#except i would probably have to actually read the thief's journal for that :/

[autumnalwalker]

Happy Blorbo Blurbsday!!

Do any of your character's names have a special meaning? If yes - who and what? If no - how then did you choose the names?

<3

CJ

So, most of my character names come out of random generation, but there are a few exception. Let's break it down by story.

The Archivist's Journal:

Almost all of the names in The Archivist's Journal I pulled from random dice roll tables in the back of the D&D sourcebook Xanathar's Guide To Everything. With three notable exceptions.

Pat: The friendly and nostalgic Village elder who's the first one to greet the Archivist upon washing up on the shore and repeatedly acts as a source of information and advice (albeit one fond of cryptic phrasing). His name was mostly a reference to the the book Life of Pi by Yann Martel, and its protagonist Piscine Molitor "Pi" Patel who at one point winds up on a rather strange island but who also might be phrasing the entire story as a metaphor and/or coping mechanism. There's probably also a little bit of a reference to Saint Patrick as a revered figure associated with an island.

Theo: Pat's far less cordial counterpart who's implied to be possibly immortal, or something close to it. His name's mostly a pun about the theoretical and theological implications of his existence and role in the world of the Village.

Vernon: I don't know, dude just felt like a "Vernon" to me.

Empty Names:

So, with the main cast, in my initial brainstorming document I had them listed as Characters A/B/C/D/E, and they were arranged by gender with A and E being cis but gender noncomforming, B and D being transmasc and transfemme respectively, and C being genderfluid. This is the sort of conceptual symmetry that pleases me. A became Ashan Glassheart, B became Sullivan Bridgewood, and E became Eris. C and D became Road and Lacuna respectively, breaking from that original letter association (although maybe if I ever decide on a last name for Lacuna it will start with a D).

Ashan and Sullivan's names ultimately came from https://www.fantasynamegenerators.com/, with some modification along the way. For Eris, I just started adding random syllables after the letter 'E' until something sounded good (the mythological reference was a happy accident, albeit one I embraced). Road and Lacuna's names were a bit more involved, and largely owe themselves to this post (that post also dictated which generator I used for Sullivan's name).

In trying to name Lacuna like a "22nd century cyberpunk hacker jewel thief" I remembered a word I'd been fond of ever since I first encountered it while reading Mervyn Peake's Titus Groan. It's a word that on one level just sounds really cool to me on a strictly phonetic sense, and on another level appeals to my fascination with absence/emptiness/void. I'd used it for one or two video game characters in the past and have always been on the lookout for a place to use it on a character for whom it would really fit, and I think found I finally found it with this Lacuna. Also, having named her a word meaning "an unfilled space or interval; a gap" was part of what led to the story as a whole being titled Empty Names. One part a play on Lacuna's name, and one part a reference to the linguistic philosophy/metaphysics concept of a proper name that refers to something or someone that doesn't exist. That concept in turn winds up referring in the story both to deadnames and to Road's ontological issues.

As for Road's name, that's partially a result of that previously-linked meme post about trans names commenting about non-binary names often being nouns, and partly a matter of them being a sort of spiritual successor to my oldest OC. That was a character that I'd been making up stories for since elementary or middle school (but never writing any of them down) whose thing was traveling from world to world, trying to do good, but most often by either providing additional support for the actual main character or by making some minor change that sets off a butterfly effect of consequences. They were originally a self-insert fanfic character but over time I started making up original stories just for them. Again, never wrote any of it down, just something to keep me occupied while daydreaming or trying to get to sleep that I continuously added to over time. And then in highschool I heard Greenday's Boulevard of Broken Dreams for the first time and that character suddenly had both a name and a framing device for how they got from world to world. Their name (more of a title really, not having a real name was a big part of their character) became The Walker (or just "Walker") and they traveled a seemingly infinite interdimensional highway, lined with bubbles that acted as portals to various worlds. While not the same character, Road inherited a lot of The Walker's characteristics and made the road that The Walker walked into their own name-that's-actually-just-a-convenient-alias-because-they-don't-have-a-real-Name-anymore.

The Melts:

Just a small one-off standalone story that I wrote for Halloween, but the name of the main character, Mil, has its roots in my personal life even further back than Road's.

When I was really young, I watched the movie Milo and Otis more times than I can remember. That's a movie about a kitten (Milo) and puppy (Otis) that grow up on a farm, become best friends, and then get lost and separated and grow up while trying to find their way back home and eachother. And then when my siblings and I finally talked our parents into getting us a cat, we wound up with an orange kitten that we named Milo, whom I also have a lot of nostalgia about, but anecdotes about him are a story for another time. Suffice to say, the name "Milo" and its feline association has stuck in my head for my entire life, resulting in several characters in RPGs getting named Milo (including my Guild Wars 2 charr) and an OC that was related to my oldest OC, The Walker (see the explanation on Road's name above).

Anyway, when I was coming up with the main POV character for The Melts I wanted it to be someone with biological augmentations that would be notable but not too weird. This led to the classic catgirl/catboy ears and tail; something that's just a little bit out there for a "normal" human being to have in our world, but would be considered boring and basic in that world. But I also wanted gender to be all over the place in that story, and so I made the POV character they/them nonbinary (again, simultaneously very slightly unusual in our world, but the most boring/basic/"normal" option that appears in that world story). So, the cat ears/tail led to me pulling "Milo" out as my archetypal catboy and then slicing the 'o' off of the end of the name to make it slightly more nonbinary by being less associated with a common-ish real-world masculine-gendered name.

The rest of the names in that story I left as placeholders until the entire story was written and then randomly pulled a bunch of names from babynames.com (with minor modifications) as I rushed to get the story posted in time for Halloween.

[grimark]

amusing myself by thinking about a terror frankenstein au-- goodsir is the scientist (crozier would work thematically but goodsir is A Man Of Science) and hickey is the creature, obviously, goodsir accidentally leaves a copy of the thief’s journal by jean genet in the pocket of his labcoat and it gives the creature some really fucking weird ideas about moral philosophy-- but anyway the amusing part for me is imagining the scene where the creature explains to goodsir that you’ve gotta make me a companion otherwise i’ll kill your whole family, and despite what you might have expected i would actually like for the companion to be male, and just to be clear he and i are gonna fuck. cheers.

[novaiya]

Liquid Courage - Arthur x Reader

Summary: Confessing your love to Arthur while he's drunk is a great plan, since he wasn’t going to remember it in the morning, right?

Words: 2,632

Warnings: female reader (female pronouns), drunkenness, alcohol

A/N: I finished this entire thing in about a day, new record! Also, I think drunk Arthur would be so cute.

Arthur Morgan didn’t drink often, but when he did, oh boy did he drink. The stoic, collected and calm gunslinger would turn into one of the rowdiest and loudest drunks that could rival the old winos in Annesburg. 

The camp members would be less than happy whenever Arthur would stumble back into camp with a bottle of moonshine in his hands, and a dopey smile on his lips. They knew he was a bad drunk; whenever he was under influence, he would tease any and every one who caught his eyes, and if it got to it, he would start destroying property and generally cause mayhem that he wouldn’t clean up the next day. 

All of that, in addition to many other things that drunk Arthur would do, would make all the camp members scatter, not wanting to deal with him until he sobered up, except you. You didn’t mind Arthur when he was drunk. In some ways, the relationship between you and drunk Arthur was similar to that of a tamer and a lion. You were the only one who could deal with Arthur when he was in that state, which would awe the rest of the camp members.

“How do you do that?” John would say when you drop Arthur on his cot, his eyes already closed and light snores coming out of his mouth.

You wipe down small beads of sweat from your forehead - bringing Arthur from the campfire all the way to his cot wasn’t easy - and turn around to John. 

“To be quite honest with you,” you say, your hands on your hips, “I don’t know. He just let’s me, I guess.”

