s chest and shake like a leaf known, too cold and exhausted and hurt to even pretend to want to run. He did not, however, look up, resting his face in the crook of his brother’s neck.

“Gabe’s on the way with the Jeep.” The ranger’s voice was clipped, professionally neutral, utterly and unnaturally devoid of expression. Something warm with body heat, scented with cedar and sage and spice came to rest on his shoulders, and he shook harder at the touch of it. “Five minutes at most. Just...rest until then. We’ll sort this back at the house.”

*

Genji and Zenyatta carried him, exhausted and drifting in and out of awareness, into the hacienda, his arms over their shoulders, neither of them allowing his feet to touch the ground. He was glad of that, once they sat him down in one of the chairs in the great room, and began the process of assessing his injuries which involved peeling what was left of the socks he’d been wearing off his feet, a process that drove him to complete thrashing awareness of the world and how much everything hurt and almost resulted in Zen being kicked involuntarily in the head.

“Easy easy easy,” Genji caught both his hands. “Squeeze if you -- wow , you haven’t been neglecting gym day, have you? It’s okay, aniki , you’re here, we’ve got you, you’re --” He stopped, swallowed what he’d been about to say, finished with, “here. What happened? ”

That last was directed over his shoulder at the ranger, who was kneeling next to the fireplace, coaxing it to life thin sticks of tinder and long matches. “Not sure.”

“And I’m pretty sure that’s not an acceptable answer.” Genji snapped, bristling. “This place was supposed to be safe. ”

“And it is safe, kid.” Hot Vampire Dad’s gravelly voice, pitched low and soothing rather than defensive, and Genji responded to it instinctively like he would have their father’s, some of the tension leaching out of his shoulders. “But not if you don’t stay inside it.” He came around the end of the sofa with the huge white and -- green? Yes, that dog was pretty emphatically and unmistakably green, everywhere it wasn’t white, pale yellow flowers and spring leaves drifting in its wake, and Hanzo decided that was infinitely preferable to prehensile fucking tongues -- animal pacing alongside him, cane in one hand and a tablet in the other. For the first time, he noticed the implants lying flush with the pale skin of his temples, possibly because their LEDs were lit for the first time, as vividly blue as his eyes. “The security system seems to think he went out the postern gate that the pack uses when it’s on patrol, about half-past midnight.”

“Almost four hours.” Genji’s voice was tight. “Hanzo --”

“I could use more light,” Zenyatta interjected quietly and he was pathetically grateful for it, glad that the moment where he would have to think and speak and try to explain was being pushed off a little longer. “And also some warm water and first aid supplies.”

“I’ll get that.” The fire was burning cheerfully now, the warmth reaching out to enfold them all, the ranger almost seeming to flee it and the lights as his father brought them up.

Zenyatta hissed softly at what he saw and the dog -- was it a dog? Those eyes held a wisdom and intelligence that suggested otherwise, no matter what its form said -- paced over to them, claws clicking softly on the floor, and laid its wolflike head in his lap. He worked one of his hands free and stroked those sharp, clever ears, buried his fingers in the fur, and felt peace soak into him through the contact, peace and distance, so that even the myriad pains of his body and the aching in his chest seemed comfortably far away. He heard the others talking, was vaguely aware of it when the Smoke Monster came inside and joined the conversation, felt his brother stroking the hair back from his face and his feet going into a basin of water just on the pleasant side of warm, felt them being patted dry and the gentle application of something smooth and tingly and then wrapped in biotic-impregnated bandages. The dog lifted his face and kissed him gently on the forehead, went to lie at his master’s feet and the world slowly came back to him.

Zenyatta moved the basin aside and propped his legs up on a footrest and he became aware, compared to how clean and comfortable they were, precisely how grungy the rest of him was, covered in dust and grime and quite probably carrying a not insubstantial portion of the desert in his underwear. Terrifying Smoke Monster Dad had taken a seat next to his husband and was regarding him steadily with three pairs of glowing crimson eyes and Hanzo had the distinct feeling that the defilement of the otherwise immaculately clean living room by his filthy person would be a crime punishable by something deeply unpleasant under other circumstances. By way of contrast, Hot Vampire Dad visibly didn’t care, a little frown permanently encamped on the corners of his mouth as he glared at the tablet and its contents. Genji let go of his hand only long enough to fetch a chair for himself and a throw pillow for Zen, who stayed where he was on the floor in half-lotus with his back to the fire, unapologetically luxuriating in the warmth. Hanzo flicked a glance around the room but the ranger remained stubbornly nowhere to be seen.

“So,” Hot Vampire Dad, whom he really ought to be getting used to calling Jack, broke the silence, “what happened?”

“I’m...not sure.” It wasn’t entirely a lie and his voice, when he spoke, sounded as dusty as his clothes, his throat close kin to the desert hardpack. “Could I have something to drink?”

Terrifying Smoke Monster Dad, whom he should really start thinking of as Gabe, rose and fetched it -- a pitcher of the citrus salt-lick beverage the ranger seemed to favor after long midnight walks in the desert and a tall glass from which to consume it, and he took down three glasses before his tongue felt as though it were reconstituted enough to allow for speech.

“How, exactly, can neither of you be sure what happened -- I thought the whole point of this was that you’d share dreamspace and --” Genji began and stumbled to a halt when Hanzo squeezed his hand.

“I remember Mrs. Amari bringing us our medicine -- it took effect very quickly.” That, at least, was completely true. “I dreamt I was walking through a deep canyon in the desert and I came to a little house under the ground, and there was an old woman, who looked like Grandmother Sumiko? Genji, do you remember that gorgeous old kimono she wore to the maple-viewing party --”

“Hanzo,” Genji replied, not unkindly, “ focus. ”

“....Right.” He poured himself another glass for the sake of stealing a few more moments to organize his thoughts. “She told me she was the one who repaired the broken threads of my soul after the Serpent-Wolf attacked me.”

Terrifying Smoke Monster Gabe and Hot Vampire Jack exchanged a glance and for the first time, Hanzo saw Jack’s eyes actually, visibly focus.

“She showed herself to you.” It wasn’t quite a question, Gabe’s tone was too neutral for that, a few more pairs of eyes suddenly opening as he said it.

“Yes. We spoke -- she wanted to see my arm. She...untied the last bits of the unmade bond, because it was still tainted, she said.” He flexed his still-bandaged left hand, as dusty as the rest of him, but felt nothing different. “She...told me...showed me...things about the Serpent-Wolf. About how it came here from somewhere else, hundreds of years after nearly all the other naayéé were slain. How it...how it made others like itself and how they hunted children.”

Genji’s grip tightened on his hand, and Zenyatta’s hand came to rest on his knee, a sphere curling into existence at his shoulder and pouring peace calm not you never you through him and it was all he could do not to melt into it, let the weariness gnawing at his mind pull him down. “Genji -- you and I aren’t the first of the clan to come here. The Serpent-Wolf...it may have come here from home . A warrior of the clan and her dragon pursued it here and fought with it, may have injured it badly enough that it lay dormant...waiting for something to come to…” His stomach churned and he had to clench his teeth against it. “To wake it again. To give it what it needs to be whole. It was -- it used to be -- a dragon itself. That’s why it wants me. It’s -- I’m its --”

“ No. ” In four-part harmony and they all sort of sat for an instant afterwards staring in surprise at one another while Hanzo shook and tried not to laugh too insanely.

“You can believe nothing that thing said to you, Hanzo -- it would have said anything, done anything to convince you to make yourself vulnerable to it.” Zenyatta said, flatly. “It has lost its easy entry point to your flesh and your soul, you are surrounded now by people who can defend you until you are capable of defending yourself, it will do anything it can to strip you of those advantages.”

“I don’t suppose there’s much of a chance that I mortally wounded it?” Genji asked, almost plaintively.

“Not likely.” Gabe replied, most of his extra sets of eyes closed and the ones that were still open regarding everything in front of them thoughtfully. “Persistent fuckers like this thing rarely go down that easy, even if they’re not what they used to be.”

“I cannot imagine how terrible this...entity once was if this is what it is capable of at a point of weakness. ” Zenyatta murmured, and flicked a glance at Genji.

“If it was truly a dragon once, wouldn’t some record of it exist in the family histories? The genealogy? Or something about the warrior that came here to fight it?” Genji asked, delicately. “You said he was --”

“She. The warrior was a woman. And, yes, she was a dragon-bearer herself. Before it came here, it was preying on those she swore to protect -- it fled and she followed, across the ocean, across the desert.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember the exact words, the way the shadows had played across the stone walls of the old woman’s house. “They killed the lesser things that it had made -- they weren’t vulnerable to the native magics of this place and its people, it needed a mixture of their magic and hers to slay them. She fought the Serpent-Wolf alone and they found no bodies afterwards, not its body nor hers, just a place in the desert scorched from the intensity of their battle and one of her arrows. An arrow with the Shimada crest cut into it. So...yes. Whoever she was, she has to be in the family history somewhere, and finding her may tell us...something, because this? All of this? Started back home.”

“What’ll you need to accomplish that?” Jack asked, his attention again on the tablet, eyes unfocused and Hanzo could not help wondering how the Hell that even worked.

“A connection and a console. The last time I checked, the clan hadn’t opted to lock me out of the genealogical databases.” He smiled wryly. “I suppose they consider that sort of access reasonably harmless.”

“Let me sing the song of how much I want to slap half our family.” Genji growled.

“Only half?” Hanzo asked. “Who fell off your shit list?”

“The only thing I’d like to know,” Jack interjected, meditatively, “is why you left the house. And how.”

It wasn’t a question and yet the words leapt to Hanzo’s tongue unbidden. Because I’m an idiot. Because I saw something I wasn’t ready to see and, instead of trying to understand it, instead of letting him explain it to me, I freaked out and ran and somehow, somehow, that thing knew and used it to hurt me, used it to draw me out of the place where it couldn’t get at me. And, even though I ran away from him, he still came to help me again, because that is who he truly is and what he truly does and that’s what Grandmother Spider was trying to tell me, why she tried to warn me. Because she knew. Because she’s seen this before. And now he’s somewhere in this house waiting for me to turn on him and tell my brother and my friends that he’s a monster, and how many fucking times has that happened to him? How many people has he tried to care about only to have them not be able to deal when he tells them the truth? Because I have a pretty strong feeling this isn’t a first?

That wasn’t really the sort of question you could ask a man’s father, and so he swallowed it, and scrubbed his hands wearily over his eyes to hide the tears, and lied with great sincerity. “I’m not entirely sure. The dream changed, and I was running -- running through the desert and when I woke up, I was outside and walking...Where was I?”