The main campfire was almost dying down when Arthur stumbled back to camp. Having been paid with a few bottles of moonshine for helping a man catch his horse, Arthur was positively drunk when he hitched his horse to a hitching post, almost falling from it when trying to dismount.

“-who shot Mr.Miller,” Arthur mumbled to himself as he walked through the camp. Everybody was asleep, or at least were till Arthur came, and an annoyed groan could be heard from one of the tents as Arthur passed by. 

You were sitting in your tent, getting ready to go to sleep when you heard Arthur.  As many times before, you got up from your cot to go and help him to his. The two of you never talked about this peculiar routine, mostly because Arthur didn’t remember any of it. Still, you kept doing it because you wanted to and because you cared about Arthur. 

“There she is,” Arthur said as he saw you approach.

“Let’s go, Arthur,” you said, taking his hand in yours and leading him to his cot.

“The prettiest face in the camp,” Arthur slurred.

You shook your head, a smile and a blush appearing on your face. It would be a lie to say Arthur’s words didn’t make your heart flutter, but you reminded yourself that he was drunk, and probably didn’t mean it.

“You know, you’re the best out of the lot of ‘em,” Arthur said as you sat him down on his cot and started helping him take off his coat. 

“Well thank you, Arthur.”

“No, no, I mean it,” Arthur said, motioning around with his hands. “You’re always so kind to me, always taking care of me. I don’t deserve it.” 

It was true. Out of everyone in the camp, you were always the most attentive and caring towards Arthur, even when he wasn’t drunk. You would make sure to save a plate of stew for him while he was away, or patch up the holes in his clothes. You saw how hard he worked for the camp, how much the gang meant to him, and it pained you to see that he wasn’t being appreciated as much as he deserved.

“It’s the least I can do, Arthur,” you said, getting on your knees and helping him pull off his boots.

He grew silent for a moment, trying to put together his thoughts into words, as much as his drunken brain would allow him to.

When you rose up, having successfully gotten off his boots, he said, “Why do you help me, actually?” and tilted his head. 

A small, melancholy smile appeared on your lips. “Well, it’s quite simple actually,” you said and took a small breath, “it’s because I love you.”

Even in his drunken state, the weight of your words hit him like a freight train, and for a moment he felt he was going to fall backwards on the cot. He stammered for a little bit, trying to put together his words, and you just watched, a smile on your lips.

“Yo-you love me?” he said, looking around and then pointing to himself, “Me?”

You laughed and shook your head. “I do, have been for a while, actually. You're a hardworking, honest man. You might be an outlaw, but you have a solid moral compass and you’re sinfully handsome. What’s there not to love?”

At this point, Arthur’s brain has basically fried. He was still processing your confession, and here you were, showering him with compliments and praises. He could feel his head spin, and this time, not due to the alcohol. 

“Why-Why are you telling me this? Only now?”

“Because I know you’ll forget it in the morning.��� You bent down, placing a small, light kiss on Arthur’s forehead. He closed his eyes, wanting to savor this moment, but all too soon you retreated. “Get some sleep Arthur,” you said over your back, already walking back to your tent. 

He sat on his cot for a few more minutes, trying to process what just happened. He still felt drunk, maybe even more than before, but your words were loud and clear in his head. Your “I love you” kept repeating in his head as if on a loop. He couldn’t believe someone, especially you, an honest, beautiful, gentle soul, could love him, an outlaw, a killer, a thief. 

He could feel the claws of moonshine pulling him to sleep, and your words once again echoed in his head. You were right when saying that he wouldn’t remember any of this the next morning; he always did forget the alcohol fuled nights. This time, however, he didn’t want to forget the previous night in a moonshine haze, so with the last remains of stamina he had, he pulled out his journal and scribbled away.

The next morning was no different from all the other mornings that followed after a moonshine filled night. Arthur could already feel his head ache and his entire body vibrate. The distinct moonshine taste was still on his lips, and he wanted nothing more than to drink a cup of water or coffee to get rid of it. As he turned around, sitting up on his cot, he saw a fresh cup of coffee on a crate next to him. He quickly grabbed it, downing almost half of it immediately and sighed in relief. His head still ached, but at least the taste of moonshine was gone. 

He tried to piece together last night; one of the few things he remembered was driving on his horse as he drank the moonshine. He faintly remembers entering the camp and stumbling around. He doesn’t remember how he got undressed, or even got in his cot. The last thing he remembered was not an image, but a feeling; an immense feeling of warmth and, dare he say, love. The aforementioned emotion instantly made him think of you, but he pushed that thought away, not allowing himself to even think of you in that context, feeling that he didn’t deserve that privilege. 

He rose up from his cot and stretched his arms. In the distance, he could see Pearson stirring the stew and he felt his stomach grumble. He reached out towards the crate for his hat, put it on and went to get himself breakfast.

The sun was almost set when Arthur got some free time for himself. He was busy for the good part of the day, hunting for provision (Pearson’s stew was almost unbearable in the morning due to the lack of meat), helping Jack with some reading, helping John and Charles work on the old wagon, and just generally doing good deeds around the camp to make up for his drunk shenanigans. 

He, unfortunately, didn’t have much time to talk to you today, and it seemed like you weren’t open for a conversation either. Anytime he walked past you, or tried to strike up a conversation, you would blush (which he found endearing), and stammer over your words. He wondered if maybe he had embarrassed himself in front of you last night, or said something he shouldn’t have. The thought that he might’ve spoiled whatever it is he had with you put a great damper on him; he hoped that when he was done for the day, he could maybe ask you what he did last night, and apologize for it.

The reason for your sudden shyness was, of course, the fact that you told him you loved him. In the moment, you didn’t think it through too much, simply wanting to finally voice your feelings that you’ve been hiding for months. Arthur was drunk, so you thought you were safe from the repercussions of your confession, since he wouldn’t remember it in the morning. When woken up the next morning, however, you realized what you did and were stricken with horror at your boldness. You couldn’t believe you’ve actually said that, and were now anxious whether Arthur remembered it or not, and if he did, what he would think.

Arthur pulled out his journal as he sat on his cot, wanting to write down a general summary of day as he usually did. As he opened his journal on the last written page, a confused expression painted his face. The writing on the page was distorted and almost undecipherable, but it was his own. “she loves yu, y luky bastrd, she said erself”. Suddenly, as if in an apparition, images of last night flooded his brain. He remembered you helping him to his cot, helping him get undressed, saying you love him, kissing his forehead. For a moment, he thought that maybe it were the remains of alcohol playing tricks with his mind, but something told me that all of that actually happened. He quickly shut his journal, putting it back in his satchel, and got up from his cot to go and find you.

He found you sitting on the outskirts of camp, looking out into the distance and enjoying the sunset. You didn’t hear him arrive, only noticing his presence when he came up next to you and sat down.

“Beautiful scenery, ain’t it,” he said, looking at where you were looking. 

“Sure is,” you said, your voice small. You could feel your cheeks heat up once again. 

“I wanted to apologize for last night,” Arthur said. “I don’t remember much of it, so, sorry if I did anything stupid.”

You mentally breathed a sigh of relief at his words, somewhat calmed seeing as he didn’t remember last night or your words. “Don’t worry about it, happens to the best of us.”

“So, what happened last night?”

“Oh, nothing really, I just helped you to your cot and left you to it,” you said, waving with your hand. “You weren’t as bad as other times.”

Arthur laughed and said, “Is that so?” After a few moments he added, “So, that’s all that happened last night?” 

A hint of panic crossed your mind, but you quickly squashed it down and said, “Yup, that’s all.”

A small smirk played on Arthur’s lips as he looked out into the distance. He could feel your nervousness in every word you said, could practically feel you squirming with anxiety. He, of course, already knew everything he needed to know about last night, but the opportunity to tease you just a little bit was too good to pass up on.

He turned his head around to look at you and said, “Something tells me you’re not telling me everything.” Both his voice and eyes were dangerous, but it only drew you to him more. 

“That’s not true,” you said as you looked into his eyes, feeling mesmerized by them.

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You should know better than to lie to me.”

You weren’t sure what you were talking about anymore, and you didn’t care. You felt like a prey under his intense gaze, and you wanted nothing more than to be devoured by him. 

One of his hands reached out and cradled your cheek. His palm was so big and soft, and in that moment you felt like being held by him forever. He ran his thumb over your lips, the action making you part them. He watched you for a moment before moving towards you. You closed your eyes when he was right in front of you, your lips inches away from each other. For a moment, he teased you, brushing his lips against yours, pulling away a little only to come back a second later. 

“Arthur, please,” you said.

He chuckled softly before finally pressing his lips against yours. They were soft and plump, exactly how you imagined them to be whenever you stole a look at them. It felt as if through this kiss, the two of you were pouring all the emotions you have been bottling up for months.

As one of his hands was still on your cheek, the other made its way to your hip, helping you up and bringing you to his lap. The new position was more comfortable as you placed both of your legs on either side of Arthur’s. Both of his hands were now on your hips, and yours were around his neck, lightly pulling on short strands of hair there.

A light moan escaped your lips, only to be devoured by Arthur’s mouth, when he pushed his tongue in. Your lips moved against each other in a perfect dance, your tongues brushing against each other, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. You could’ve swore you heard someone on guard duty make a disgusted noise when they caught the two of you, but neither of you cared. 

The sun has already set when the two of you broke apart, your lips swollen and wet, your eyes hazy with desire. You were far too comfortable in Arthur’s lap to move away, and it seemed that he too liked your current position, his hands still on your hips, gently massaging them. 

One of your hands made its way from his neck to his face, gently placing it on his cheek, running your thumb over a scar on his chin. You never had a chance to completely take in Arthur’s beauty, only stealing glances here and there, scared to be caught, admiring him from afar whenever he wasn’t paying attention. Now, however, you could look for as long as you wanted, and you did, taking in every imperfection that made him him. He too took a moment to appreciate your beauty as well, appreciating every detail such as the shape and color of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the roundness of your cheeks. 

Arthur wasn’t planning on getting drunk anytime soon again, but in that moment, he was thankful to the moonshine, and maybe the fella that gave it to him, for the opportunity that it created.

He reached out with his hand, placing it on your cheek. “Say it again,” he said. 

You smiled, leaning into his palm, and said, “I love you.”

[jesuisgourde]

gay/queer references in Peter’s journals

Again, I have probably missed stuff due to going through pretty quickly and also due to having stared at this document for so long, everything has kind of blurred together.

Sometime close to the day that Carlos & I watched 'Love And Death on Long Island' (and afterwards paraded through the tea rooms of Picadilly) we both filled in application forms and were tres excited to be invited to the same group 'interview' - twas more like an audition though. I got the part. Carlos never. This did not bring any animosity - we both know that success for either of us is magnified a million times if it is shared by us both.

from 'A Diamond Guitar' by Truman Capote "Except that they did not combine their bodies or think to do so, though such things were not unknown at the (Prison), they were as lovers. Of the seasons, spring is the most shattering: stalks thrusting through the earth's winter-stiffened crust, young leaves cracking out on old left-to-die branches, the falling asleep wind cruising through all the newborn green. And with Mr Schaeffer it was the same, a breaking up, a flexing of muscles that had hardened. It was late January. The friends were sitting on the steps of the sheep house, each with a cigarette in his hand. A moon thin and yellow as a piece of lemon rind curved above them, and under its light, threads of ground frost glistened like silver snail trails. Tico Feo had been drawn into himself - silent as a robber waiting in the shadows."

Then a meet with Bounds Green's African prince outside whitechapel tube, rugged lookies at I in military attire & to a ruptured Albion rooms tidied in hours and now lids drawn heated on the eyes. A young looking fella has a crush on me.

Jackie/Camillia/Marie/Kate/Chris/V. churchill Jackie/Evelina/Jasmine/Sachi/Dalston/Sussie Sandra/Carlene/FP/Jay/Dalston/Kraut

There sat a young black man, perhaps in his early or middle twenties. He looked for all the world like the archetypal rude boy. Clean, cheap reebok, nike, adidas variously rolled, laced & zipped about his lean, spreadeagled body that hung loosely about the waiting room chair. Gold & tattoos adorned his person, and a blank animal look was attached to his clear face. He sat before me in a row of four empty chairs, staring at polished floor or the mundane television. A balding white man minced in & all perceptions were suddenly proven to be false as they embraced and snuggled up to each other, giggling & whispering & touching each others noses.... very much in love, fingers crossed for the blood tests.

[Image: an article from Gay Times of an interview with Peter. For some reason, the portrait included alongside the article is of Carl wearing a grey and black t-shirt.] Name? Peter Doherty Age? 22 Where are you? I'm on the motorway just north of Southampton. What kind of day are you having? (Vaguely) Erm... quite misty. Something's waiting around the corner, but there are no corners on the motorway, so we'll just have to wait and see what lies ahead. Maybe something will happen tonight.... What's this we hear about you once being a rent boy? Well, when times are hard, duty calls. How long ago was it? When I was 19, about three years ago. How do we know this isn't just a Shaun Ryder-type lie? 'Cause if it was, it would make me a complete scumbag and I'm not, and I'm not interested in that kind of pantomime. It wasn't a very happy time. I didn't really enjoy it. Why did you give it up? (grimly) Well, certain people disappeared... and anyway, ultimately I found myself no longer in such a vulnerable position anymore. Dawn broke, and I realised that it was a beautiful world after all. Have you done any other dodgy jobs? All of us in the band have tried to deal, but it's not good if you like the drugs too much. You just end up using them yourself! I once was a gravedigger. I used to do it with my mate in Willesden Green cemetery. We didn't actually do the digging, a machine did that, but we used to have to fill them in. It was pretty grim work. So are you gay then? Love is love, wherever it comes from. I'm not anything, really. I am a very sexual person but... I dunno, I believe in liberty... The Marquis de Sade has a lot to answer for... Do you get a lot of gay fans? Yeah - well, there's one guy in particular. He's very shy and he follows us around. He brings in letters and cards and stuff, but he's very quiet. I think John (the bassist) is the main pulling power in the band. Are you jealous about that? Nah! I've known him too long.

You know I'm alright i dont even care i like it when they stare & stare call me queer, dear oh dear a million things & what I wear He's real hard when he's with his mates but I'll saw him again & he was too late

Dear NME I'd have thought after the Gay Times piece, the interview with Rapture fanzine & our recent gig at the Slum Club everything would be clear. No it still remains to give a big hearty fuck off to all these twisted suburban types calling me a liar. Vulnerable young men & women all over the world find themselves victims of circumstance.

she was dressed in suit & tie & lightly etched-on moustache. 'I've always wanted to kiss a bird in the back of a taxi.' she says, running her hand up the fishnet ladders of my thigh. Stepping onto the front line in Bow puddles, elevators, buzzing doors,

[Image: the original page in the book has been preserved. Two paragraphs have been boxed off with biro. They read:] “...cast Richard Burton and Rex Harrison as bickering queer barbers and then much more uncompromisingly in William Friedkin's adaptation of The Boys in the Band (1970), which introduced some of the plainer four letter words in the English language to the screen for the first time. 'Who,' asks Cliff Gorman, in his brilliant portrayal of the most effeminate of the homosexual group as they gather for a soul-searching party, 'Who do you have to fuck to get a drink around here?' Other homosexual manifestations to occur in movies around this time included an elliptical but unmistakeable male fellatio scene in John Schlesinger's Midnight Cowboy (1969) when Jon Voight, as a broke and disillusioned Texas stud importunes in a New York cinema....”