“The old Cerrillos Hills State Park, just northeast of here.” Jack replied and looked up, his gaze sharpening again. “You’re lucky you didn’t fall into a mineshaft -- the whole place is riddled with them and the penumbra of the border wards pretty much won’t help prevent that.”

“That’s why it was trying to draw me out there? Past the effect of the wards?” Hanzo asked.

“You were almost beyond the outermost fringe so I’m going to say...yeah. Pretty sure that was the motive. You’re lucky Jesse woke up when he did and realized you were gone -- you somehow managed to walk past the dogs without drawing their attention. And even luckier that Binky caught your scent.” Jack frowned at him over the top of the tablet, clearly resisting a few more questions.

“You...named that magnificent creature Binky. ” Hanzo was reaching the point where exerting the effort necessary to craft a proper interrogative was definitely not worth it.

“It fit him as a puppy.” From the floor, Binky rolled his eyes expressively.

“You should have suspended his naming privileges way before Chad.” Hanzo informed Terrifying Smoke Gabe.

“Yeah, I should have, but I’m fatally weak to his -- ow, hey. I was looking out that.” Gabe swatted his husband’s hand away. “You look like shit. Go get washed up and we’ll talk more about all this in the...later morning. Maybe in the afternoon.”

Genji and Zen helped him up and into their guest suite bathroom, got him out of his filthy nightclothes, applied enough soap and water to make him feel marginally human again, and fetched him a fresh tee-shirt and pair of pants. His contribution to the process was letting them without putting up much of an argument.

“I can’t take your bed.” That, on the other hand, he felt he should object to in at least a pro forma way and did so, even as Zen pulled back the covers and Genji scooped him off his feet and into the middle of the mattress.

“You’re not taking it, you’re sharing it.” Genji settled himself down on the sliver of bed to his right and Zen, having locked the bedroom door and the louvered doors that opened onto the inner courtyard, took the spot on the left. “Go to sleep. I’ll stand first watch?”

“If that pleases you, my heart.” Zen replied, resting a hand on his forehead and, before he could formulate a properly big brotherish response to that, sleep descended upon his body and mind and dragged him down to rest.

*  

Hanzo’s sleep was blessedly dreamless, fathomlessly deep, and didn’t so much end as fade away in fits and starts. At one point, he woke enough to find his cheek resting against the unruly mop of his brother’s offensively green hair, Genji’s head slowly extracting all the feeling from his arm, the rest half-wrapped around him in a manner strongly reminiscent of his brother’s eight year old self, fleeing thunderstorms and weird noises and “it’s too cold/hot/dark/bright can I stay with you, aniki, ” the times they had spent sleeping in a tent made of sheets and all the moveable furniture in his room and stuffed animals and handheld game consoles. A gently guiding nudge restored circulation and Hanzo was asleep again before the pins and needles completely subsided. At another, his consciousness bobbed to the surface long enough to register Genji’s absence, a warm golden glow a few inches from his face, Zenyatta’s long body sitting propped against the headboard next to him, reading on his tablet. Zen glanced down, saw that he was awake, and asked a question, but weariness drew him down before he could comprehend the words.

He finally woke up for good sometime after the sun was high enough to reach over the hacienda walls and into the inner courtyard. At some point, the louvered doors had been unlocked and pushed partially open, a breath of pleasantly cool air making its way into the room, gently scented with woodsmoke, music drifting on it from a source he couldn’t see. Neither Genji nor Zen were immediately apparent, though he suspected they were close, probably just outside on the verandah, and so he moved as stealthily as possible in order to avoid disturbing them, for values of stealthy that involved hobbling like an octogenarian in need of a double hip replacement while swearing fluently in three languages as his muscles made their disapproval of this course of action known. As far as he was concerned, his muscles, joints, and any other intransigent body parts could suck it because he needed a bath more than his next breath and then he needed all the caffeine in the world and then he needed his ranger, because he felt quite strongly that he had some groveling to do.

Fortunately, his faulty brain did not betray him and the in-suite bathroom did, in fact, contain a bathtub. In fact, it contained an antique claw-foot bathtub deep enough to cover him to the shoulders and long enough to hold his entire body, knees unbent, painted around the edges in a ring of bright yellow and red flowers. He undressed like the aforementioned octogenarian joint-replacement candidate, discovering bruises in places he hadn’t thought were capable of bruising and he’d been educated in matters of hand to hand and armed combat by a series of instructors who considered hematomas to be the price of success in the practice ring, more than a few scrapes that would probably need more extensive tending, and an astonishing amount of sand still lurking in places where nobody ever wanted to find sand. At all. Ever. He unwrapped his feet and found that whatever first aid Zen had applied worked miracles, finding his soles pink and tender but not sliced to ribbons he didn’t dare walk on.

And that left the arm.

No trauma shears in the medicine cabinet, but he hadn’t really expected to find any, and he instead settled for a pair of trimming scissors that he applied slowly and carefully, having some idea what he would find already thanks to the state of his shoulder and his left pectoral. The wrappings fell away in strips, revealing unmarked skin, unblemished as a newborn, as he went, not even the hint of a scar to mark the place where the Serpent-Wolf’s eye had opened in his flesh, his fingers untwisted and strong. No scars, no striated remnants, no tattoo -- which had, after all, been the physical representation of the bond, and could no more be left behind than the bond itself.

It hurt, but less than he expected, forewarned as he was by what had passed in dreams. He wondered what Genji would think of it when he saw.

He did not, however, wonder for very long because he itched, intensely and horribly, and the desire to be clean easily overcame the desire to sit and brood and, as a rule, he preferred not to brood in the bath. Under any ordinary circumstance, in fact, he never would have desecrated such a beautiful bathtub, clearly intended to be used for hour-long soaks of pure relaxation -- with or without oils, salts, incense, or candles -- with his cruddily unwashed person but these were desperate and fallen times. Even so, he soaked for twenty minutes and scrubbed thoroughly for another fifteen, and by the time he climbed back out his scrapes were stinging but at least his muscles were coming back around. The towels were exquisitely thick and fluffy and there were enough randomly occurring combs and brushes and grooming products stashed in the cabinets that he didn’t have to use the ones his brother had obviously claimed by virtue of their tangles of acid-green hair. His own was going to need to be buzzed again soon, the fuzz growing out enough that its silvery sheen was obvious to the naked eye, threads of silver visibly beginning to work their way through his otherwise ink-black hair.

“Hanzo?” Zen’s quiet voice, on the other side of the bathroom door. “I brought your bag down and brunch is still laid out on the verandah.”

“Thank you!” Hanzo waited five minutes, poked his head out, and found the room empty and the overnight bag sitting on the end of the bed.

He shoved the brown paper sack to the bottom of the bag and fished out a package of underwear, a package of socks, a pair of jeans and a henley, all of which were a size too large, a circumstance distinctly preferable to a size too small, and heavy red-and-black checked flannel shirt to go over it all. His shoes sat next to the screen door leading out to the verandah, where Lucio sat with his hard light composition rig, clearly on guard duty, next to a trestle table laid with baked goods, fruit from one of the greenhouses, two chafing dishes, one of which contained bacon, the other the remains of fruit-and-cheese stuffed French toast, one carafe of coffee and a second of tea so strong and black it might as well be coffee.

“We’re going to have to have some kind of gigantic multicultural dinner party banquet to repay these people for all the food we’re eating.” Hanzo deposited his acquisitions on the table where Lucio waited and set to as though his stomach were trying to digest his spine, which it was.

“Maybe they’ll let us borrow their kitchen? And maybe the whole house because I personally doubt our ability to fit everybody in the condo without knocking out a few walls.” Lucio looked up from the composition he was working on. “How d’you feel?”

“This is another of those better than I did situations.” He sipped his tea and closed his eyes in bliss. “Have I apologized recently for dragging you into this?”

“Not since yesterday.” A grin curled the corner of his mouth. “Between you and me, I’m kinda glad I slept through this one. From what Zen told us, it sounds like it was pretty gnarly.”

“Gnarly is a perfectly excellent word that doesn’t get anywhere near the use it deserves and which perfectly encapsulates exactly how fucked everything was last night.” Hanzo agreed, and returned to the chafing dishes for more bacon. “Have you seen him recently? Or my brother?”

“Mrs. Amari collected Zen a couple minutes ago -- she wanted to consult with him about something.” Lucio reached over and snatched a piece of bacon. “Genji went out earlier with the ranger and that big green dog to take a look at the spot where everything went down last night, see if any of ‘em could pick up a trail that might lead us back to where the Serpent-Thingee’s hiding out when it isn’t -- Han? Are you okay?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” Hanzo took a sip of his tea and sternly ordered himself to calm all the way back down because Genji was coming around and there was absolutely no way one of Hot Vampire Jack’s dogs would let his brother kill Hot Vampire Jack’s son and stuff his body in an abandoned mineshaft. That was ridiculous beyond contemplation. Absolutely impossible. Not even worth thinking about.

His bookbag landed in the chair next to him and, while he was distracted by its unexpected advent, his brother ninja’d the rest of his bacon. “How’s it going?”

Score one for rationality , the obnoxiously smug voice of reason murmured in the back of his mind, and he just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at it as he turned to face Genji, shamelessly devouring his ill-gotten spoils. “I could ask the same of you. Did you find anything useful?”

“We’re going to need to bribe someone to tell us where they get their bacon, that’s for sure.” He made a point of licking each finger clean individually. “But for the record: Tombo’s spirit-cutting sword wounded it. It left globs of ectoplasmic residue all over the place. Unfortunately, that was all it left. Tombo couldn’t get a read on it and neither could Binky, and I’m told he’s the best scent-hound in the pack. But, as far as concepts go, I’m inclined to embrace if it bleeds, we can kill it and the ranger agrees, at least provisionally.”

“We just have to get it into a position where stabbing it more than once is an option.” Hanzo remarked, dryly, and fished his phone out -- dead -- and his tablet out -- also, dead -- and his shot composition camera -- almost dead -- and then the recharging cables for all of them. Lucio pushed a power hub across the table to him and he smiled his thanks.

“Baby steps.” Genji rose and fetched back more brunch for both of them. “So...how’s you?”

“I’ve been awake less than an hour but, in that time, I’ve had no more voices than usual in my head and nothing has tried to eat me, which I’m calling an unqualified win.” He indulged himself in grease and salt and perfect crispiness, while Genji and Lucio exchanged a series of increasingly conspiratorial glances. “And, for the record, no, we didn’t have an opportunity to make use of any of your thoughtful gifts before everything went pear-shaped and, even if it hadn’t, I wouldn’t tell any of you reprobates about it. ”

“You are such a prude.” Genji shook his head mournfully. “ How many times did you walk in on Kazue and I making out in the dojo?”