[Image, top left: a blurry photo of John onstage, playing bass. Image, top right, sideways: a photo of the band onstage. Carl and John are on the left, sharing a mic. Peter is on the right, playing guitar and singing into his own mic. Image, centre left: a torn photo of Peter sitting in a chair, shirtless, playing guitar. Only his bottom half from the chest down is visible. Image, centre left: a torn photo of Peter sitting in a chair, shirtless, playing guitar. Only his top half from shoulders up is visible. Image, bottom left: a torn fragment of a photo. What looks like a denim-clad knee and a yellow carrier bag are visible. Image, bottom middle: a photo of someone's knee in torn jeans, taken from under a table. Image, bottom right: a torn photo of Carl in a black sleeveless shirt, posing with his fingers in his mouth.] [A paragraph from the original page of the book has been left exposed and boxed off with black biro. It reads:] “The Boys in the Band was displaced by an immeasurably more powerful portrayal of homosexual groups, Fortune and Men's Eyes (1971). Set in a Quebec prison, this disturbing, factually based drama vividly recounted the corrupted of a heterosexual convict trapped in a tough, potentially vicious homosexual society. In one horrifying scene, a weak, put-upon prisoner is gang-banged by his fellow inmates; in another, the 'hero' is blackmailed by his cellmate into accepting him as his lover for the duration...”

Like a cat on a hot tin roof Like a macho man in a roomful of poofs I have tried in my way to be free.

[Written in Peter's handwriting] Jerome... is that how it's spelt? [Written in someone else's handwriting] Yes it is [Written in Peter's handwriting] Can I read you something? [Written in someone else's handwriting] Yes please.....

I insist, new book of Albion, befuddled by drugs I may yes about 2 but I do not miss out entirely on the subtleties of the inhuman relation ships that are this the mainstay of my stay here in one bounce of a loaf. Boys are fooled into fooling with boys. [...]

More general references/some extra explanations:

“The boy looked at Johnny” is a line from Patti Smith's song “Horses,” part one of a three-part song called “Land.” In the song, a young man named Johnny is assaulted by another man in a locker room; he then mentally journeys to other fantastical lands and visions. A lot of people interpret it as being about gay sex, although some people interpret it as being about a stabbing.

Peter quotes and references Jean Genet's writing and works about Jean Genet many times. While Genet's works are nearly all about crime and prison (one of Peter's main interests and points of fascination), all of his works are very explicitly gay. The Thief's Journal is more about Genet's various lovers than it is about his criminal history. Our Lady Of The Flowers is about a drag queen and her criminal lovers, and is also extremely erotic.

(“Jerome” is Jerome Alexandre, vocalist of The Deadcuts, who was friends with Peter and Mark Keds.)

[acmetraitor]

the art of evasion

“You two did a lot together,” Hawkins says outside the coliseum in Rome, and that draws Jules out of her reminiscing, draws her away from the memory of Carmen’s victorious smirk when they finally slapped the cuffs on the boss of that smuggling operation. “What happened? I mean, why did she leave ACME?”

“...Maybe I’ll tell you sometime,” Jules manages to reply around the rising lump in her throat. “For now, let’s concentrate on tracking her down.”

It’s easier to dodge the question than to admit she has no idea.

~

Carmen was always a loose cannon, even back when she worked for ACME.

Once, on a stakeout in the dead of night, she and Jules trailed a suspect to a warehouse where the heads of a trafficking ring were temporarily hiding out. Carmen peeked inside to survey the situation while Jules called the Chief to send backup, but any teams were at least two hours away and the culprits were already in the process of clearing out.

“There’s no time,” Carmen concluded. “We have to catch these guys ourselves, now.”

“We can’t!” Jules hissed in protest. “There’s got to be at least ten of them in there!” 

“Fourteen,” Carmen said. “But we have these.” She pulled out two pairs of night-vision goggles from her bag and shoved one into Jules’s hands. Then she dashed for the circuit breaker before Jules could stop her.

Once the lights went out, it was too late to turn back, so Jules went along with her partner’s crazy plan as her heart hammered in her throat the whole way. In the end, with the cover of darkness as their aid, they successfully neutralized all the suspects, but Carmen got a bullet graze wound to her shoulder because one trigger-happy goon got lucky.

After everything was over, Jules punched her in that shoulder. Carmen laughed through the pain.

That’s just who Carmen was. She knew she could do anything, she was an unstoppable force, and nobody could ever hope to rein her in. Not even Jules. So whatever reasons Carmen had for leaving ACME, she made that choice on her own, and everyone who blamed Jules for her partner’s betrayal honestly gave her too much credit.

Nothing Jules did could have made Carmen leave.

(Nothing Jules did could have made Carmen stay.)

~

Hawkins thinks he can do anything. He almost reminds Jules of Carmen in that sense, except Carmen didn’t think she could do anything, she knew it. And Jules knew it, too. Hawkins, though, is still an impulsive and overconfident rookie, and he doesn’t truly understand what he’s up against.

Jules cautions him in Cape Town, keeps him from breaking down the door because recklessness will only get them in trouble. But then Carmen leaves the scene in her chopper, and Hawkins is livid.

“What were you thinking, Jules?!” he cries. “Did you want her to get away?!”

He doesn’t really mean that, Jules knows, he’s just lashing out because he’s frustrated. But those words still hit her, somewhere deep inside.

So Jules dodges the question. She’s found herself doing that a lot with Hawkins.

~

What Carmen and Jules had wasn’t a romance.

They agreed on that from their very first kiss—Carmen was just doing what she wanted, and Jules wanted that, too. So they kissed, they fooled around, they made each other feel good, but the relationship was never serious. Sure, Jules was a little in love with Carmen, but loving Carmen also meant accepting that she was the type of person who could never be tied down to anyone.

So Carmen never opened up about herself, and Jules never asked her to. Jules never asked for anything more than what she got. Being Carmen’s partner was enough, and Jules was happy with their life together at ACME.

It never really occurred to her that maybe Carmen wasn’t. 

Carmen had been MIA from ACME for a week when she announced the success of her very first heist via a video broadcast to the world. “I have stolen the Crown Jewels,” she proclaimed, and that was definitely Carmen on screen holding Cullinan I in her hand, her smug smile and twinkling eyes framed by a bright red fedora Jules had never seen her wear before. “And this is just the beginning. For I, Carmen Sandiego, am going to become the world’s greatest thief!”

The next morning, the Chief called Jules to her office, asked very seriously if Jules had ever noticed any signs that Carmen had been planning to defect. Jules told the truth: she hadn’t had a clue. Protocol demanded that Jules be taken off all her cases and thoroughly vetted anyway, but for what it was worth, Chief seemed to believe her.

Nobody else did, though.

“Maybe she and Sandiego had a fight,” her coworkers whispered amongst themselves, when they either didn’t know Jules could hear or didn’t care that she could. “There must be something Argent isn’t telling us. I mean, how couldn’t she know? She was her partner.”

Jules vowed to be the one to capture Carmen Sandiego, if only to prove to her peers that it wasn’t her fault. That just because she’d been Carmen’s partner didn’t mean she’d been anything more. She’d certainly never been Carmen’s confidant. Perhaps she’d never even been Carmen’s friend—

Except, Jules remembered: Carmen once took her to the top of the Eiffel Tower on one of their nights off, and kissed her breathless as they watched the Paris lights. Carmen once agreed to try all of Jules’s favorite restaurants in Chengdu, persevering even as her face flushed red because Jules liked her food much spicier than Carmen did. Carmen once went undercover as a musician for a case, and for a moment as she performed on stage, strumming her guitar and singing a love song in her native Brazilian Portuguese, she stared right at Jules’s spot in the audience and for those beautiful three seconds, it felt like the song was just for her.

...Okay, so maybe Jules was more than a little in love with Carmen.

(And maybe the idea of locking Carmen behind bars was just as painful as her coworkers’ censure, if not more.)

~

“You’re practically burning holes in your journal,” Hawkins tells Jules, during the plane ride to Germany right after retrieving the Mayan calendar. “What are you thinking about?”

Jules looks up from the entries she was reading: the ones from the mission where they retrieved the Mok’o fish gong. “I’m remembering the wolf statue in Quebec, and that Sorbonne poster in Paris.” The proof that Carmen Sandiego donated a lot of money to causes she cared about. “There is some good in Carmen,” Jules murmurs, an echo of what she said back in Mexico.

“There was some good in Carmen Sandiego,” Hawkins says. “I’ll believe that much. But Jules, she’s not your partner anymore. The past is the past. You need to focus on now, on this case.”

“I am focused on this case,” Jules insists. “If...if I can just figure out Carmen’s reasons for doing all this, I can figure out what she’ll do next.”

“Figure out...” Hawkins repeats, and something seems to click into place in his mind. “You don’t actually know why she left ACME, do you?”

Jules might as well admit it to him now. “I really don’t. When it happened, it surprised me as much as anybody.”

She’s half-expecting Hawkins to express disbelief like everyone else: How couldn’t you know? You were Carmen’s partner. But instead, he just cocks his head to the side and asks, “In that case, what makes you so sure she even had a reason?”

“...It’s Carmen,” Jules says, unable to produce a better answer. “There must have been a reason.”

Hawkins doesn’t really seem convinced at all, but he doesn’t push the subject any further.

Jules appreciates that.

~

Jules knew Carmen better than anyone else did. That didn’t necessarily mean she knew Carmen well, but at the very least, she was positive that Carmen wanted to make the world a better place. Whenever Carmen had talked about conserving the environment, about preserving world cultures, about learning from the past so that we may improve the future, there was real, undeniable passion there.

(If nothing else, Jules certainly knew Carmen’s passion.)

But the Carmen who Jules knew, the Carmen who had wanted nothing more than to do good—how in the world had she become the Carmen who stole, who laughed at the law, who left taunting and sometimes cruel messages behind?

Hello Julia. Still trying to prove yourself?

Maybe you’ve lost your edge, Jules.

You’ll learn, Agent Hawkins, that Julia can get quite frustrated at times. Not to mention opinionated.

The remarks hurt, honestly, but they also just didn’t make sense. Carmen hadn’t cared enough about Jules to stay, obviously, but...she had cared. Jules knew Carmen leaving ACME had never been about her, yet now, Carmen was acting as if she had something personal against Jules all of a sudden.

It’s almost as if, a voice whispered in the back of Jules’s mind, Carmen is trying to make you hate her.

And when Jules thought about it like that, she realized: if the Carmen she knew had, for whatever reason, believed she could somehow better the world by making herself into the villain...

She would have.

One hundred percent, she would have.

~

“Maybe she masterminded these thefts so the whole world could benefit,” Jules ponders aloud, after Carmen escapes her and Hawkins in the lost city. Even as she says it, she knows there’s no proof. There’s nothing there but her own intuition, and maybe too much hope, and a love for Carmen that will never truly be able to leave her heart. 

Hawkins doesn’t believe it. The Chief probably doesn’t either. And even if Jules ever caught up to Carmen, even if Jules ever managed to pin her down long enough to ask if her theory was correct, Carmen would never answer her honestly.

That’s just who Carmen is. And Jules will just have to live with that.

“I still think Carmen Sandiego is a bad apple. Rotten to the core,” Hawkins says, because he and Jules don’t agree on a lot of things and will likely never agree on Carmen. But even so, his can-do attitude as the Chief reports Carmen’s next heist is contagious, invigorating. It honestly makes Jules feel better.

Carmen would never answer Jules honestly. But there is still the possibility that Jules could find out the truth for herself.

So, with the chase back on and her confidence renewed, Jules turns to Shadow and smiles.

[thechosenferret]

Of Course It’s Precious Potter - Chapter 3

This chapter is dedicated to @scarheaded-ferret for his birthday! You are such an incredible person, and I hope you enjoy your next year of life! <3

Summary: Draco has been tasked to steal a possession from precious Prince Potter. Little does he know, that's only a small test for what they need done next. Well, that is if Draco can carry it out to the end.

You can also read it on ao3 under the username TheChosenFerret (there’s a link in my bio, I don’t trust tumblr with links in original posts), or through my tag #Of Course it’s Precious Potter

一一一一一一一一

As the day progressed, Harry couldn’t get the nagging thought out of his head that perhaps his mind hadn’t entirely made up the blond stranger. With would be a lovely thought if it meant that he could see him again, but there was still the tiny problem that their first meeting was… technically due to trespassing. 

Harry didn’t give a thought to why exactly he was trespassing until he made his way to his dresser. Every year, Harry sees the same items on that dresser. Every week, Harry cleans those same items on that dresser. Every day, Harry picks up one specific item on that dresser. Today, however, it was gone. Gone except the letter he carefully kept secret underneath it, which could only mean three things. One, someone knew about the letter. Two, someone purposely left the letter. Three, the blond man must of stolen his dad’s trophy. 

Fuck. 

Of course the trespassing man had to commit another crime at the same time. 

Of course the trespassing, stealing man had to purposely not steal what was now the last remaining artifact of his parents. Harry didn’t know whether to count this man as a complete fool, report him immediately to the watchmen, or send him a thank you card. Of course, reporting him to the watchmen would mean giving up the letter for investigation and to “protect the past King and Queen’s treasures,” aka lock them up until they rot away, so that was clearly not an option. All that’s left is that the man is a fool who should be thanked, which could only be done if he made the foolish decision to strike again. 

He could strike again, actually. Seeing as he left behind the letter, someone may of been just as pissed off as Harry was happy. 

In that case, Harry went to collect his parent’s letter like always, but instead of reading it before immediately hiding it again, he brought it over to his desk, where he placed it next to him so he can protect it better, then began to write letter to the blond man. After a few drafts, he finally felt okay enough with it, and went to leave it in the middle of the room upside down with the words “To The Blond” written as big as possible on the back. 

Feeling the day catch up to him at last, Harry collected his parent’s letter and made his way to the bed, where he read through the it from the light of the one candle left still lit in his room. He then carefully placed it on a pillow next to him that he is certain will not be harmed if he were to roll over in the middle of the night before blowing out the flame and finally going to sleep. 

一一一一一一一一

Following the same path that he took last night, Draco scaled up the castle, steadied a rope to a mini cross lined up across the roof, and made his way down the chimney into the now unfortunately too familiar, dusty fireplace. The only thing that was different now was the one piece of trash among the nearly spotless room. Draco ignored the item and surveyed the room, trying to get into the mind of such a Posh Prince to see where he might hide his oh so important diary. 

On the bookcase? Although the room is pristine, the bookcase feels like it hasn’t been touched in ages. In the drawer under his bedside table? Draco carefully made his way closer to the table, and therefore the stupid prince. He looked so… not idiotic while asleep, even slightly peaceful. Draco snapped himself out of his thoughts as he turned his attention back to the table and, subsequently, the drawer that was lacking a diary. 

Draco continued his search by checking the other drawers in the room, where the most interesting thing he saw was a hairbrush, but yet no journal. Not wanting to be out in the open for too long, Draco made his way back to the fireplace, but not before stopping in the middle of the room with that stupid piece of trash. The stupid piece of trash that was addressed to a blond. Merlin, of course Potter had seen him. And to make it worse, he wrote him a letter. Curiously, Draco picked it up and started to read it as he very slowly walked back to the fireplace. Potter wanted to meet up with him. And doesn’t despise him? That idiot. He’d guess the prince was all self-righteous and forgiving, but he never expected to be on the receiving side of it. 

He paced the room without care as he read the letter again and again, only stopping when his brain started to think about how he must of written this tonight, which means that he probably used his desk tonight seeing as the paper didn’t show signs of being written without a solid surface behind it, therefore maybe he regularly uses his desk, so perhaps he has actually used the books stacked on his desk. During all this time of snooping, Draco thought the pile of books was just for decoration to act like he studies. 