“Fourteen too many,” Hanzo growled. “Where is he now?”

“The ranger? The last I saw he was going to talk to his dads about what we found and what we didn’t find and get the brain trust working on next moves because, well, we’re going to have to go back to school eventually.” They all three glanced at Hanzo’s phone, none of them strangers to the eccentricities of his thesis advisor.

Hanzo finished his plate, gathered up Genji and Lucio’s, as well, and announced, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

The kitchen was empty, and he deposited the dishes in the sink for later washing. The great room was also empty, the fire banked low but not entirely out, three intensely black dogs piled in front of it in an eye-disturbingly impossible tangle: Chad, Dog, and a previously unintroduced member of the pack, whippet-thin with a head that had more in common with a pit viper than a canine and three more sets of eyes than were technically available to either species. He tiptoed past them into the non-residential wing, where he’d been told the family kept their offices, and nearly walked directly into Hot Vampire Jack as he came around the corner.

Hot Vampire Jack stepped back just in time to avoid a collision. “Hanzo. I was just about to come looking for you.”

“Oh?” Hanzo asked, attempting casual and not quite getting there.

“I’ve got a secure connection and an unlocked console set up for you in my office -- just down the hall, second door on the right.” Those unseeing eyes unerringly locked on his own. “Whenever you’re ready. Just close the door when you’re done and the security system will lock it down.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that greatly.” He hesitated fractionally. “Do you know where Ranger McCree might be? My brother told me he was coming to speak with you.”

“He and Gabe stepped out to check the integrity of the perimeter defences.” Hot Vampire Jack blinked and Hanzo found himself able to look away. “That thing got to you somehow, even with the hardening work Reinhardt did yesterday, and if we want to keep it from happening again, finding the point of failure’s sort of a priority.”

“I agree entirely. Thank you, again, for all your help.” And, left with no other option, Hanzo fled to the office -- elegant, minimalist, no floor clutter that might constitute a transit hazard, walls painted a vivid shade of turquoise -- where the computer and actually being able to do something useful waited.

Which, he supposed, was significantly better than anything else he might be doing just now. As he suspected, his access to the clan’s private server network was truncated but not entirely revoked -- he could access the general use library, the historical archives, and the genealogical records, but nothing else. The librarian AI, in fact, greeted him an excess of enthusiasm as he logged in. “Young master! It is good to see you again.”

“Greetings, Toshokan-in-dono. It’s good to see you again, too.” It was: the AI had a motherly voice and had constructed a motherly face to go with it, all gentle smiles and shrewd dark eyes. “I need to query the genealogical database and the historical archives on a matter of some importance.”

“Oh? Do tell.” He could practically picture her settling down with a cup of tea and the avaricious glint of a thwarted gossip in her eye.

“I need to find someone who disappeared without a trace between the years of 1573 and 1868.” The yanagi-ba , the broad, willow leaf shaped arrowheads used primarily for hunting large game, had come into use and remained popular across that span of time, a fact he knew from his own practice as an archer -- he owned more than a few of the lightweight ceramic versions currently in favor with game hunters and target shooters alike. “A woman of the clan, a dragon-bearer in specific, but also anyone else who may have disappeared in that same period. And any records that pertain to the dragon-bearers of that time.”

“That can be done -- but it may take some time to run all the queries.” A certain wry discontent came into her tone. “System Administration is performing server maintenance and standard security updates so...three hours, perhaps four, to compile everything you may need?”

“That would be excellent. If you could download the results to my tablet, that would be even better.” He checked the time -- it was fourish in the morning in Japan, probably the only time when the clan’s sysadmin could perform maintenance without inconveniencing someone far more likely to make them permanently miserable, and he found he couldn’t really complain too much about a delay.

“That is entirely possible. May I assist you with anything else?”

“Not at the moment, thank you.” He was entirely capable of accessing the general library, which was helpfully online at least, and downloaded five historical monographs and two treatises on esoteric aspects of magic and religion that might prove helpful and three novels that wouldn’t be helpful at all but which he wanted to re-read, because reading was objectively better than brooding and he was fighting off a brood with all his might.

He made certain the door was firmly closed behind him and the security system engaged, then went forth in search of his ranger again. The great room was still empty but now there was at least one more dog, as well: Binky, looming mountainously above all the others even at rest, who put his head up and looked at him with those wise and kindly eyes as he approached. Hanzo knelt and provided scritches upon request, stroked his hands along that long back and inhaled the perfume that rose from the contact.

“Binky-sama,” He finally said, the name sounding somewhat less foolish with an honorific appended, at least to his own ears, “will you help me find him? Jesse?”

Binky regarded him steadily for a moment, then nosed him gently in the center of the forehead and rose, clearly intending for him to follow. And follow he did, though first he scurried into the courtyard, grabbed his phone, camera, and bag, texting as he went: Need to stretch my legs. Taking Binky for a walk. BBS.

Just on the other side of the entry gate, Binky lifted his face to the wind, his eyes half-lidded with concentration, and inhaled deeply, while Hanzo muted his phone and shoved it into the bottom of his bag under the sedimentary layer of plastic sandwich baggies holding watercolor sponges in advanced states of disintegration, crumbling half-used ink sticks, the sad remnants of a half-dozen pastels, and something that might have once been sealing wax and/or a packet of cinnabar ink paste. In such a way could at least legitimately argue that he hadn’t heard any of the frantic vibratory buzzing already emanating from it as he and Binky headed off, Binky moving in a manner entirely too elegant to be described as a trot and Hanzo stretching his legs most definitely to keep up.