Draco put his letter in his pocket and began to sort through the books. Introduction to Finances? Nope. Full History of 1660 to 1666… Aha! An unmarked book with handwritten entries dating back to 10 years ago. And to further prove his point, the handwriting is very close to the one shown on his letter. Bingo! Not wanting to risk Harry seeing him for what now would be the third time, Draco slipped back out with the diary, totally not glancing at Harry one last time before leaving. 

一一一一一一一一

Draco continued his route to the meeting spot by rooftop, not wanting to deal with scaling back down quite yet. As he walked and jumped, all his thoughts kept tracing back to that damn letter. That letter and the diary that featured what he can only guess is all the minor inconveniences for such a rich and loved guy such as Potter. Which means that it really wouldn’t be horrible to read some of it. Plus, he should double check that this contains the prince’s thoughts, and not some rando’s diary the prince somehow has saved. So, Draco was legally obligated to read it. 

Draco made his way over to the meeting spot and found a nice spot on the roof where he can lean against a half wall, but could still perfectly see the sun when it rises. The client can wait a few more hours for me to double check this purchase. Can’t give away faulty merchandize after all.  So he read. And read. And read. 

The journal wasn’t contains of minor inconveniences at all. Actually, they were very major problems. Why hadn’t this idiot told someone about this before? That cupboard. His family. Merlin. Draco couldn’t let this get out to some second hand thief, not that it was any better that he’d done it. There must be some reason he’s been keeping it out of the public’s eye for so long… which means that Draco’s going to have to make sure that this book stays a secret. One stupid letter and all the sudden he’s helping people, all thanks to that idiot Potter. 

Draco hid the journal in his jacket and made his way down the building and to the market. He had to look into a lot of stores to find one that has someone in it, let alone is selling empty journals, but at long last he found it. He got the smallest one (both to help out on cash but also so he can fill it up faster), then bought a quill and ink and made his way back to the roof to start his work. 

He wrote until the sun finally did rise, but he managed to create a diary full of minor inconveniences that seemed close enough to reality to be believable. To finish it off, Draco scrawled the words “Harry James Potter’s Personal Journal” on the front. It pained him to have to try to recreate the messy handwriting of Potters, but he feels like he’d pulled it off with flying colors—maybe his cousin was right about how he should go into forgery. 

Worried about stalling any more, Draco hide the real diary and letter on the roof, and made his way down the building. He threw on his “I just pulled off a successful heist” face just as the same man from the previous night appeared from behind a wall. Silently, he handed over the replicated diary, choosing to not speak even when he guy walked away and said “Well contact your family again soon” for fear of having his voice betray his thoughts, all of which were along the lines of fuck.

一一一一一一一一

Taglist: @devilrising @sweetlialia @ladyseidenlocke 

[keplercryptids]

1, 9, 13, 25 and 33 for z'ress, mahety, suri and dagon!

1. what kind of clothing does your character like to wear? do they have a style? anything they avoid wearing?

z'ress: sewer clothes aka dark clothing that is practical and comfortable for a professional thief lol. they look cool tho. they avoid fancy clothes except if their boyfriend wants them to dress up.

suri: dark, loose fitting athletic clothing. lots of blacks and purples, some golds. she avoids blue.

mahety: dresses, bright colors, lace, frills. mahety loves clothes, man! i have a whole folder on my computer of mahety fashions lmao.

dagon: very much a pastel punk aesthetic. that's a thing, right? like, spikes and patches and leather but a lot of pink, baby green, purple.

the rest is under a readmore, how have i typed this much already lmaoooo

9. if someone gave them flowers, what would they do with them?

z'ress: i don't think anyone's ever given z'ress flowers before. they'd probably be taken aback a bit but would 100% put those flowers in a vase in their room and look at them a lot and smile.

suri: she would immediately think, "hm okay what's this person's agenda" and would probably forget to put them in water lmao

mahety: she gets flowers frequently from her girlfriend and usually she puts them in her hair/ behind her ear! mahety's spoiled with flowers and knows she can always get more from saube's druidcraft lol

dagon: would be thrilled and put them on display

13. what helps them fall asleep when they're having trouble doing so?

z'ress is a bad sleeper. they frequently go days without actually sleeping and if they're stressed or distracted or depressed, sleep is the first thing that's affected. they can sleep well when they're with ingot. the part of their brain that feels like it needs to stay on can turn off with him. if ingot's not around, they read lol.

suri exercises. like she just channels all of her insomniac energy into running and punching things until she's exhausted.

mahety is a good sleeper but i feel like she has a whole elaborate bedtime routine that she does every night anyway to fall asleep quickly. if she ever REALLY can't sleep, uhhhh weed lmao.

dagon...hmmm. long walks or journaling.

25. do they keep books on their person? what kind?

suri and dagon don't. mahety doesn't, no pockets usually! and z'ress hhhhh does. he carries the little book of poetry his brother wrote on him at all times. it's in elvish so he can't read it but it's his most prized possession. (z'ress also reads a lot of mass market mystery thrillers so i feel like occasionally he'll have one of those on him but that's a less Meaningful answer lmao.)

33. where are they in a group hug? (dead center, outside, etc)

z'ress and suri: on the outskirts, happy to contribute. mahety and dagon: initiated the group hug with great exuberance and insistence and are in the middle.

[luminescentlyricist]

🎲 Musings From The Hero of Light 🎲

Hi! This is just a simple drabble I did for an AU that Aaron and I established where we'd join a Sburb session together. It's written as if in a book, so it's essentially just one ramble of dialogue, and that's why there are no quotation marks.

~

Hello, there. The name's Lucy. It's not likely that anyone'll really see this stupid little book, but it's worth writing something down. I have no idea what's going on with myself, but I haven't slept in a few days, and I don't... really think that I have to, even though it makes no sense. Judging by the GameFAQ for this game, that isn't supposed to happen until God Tier. Are these delusions, then? Am I really dreaming, or am I just going nuts? I dunno, man.

My friend and sessionmate has just... disappeared, but I think I'll try and find him if the conditions become nicer. It's scary out here, even though my Land is relatively tame-seeming. At least the consorts are nice, though they don't talk to me. They seem scared of something, but I've been blasting music to drown out this awful whining echoing across the Land. Song and Fortune, huh? I could do with a little less Song - if you could call it that - and a little more Fortune, to be honest.

I don't want to sleep. The horrorterrors whisper at me, and I have a feeling they're trying to warn me about something, but all it achieves is giving me a headache. Does anyone around here have an eldritch dictionary? A translator? There's no wifi in this land, even though the crystals seem to emit some energies. I think we're slowly being driven insane, to be honest with you. Our session's already Void, provided that Skaia didn't change the Cardinal Aspects for us like we hoped it would.

Aaron... I haven't visited him or tried to contact him since he disappeared from his spire, but that's down in Derse. He's probably back there by now, and I hope he decides to let me know that he isn't dead some time soon. I'm sure not going into Derse to find him, due to my position as a human and not a sniffer dog. If he lets me know he's here, or at least somewhere in the physical world and not on the grape planet, I'll gladly search. Until then, I'm not moving. Plus, I can't even use my music to drown out the eldritch fucks yelling at me down there. It's like... their speech isn't broadcast in the actual world, but worms its way into your brain and vibrates in your skull cavity. It shakes me up physically and mentally.

Aaron's a bit more strong than I am in a psychological sense, so I think he'll be fine if he doesn't go Howard Hughes-y neurotic on my ass and loses his already fragile sanity. In that case, I'd be truly screwed over. Sure, I have some logic, but that mostly goes out the door real quick when I'm stressed out. And these conditions are pretty fucking stressful... Nothing to do but wait, wait with my own thoughts. My dice haven't been giving me any decent rolls, although I think I got Mindfang's Journal at some point a few days ago. It would have been a fascinating read, had it not been written in the true Alternian script and untranslated.

What a pain in the ass this all is.

In a Land to do with Fortune, and yet not one fortunate thing has happened since I've accessed here. Can someone please just... I dunno, man. Is there an intergalactic equivalent of Uber? I need to get the Hell out of this Land before I cave in to my thoughts and do something especially stupid. It's lonely, more than anything. The consorts are supposed to be guides, aren't they? They're hiding from me, I know they are. I've only seen a couple of little axolotl buddies scattered here and there, but they aren't willing to give me any information. The noise is distracting them, but I have no idea how to stop that. The crystals vibrate from it enough to shake me up, echoing the buzzing voices of the horrorterrors. It's more than a little disconcerting, but it doesn't seem like I'm going to be able to change anything for a long while.

It's boring and lonely and I want to get away, but I bought this upon myself. I was the one who convinced Aaron that he should enter a risky two-player session, and I don't think I'm going to make it. He should be able to, and that's really all I want. For my stupid actions not to wound someone who doesn't deserve it. With each roll of the dice, I feel like my luck is worse and worse. I didn't realise that the dice rolls could affect someone so negatively, let alone their own user. In the Beta session, the only other recorded use of Dicekind, it only buffed [her] physically and never wounded. I guess [she] had a stronger 'positive' connection to Light - if you could call a Thief a positive thing - but that's a useless theory because I don't even know my God Tier yet.

I don't have bandages, which is a pain, and I'm aching all over. It's bizarre how bad my luck has been since I entered the session. I've tripped more times than I can count, and I haven't been able to locate my Denizen, even though they should be pretty visible from a player's Land as far as I've read. It's been about a week here in this place, and I'm already sick of it. I can't figure out what my Quest will be like, despite the fact the others always had some kinda clue in their Land name. All there are in here are these cliff-gorges and spooky crystal caves that I can't access yet. Well, I can, but - like most things in this game - I really don't want to, especially not without Aaron here.

I wonder which Denizen I'll have. Yaldabaoth is off the table, since my pal seems to think that he's reserved for the strongest players. Probably Aaron's, then. He's remarkable, even though I'll probably die before I get to say that to his face. He's smart and logical, and I bet he'd be able to help me if he found me. I'd pin myself as either having one of three: Cetus, the perceived Light denizen, Nix, the perceived Void denizen, or Abraxas. Abraxas is the weakest Denizen, so I think they're the best fit for me. That's not just me being self-deprecating, either. I know I'm too weak for this game, and it was a mistake coming here. My physical health and mental health alike suck. I can't know for sure who I have until I find the damn snake, though it might be possible that I don't even need to meet them in a place like this. There could very well be something wrong with the session or my Land in general preventing my Denizen's rise.

Skaia seems to really, really enjoy fucking around with us. Come to think of it, I can't even remember what Aaron's Land is called. Land of Musings and Angels, I think... My recollection is fuzzy, though, and I can't seem to remember what I did five minutes ago, let alone a week ago. I think he has such a good, borderline-photographic memory that mine's just given up in its stead. 'Oh, you don't need to retain any more information. Aaron can handle it all.' So. I'm just sitting here, at the edge of one of the gorges, trying not to lose my fucking mind. It's always daytime here, as far as I can tell. I wonder what's up with that. At least the weather seems to be nice and staying that way. The wind's a bit cold, but I'm glad for it. Maybe this insistent wind is the reason why the whining's going on? I can't be sure whether or not there are some hollow crystals here, but that could change the tone of the 'song'. That's the only thing I can think of that could explain it, anyway. Some kinda disruption.

Can I sleep, do you think?

I'm not so sure I even can.

What am I kidding, writing this for someone who'll never read it. It's like having a conversation with yourself, which is pretty depressing. I suppose It's normal, but not written out in ink like this. This is all that I have left, this little documentation, to keep me tethered to this world. Ah, jeez... never realised how dramatic I was getting. I guess it's true to an extent, though, because there're no other humans to converse with except for Aaron.

Speaking of Aaron, I suppose it's due time I go and find the man.

See you.

~ Lucy H

Resident Derse-Dreaming Asshole

LoSaF

[bombshellsandbluebells]

Romancing the Flame (6/?)

Summary: When Emori’s brother is held hostage in exchange for a priceless, mythical jewel called the Flame, she teams up with sarcastic thief and treasure hunter, John Murphy.

But someone else is after the Flame too, and it’s a race to find the lost city of Polis and the jewel hidden inside.

To get there first, Emori and John will have to overcome booby traps, mercenaries, and their mutual mistrust of each other.

AKA my ode to the classic action/adventure films of the 80s/90s, packed full of as many references and tropes as I can manage. The title is a reference to the film “Romancing the Stone.” Official film poster here!

As always, @infernalandmortal is the most beautiful, wonderful editor in the world. Thank you so much!

Terribly sorry for the long wait. If there’s nothing else good about social distancing, at least it’s giving me the chance to sit down and write. The world is a little scary right now. Hopefully this can give you an escape for a bit! And remember, be kind to each other. The world needs some love and peace and kindness right now. 

Enjoy!

read on ao3

Chapter Six: Secrets and Confessions

Emori manages an hour in the safety of the bedroom before boredom and curiosity win out. Quietly, she creeps out of the room and down the hall, poking her head into each room as she passes. She finds a bathroom with overly fancy soap and a closet filled only with towels and extra sheets and marvels at both of them, how clean and perfect and picturesque everything is, until the jealousy curdles into disgust. She passes a bedroom that must belong to Clarke and Bellamy and carefully pushes the door open to glance inside and satisfy her own curiosity before quickly moving on.  

At the end of the hall is another room; she steps inside. It’s mostly devoid of furniture, though there’s a comfortable-looking rocking chair in the corner and a crib beside it. The rest of the room is lined with plastic tarps and tape, and there are unopened buckets of paint in various colors scattered about like a minefield. A mural is stretched across one wall, slowly coming together into something almost recognizable. Emori drops into the rocking chair and stares at it, tilting her head left and right in an attempt to make sense of it.

She’s so absorbed in her studying that she fails to hear Bellamy walking up the stairs until he steps into the room. When she sees him out of the corner of her eye, she stands so suddenly that the chair rocks back straight into the wall behind her with a loud smack. Emori flinches at the sound.

“Sorry,” she says, then looks back at the wall where the chair has left an obvious dent. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

“It’s okay,” Bellamy says easily, dismissing her concern with a lazy wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” she explains hastily. “I just saw the room and was curious.”

Bellamy glances at the mural and grins, expression melting into something soft and full of adoration. “Nice, isn’t it? Clarke’s been working on it for months.”

Emori looks back at the mural. To her eye, it still looks like nothing more than a bunch of colored shapes. “What...uh, what is it?”

Bellamy laughs. “Kind of hard to tell right now, right? It’s going to be a griffin.  

She tries not to reveal her confusion, but her silence must give her away.  

“Like from Greek mythology?” Bellamy prompts. Emori shrugs. “Oh.” He deflates a little. “It’s half lion and half eagle. We thought it’d be cool because Clarke’s maiden name was Griffin.” He shrugs again, shaking off her lack of appreciation, and changes topics. “You hungry?”  

Emori stares at him in confusion, thrown by the offer. Then she nods. Her empty stomach perks up at the offer. She hasn’t actually eaten anything except the pop-tart earlier that morning.

They pass by Clarke in her studio, nose buried in the journal and hands making furious notes in the notebook beside her. When they enter the kitchen, Bellamy gestures for Emori to take a seat at the counter while he opens up the fridge and pulls out a pair of brightly-colored Tupperware containers.  