The area around the hacienda had, before the Crisis, obviously been primarily residential neighborhood, and that of relatively recent vintage: most of the architecture was also some species of Pueblo Revival surrounded in grounds carefully landscaped and planted with drought-resistant native species, window shutters and garden gates painted now-faded shades of turquoise or red, devoid of the obvious signs of intrusion or vandalism that a well-known abandoned town might suffer. Someone had obviously not permitted the plants to run wild in the unpeopled gardens or the windows to be broken or the roofs to cave in under severe weather. Deeper into town, the older and more fundamentally ramshackle the structures became, many of them a century or more old even before the complete evacuation of the town’s remaining residents and its subsequent transformation into a national monument and bastion against horrors from beyond the world. On the other hand, most of those structures also showed signs of conservation efforts, which he had noticed before, and also plinths mounted with hologenerators that lovingly narrated the history of the town in Ranger McCree’s voice and displayed a selection of photographs and short bits of film from multiple time periods when prompted to do so. Binky appeared perfectly willing to let him stop and examine them, and to take pictures of the town and its environs, spread out beneath the flawlessly autumn blue sky as the sun dipped away from its zenith and dropped toward the far western mountains. Even in the town, there was a wild, lonely beauty to it and his fingers itched to capture it in ink and watercolor, even as they continued on their mission.

Binky led him, as the sun was definitely taking on a reddish late afternoon tinge, to dirt-paved road labeled First Street and from there to the gates of a church -- an old-style adobe mission church with a high, faded green dome topped in a slightly battered cross, its identity deeply incised in an arch above the heavy wooden doors that comprised the main entrance: Iglesia San Jose, followed by the numeral 22. To the right lay a walled-in courtyard, one enormous cottonwood just outside the wall, a second just inside, both still clad in brilliant autumn gold, the faded remains of a mural barely visible between them on the wall itself. Binky led him to the gate set in the courtyard wall rather than to the doors of the main sanctuary itself, or the smaller, blockier building adjoining.

The gate was arched, its wood visibly weathered with age, as was the sign bolted to the adobe above it: Shrine of Mary, Mediatrix of All Graces. It also stood slightly ajar. Hanzo moved it even more slightly ajar -- it swung on recently oiled or replaced hinges -- and stepped inside. He paused for a moment, but Binky showed no inclination to join him, settling instead on the sidewalk outside and laying his head on his forelegs.

The shrine itself was a simple thing -- a stone statue, painted details faded and weathered, covered in a wooden arch densely wrapped what were likely flowering vines, ringed in marble benches slowly crumbling under the assault of the elements. Golden cottonwood leaves covered the courtyard to ankle depth in places, its stones arranged in medallions of religious iconography up both sides with a pathway between them. Tiny niches were sculpted into the walls at intervals, some containing ceramic pots for flowers, others obviously intended for votive offerings from the ancient layers of wax still lingering, still others smaller pieces of wooden and stone statuary. In the very back, behind the shrine itself, a tiered set of platforms led up to what had probably once been a fountain or well of some sort.

“Thank you for not tellin’ the others. That was good of you.”

Hanzo managed, just barely, not scream like a sixteen year old girl in a horror flick, but it was close. So very close, especially since he had neither seen nor heard the ranger before that very moment, though he forgave himself for it when he finally saw the flash of red-and-gold from behind the shrine, where the ranger sat out of easy view on the fountain steps.

As he approached, it was on the tip of his tongue to say thank you but, no matter how polite it might seem, it felt wrong , like taking credit for not kicking someone while they were already on the ground before you. And the ranger -- his ranger -- deserved better than that.

“I think,” Hanzo said quietly, as he came around the massive tangle of vines and trellis and stepped into its shadow, “that I continue to owe you far more gratitude than you could ever owe me, or that I can ever truly repay.”

His ranger sat on the second of three wide steps, just at the edge of the fountain’s basin, elbows on thighs, shoulders deeply bent, staring fixedly at a point on the ground with passionate intensity. He looked exhausted , every line of his body proclaiming fatigue, and Hanzo’s heart ached to cross the last bit of distance between them, wrap his arms around him, and tell him to rest , that he would stand watch and everything would be well. But he rather thought, regardless of the thanks, that he might have lost the right to do such a thing, and so he did not.

“I think also,” He continued, “that I owe you more than unending gratitude. Apologies, perhaps, also ceaseless in nature, and a heartfelt plea for your forgiveness for being such a faithless fucking idiot last night. Look at me.”

His head snapped up reflexively and Hanzo saw that his eyes were red in a manner having nothing to do with his origins, no matter how strange they might be, and swollen, and he did cross that distance then, and went to his knees, and wrapped his arms around his ranger’s shoulders, whispering fiercely, “It doesn’t matter. It does not matter. You are the man who has saved my life, and the lives of everyone I love, and as long as you are that, nothing else will ever matter. And I am sorry, so very sorry, to have hurt you this way.”

His ranger’s shoulders trembled and the breath escaped his lips in a soft, shuddering sigh. “Don’t say that. You don’t know --”

“I will, when you tell me. You offered it last night, and like a fool I cast the offer to know you aside.” He tightened his grip as another tremor ran through his ranger’s body. “Is it too late to say yes? ”

His ranger shook his head and looked up, eyes dark, reddened with weariness and tears, and Hanzo only barely resisted the urge to kiss them away.

“Tell me.”

[infinitelystrangemachinex]

13, 23, 33!

13. A naturally sheltered place

On the outskirts of Elenghul, there is a ridge with a natural outcropping just large enough for two or three people. It's perfectly sheltered and gives a view of Elenghul, the woods, the mists rising off the caldera, the harbor, and the main road. There's a path that's little more than a goatpath leading to the outcropping, but the path still has a name, Two Moon Promenade, for when people get above the city to look at the moon when it's positioned near Illuvitas, which glows in the distance like a second moon.

23. An evil spirit or divine antagonist

Longterm residents of Elenghul have little concept of a divine antagonist or of any kind of evil that people don't create and perpetuate themselves. However, Wanwathin residents of the city have taken the belief in the laughing wolf trickster deity from Illuvitas and truly turned it into a devil figure. It's said the wolf whispers to people when they sleep without dreaming, and giving into bad decisions or laziness the next day is due to the person listening to what the wolf told them. The figures the people of Elenghul revere have been silent long enough that even they begin to wonder if this laughing beast crept through the city's streets one night and tore out their beloved ones' throats. It would not have been the first monster in Elenghul to dare try.

33. A profession that is considered dirty

Elenghul employs street cleaners of all kinds, and what they often spend their nights sweeping, scraping off of wood and stone, and buffing off the ancient buildings' walls is often too unmentionable to bring up in polite company.

[stimvampsoda]

LAMB SHEPHERD

The Lamb

"I see my friends die almost every day. I see myself die almost just as often."

xxx/xxx/xxx

[wormss-inc]

assorted marsaiah 😍

[toomagazineperfection]

A ridge tells his story. He is her to the tomb sitting .

He weaves me like her sap. His lie is her due satiate.

He rests on me his movie. A soap is a seeker of his mid.

He loops in me a sand. A light is seeker sane.

He dies in me a God.A God is a lonelier world.

A might Devil in his.He aights a love leaper moon of soil.

A lie of his tell. He sows a rope amount of his hedge in her.

A dot. A dot. To tell. He heaves tell.

A lie tell. A hoop. A moon.He holds sight.

A heaven of her only moon. He grapples moon.

She was loved and his breath seemed fun.

He was God of her poet. His God drinks his doll.

Overpowering is a lie as he satiates. His might loves his. A lovingly tells his.

He soaps. He writes over her a moon. A teller.

A tell. A tide. A tomb. A mine. A hectic.A God of his own great.

He loves. He lones. He sights. He sees. He draws.

Sunidhi

[vampsoda]

DEVIL MOON RIDGE

"I think people who hang on too tightly end up very, very sad, and very, very alone."

x/x/x//x/x/x//x/x/x

This is a stimboard based on a TTRPG I play with my friends.

[argusdreamer]

Reflections on the Paradox of Existence

Confessions of the twisted endeavors of youth's uncorrupted innocence, All becomest heresy, malediction and entropic discordance. The further we are from conception the larger our faults become.

It takes a sick atheist to reject all the entropy that comes with prosperity, it takes god to create a devil for us to realize we are not meant to be as we are.

We are a convoy of death spirals waiting to meet our final maker, we find the god in every demise and hope in every devil.

No fictive result of ours is the result of our suffering, rather our dependent relations converge us to bound incarceration.

This piece is meant to make you think about your ambitions, goals and dreams. You can't escape the irony of your making, be careful what you wish for. You'll need more than love, happiness and honesty to simply survive let alone thrive, let's make that a reality.

The image of the person is John von Neumann Directly from the wiki article:

John von Neumann (/vɒn ˈnɔɪmən/ von NOY-mən; Hungarian: Neumann János Lajos [ˈnɒjmɒn ˈjaːnoʃ ˈlɒjoʃ]; December 28, 1903 – February 8, 1957) was a Hungarian-American mathematician, physicist, computer scientist, engineer and polymath. He had perhaps the widest coverage of any mathematician of his time,[9] integrating pure and applied sciences and making major contributions to many fields, including mathematics, physics, economics, computing, and statistics. He was a pioneer of the application of operator theory to quantum mechanics in the development of functional analysis, the development of game theory and the concepts of cellular automata, the universal constructor and the digital computer. His analysis of the structure of self-replication preceded the discovery of the structure of DNA.

During World War II, von Neumann worked on the Manhattan Project on nuclear physics involved in thermonuclear reactions and the hydrogen bomb. He developed the mathematical models behind the explosive lenses used in the implosion-type nuclear weapon.[10] Before and after the war, he consulted for many organizations including the Office of Scientific Research and Development, the Army's Ballistic Research Laboratory, the Armed Forces Special Weapons Project and the Oak Ridge National Laboratory.[11] At the peak of his influence in the 1950s, he chaired a number of Defense Department committees including the Strategic Missile Evaluation Committee and the ICBM Scientific Advisory Committee. He was also a member of the influential Atomic Energy Commission in charge of all atomic energy development in the country. He played a key role alongside Bernard Schriever and Trevor Gardner in the design and development of the United States' first ICBM programs.[12] At that time he was considered the nation's foremost expert on nuclear weaponry and the leading defense scientist at the Pentagon. He designed and promoted the policy of mutually assured destruction to limit the arms race.[13]

Von Neumann's contributions and intellectual ability drew praise from colleagues in physics, mathematics, and beyond. Accolades he received range from the Medal of Freedom to a crater on the Moon named in his honor.

[fanartfic]

This is just a short little blurb of what I think a conversation between Tavya and Wyll would be like. Tav was a mother, and her instincts kicked in when Wyll was punished by Mizora (Sorry, mild spoilers.)

This has mild act 1 spoilers.

TW: None. All fluff.

Deals with self-confidence, self-image, and figuring out who you are.

Horns and Hearts

The party had just begun. Tavya watched as wine barrels were tapped, and food was being prepared on spits over the fire. Gale was worrying over the venison, wanting to be sure it was cooked to perfection. Meanwhile, Lae'Zel seemed perfectly content to eat it rare.

Shadowheart glowered from the outskirts with her goblet of wine, while Astarion drank straight from the bottle, seemingly disinterested in the goings on. Even Withers, the strangely docile undead that had joined them, conversed with some of the tieflings nearby.

Then it struck her.

Where was Wyll?

Tav got to her feet and began to circle the camp. She said passing hellos to those who had joined them and made her way behind the large boulder that lay between camp and the nearby water. Sitting on the sand, arms resting on his knees, was Wyll, looking rather depressed and dejected.

Just the night before, when they had returned to camp, they had experienced a rather unwelcomed visit from his patron. She had not been pleased that Wyll had spared Karlach, and he had been punished sorely for it. After being sent through every level of hell at once, he had been turned into a devil, with reddish skin, ridges on his arms, body, and face, his one good eye turned red with black scelera, and long curved horns protruding from his forehead.

He had been withdrawn ever since, remaining behind in camp while the others went to search for Halsin, the Archdruid.

He looked up as she approached.

"Damn. . . I was hoping you wouldn't notice my absence."

Tavya eased herself down onto the sand next to him. "Wouldn't be a party without you," she said, nudging her shoulder into his arm.

Wyll looked at her incredulously. "I doubt that."

"I'm serious! Who else is going to teach me to waltz?" Tavya teased.

"I'm certain someone out there knows how," Wyll deflected. "Probably Astarion."

"Astarion is drowning himself in a bottle right now. Besides, he's a prick, and you at least have some decency." Tav picked up a stone and tossed it into the water. "Why are you really back here, Wyll?" She asked, pulling her knees up to her chest. She rested her cheek against her knee and looked up at him.

Wyll sighed. "In truth, I'm not really in a festive mood. I didn't want to cast a grey shadow over the night. I mean, I'm a devil. I love the people of the grove, but deep down I know I unsettle them. It's just better for everyone if I keep my distance.

"Oh, come on Wyll, that's not true." Tav rested a reassuring hand on his arm. "Sure, you look different, but it doesn't define who you are."

"I'm a devil. You don't want a devil at your party."

"You look like a devil, that doesn't mean you are one. Your heart is still the same, that hasn't changed."

Wyll chuckled and shook his head. "If only half the world had half the heart that you do." He sighed and looked up at the moon. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Tav raised an eyebrow.

"Keep caring. Most people would have given up already."

"I'm not most people," Tav shrugged. She looked across the water as the moonlight danced on the waves. She rested her chin on her knee. "Truth is, this isn't my first disaster situation."

"Really? How many dire situations have you been in?" Wyll asked, an eyebrow arched.

"Hmm. . . At least 3," Tav counter in her fingers. "No, 4. Illithid parasites would be the 4th."

Wyll stared at her in disbelief. "How?"

"I've been around a long time, Wyll, I've seen some things." She picked up a rock and tossed it into the water. "I've fled my homeland with no one but my master's daughter clinging to my back, I've fought with my darkest nightmares come to life, and lost many friends to them. I helped hold off a horde of barbarians from destroying a town farther north, and now the parasites." She stood up and held a hand out to Wyll, who took it and let her help him to his feet.

“Each and every one of those situations I could have lost myself, but I chose to stick with what I know I am.” Tav continued. “And what I am is someone who can help. Be it with action, a kind word, or even a hug when a friend needs one most.”

Wyll looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet. “Is that an offer?” He asked sheepishly.

Tav smiled and opened her arms. “Come here,”

Wyll pulled her into a hug, squeezing his eyes shut and letting out a heavy sigh of relief. Tav held him close, rubbing his back with her hand. After a moment or two, Wyll let her go, but still held on to her hands.

“Thank you, Tavya. . . I didn’t realize how much I needed that.” He sniffed and rubbed at his good eye.

“You’re welcome, Wyll.” Tav squeezed his hand. “Now, I know you don’t want to join the party, and I won’t press it further. I respect your need for solace. But do try to join in sometime. Karlach was hoping you would teach her some dance steps.”

Wyll let out a chuckle and shook his head. “Perhaps, in a little while. . . I have a lot to think about.” He said, as he let go of Tav’s hands.

Tav patted his arm. “You do what you need to.” She reassured him. “And if you need anything, you know you can find me.”

Tav paused when she heard Alfira beginning to play in the background, and the sounds of a merry tune began to waft through the air towards them like the scent of the spitted venison. She looked at Wyll and gave him a smile.

“I’m off to have a little fun. I hope you join in soon,” she waved her hand as she headed back around the boulder.

Wyll smiled and shook his head, laughing a little as he turned to look out across the water again.

She had called him friend, touched him, hugged him, and spoke with him as if nothing had changed.

If there were more people like Tav in the world, he could manage to live in it.

People who could look past the horns, and see his heart instead.