He makes up two plates of homemade rice, chicken, and roasted vegetables and sets one in front of her. Emori tries not to reveal just how hungry she is, but the minute the first bite hits her tongue, it’s hard to resist the urge to scarf the rest of it down. It’s delicious – fresh and seasoned with actual spices instead of whatever it is that flavoring packets contain. For perhaps the first time in her life, she understands why people talk about the joy of a good, home-cooked meal.  

She doesn’t speak until her plate is nearly clean, too focused on savoring the treat she knows she has no hope of matching again any time soon. When the last of the food is gone, she refrains from licking her plate clean, but only because Bellamy would see her and she still has a little pride.

“I have a little sister,” Bellamy says suddenly, breaking the silence. “And I would do anything I needed to keep her safe. So I – well.” His eyes are earnest and open. They make Emori completely uncomfortable. She studies the wood grain on the table to avoid making eye contact. “I understand. Why you’re doing this. And I’ll help you however I can.”

She swallows the lump forming in her throat. It’s easy to brush Bellamy’s words off as nothing but a nice sentiment – a nice lie dressed up as earnestness, a promise he won’t keep when it asks too much of him. Why should he keep it? They don’t know each other. They don’t owe anything to each other.

And yet, Bellamy’s earnest, open eyes tell a different story. She’s good at reading lies; his eyes are empty of them.

“Thank you,” she tells him, and she means it.

Bellamy grabs a pack of cookies from the pantry and slides it between them. Emori hesitates for only a moment before grabbing a handful.

“Her name is Octavia,” Bellamy says, and then he doesn’t stop. He tells Emori story after story of his reckless and stubborn younger sister, voice practically dripping with pride. Emori finds herself interested despite herself. In exchange, she offers a few tales of her own, though she keeps most of her secrets close to her chest, careful with what she reveals. She tells him about the time Otan first tried to cook for her and managed to catch a rag on fire, laughing fondly at the memory. Bellamy laughs with her, countering with a story of his own.

Emori is unaware of just how much time has passed and doesn’t really care until the front door opens and John reappears. Bellamy goes quiet. John doesn’t acknowledge them at all as he heads quickly up the stairs to the guest room.

With a sigh, Bellamy stands up and makes another plate of leftovers. Emori sits awkwardly in the silence, unsure whether she should stay in the kitchen or not. She’s surprised when Bellamy holds the plate of leftovers out to her.

He nods towards the second floor where John disappeared. “You can go ahead and take this to him.” He sighs. “I doubt he’s eaten at all.”

--

Emori holds the plate out to John the minute she opens the door, hoping it will diffuse his anger before she has to deal with it. He’s lying across the bed, boots still on, eyes scrunched tightly closed, though he peeks one open to look at her when he hears the door. He eyes the plate of food warily.  

“What’s that?”

“A peace offering, I think,” she says, handing it over. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed as he sits up and pokes at the food a bit before he seems to conclude that Bellamy hasn’t poisoned it and takes a bite.

“Thanks."  

Emori shrugs, picking at a loose string on her glove. “Wasn’t me. I’m just the delivery person.” The room is unbearably quiet as John eats. Emori wishes the walls would swallow her whole. “Are you going to stay angry the whole time we’re here?” she asks finally.

John shrugs, movements jerky with anger. “Who knows?” he says. “Bellamy’s face just kind of makes me want to punch him.”

“There wasn’t anyone else we could have gone to?”  

“Not that I know of. Trigedasleng is pretty rare. Clarke’s the only person I’ve ever met who can read it. That’s how we met her in the first place, actually.” His expression sours the more he talks about Clarke, but Emori can’t help her curiosity.

“How does she know it then, if it’s so rare?”

“Something about impressing an old girlfriend, I think. Anyway...” He stacks his empty plate on the bedside table, dropping the fork onto it with a loud clack. “We’ll be out of here as soon as Clarke finishes translating.”

Emori wants to ask more questions, dig further into this strange autopsy of a relationship she’s stumbled into, but it isn’t her place and they’ve already agreed not to reveal more of themselves to one another than they need to.  

“Sounds good to me,” she says. It doesn’t matter what happened here, anyways; all that matters is finding the Flame. She and John will go their separate ways after that. She’ll have to be content with being forever curious.

--

Her hand itches something fierce. Scratching it through the glove doesn’t seem to help, but Emori doesn’t dare remove it while John’s in the room.

Luckily for her, he leaves the room at one point for the bathroom, and she takes advantage of his absence, pulling the glove off quickly. It’s probably the fabric of the glove itself; she’s had it so long it’s getting ratty and rough. Holes are starting to wear through the cloth. Pretty soon she’ll need to replace it.

She doesn’t notice John returning until a startled, “Oh, shit,” drags her attention to the doorway.

There’s no hope that he hasn’t seen it; his eyes are locked right on the warped, strange shape of her hand.

It looks vaguely claw-like, the fingers too long and twisted together into something almost like a pincer. She’s always likened it to a lobster claw, but Otan used to make “crabby” jokes when they were younger and she was moody. He was the only one who could get away with jokes like that, but he’s also the only one who had ever looked at it with anything other than disgust or pity.

She pulls her glove back on, staring at the bedspread below her to avoid John’s eyes.

He doesn’t say anything else when he comes back into the room and starts getting ready to sleep. Emori sits, waiting, feeling as if she’s on a cliff’s precipice and gravity just hasn’t kicked in yet. But John stays silent as he grabs a couple pillows and an extra blanket off the bed and begins arranging it on the floor.

Waiting for the strike is always the worst part. Once you’re hit, you can deal with the sting.

“Go ahead,” she says, twisting the worn fabric of the glove between her fingers. “Tell me how ugly it is. I know you want to."  

John looks at her with confusion. “What?”

“This.” She holds her hand up, and though he can’t see it through the glove, it doesn’t matter. He’s already seen it; it’s a hard sight to forget. “Trust me,” she laughs bitterly, “I’ve heard every insult you can imagine. You can’t surprise me.”

“No, I don’t – uh,” John stumbles over his words. He looks uncomfortable; along with disgust, that’s also a fairly familiar reaction. She curls over herself defensively, shoulders rising up to meet her ears. She isn’t expecting him to continue with, “I think it’s pretty badass.”  

She whips her head to stare at him.  

“What?” she asks, wavering between shock and suspicion.

“Yeah,” John says, nodding. “It’s unique, you know?” He smiles at her, and somehow he doesn’t look like he’s lying. It’s the first smile she’s seen on his face since they’ve been in this house."  

She stares at him as he lays down on his makeshift bed, squirming to try to get comfortable on the floor. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he says defensively. “I’m trying to go to sleep.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah, well. You’re on the bed.” He shrugs.

Is it pity? she wonders. Is that why he’s being kind?

Emori huffs out a sigh and pats the space next to her. John looks from the empty space she’s gesturing towards to her face.  

“I don’t know if I trust sleeping next to you. You probably sleep with a knife under your pillow.”

Emori snorts. “I promise I won’t stab you with it,” she says with a grin.

He huffs out a laugh, considers her offer for a moment, then gathers his pillows and lays beside her. She turns off the light and worms under the covers next to him. The bed is big enough that they can lay without touching, though it almost feels like there’s no space at all. She feels vulnerable and exposed.

It’s not a comfortable sort of silence that falls on them as they lay there, both awake, staring out into the darkness.

Emori is the first to break it. “So what happened between you and Bellamy?”

“I thought we didn’t need to know anything about each other.” His voice is sharp with bitterness as he repeats her own words back at her.

Emori digests that. He’s right; it was her suggestion in the first place.  

And yet. He’s already seen the thing she hides most dearly and barely reacted at all. It’s been days since she’s seen her brother; she longs to talk with someone who truly knows her. A part of her itches to expose everything else and see what part of her John finally flinches at.

When she opens her mouth, it all tumbles free.

“My mom dumped my brother and me on an orphanage’s doorstep. I was six. Otan was nine. We grew up there for a couple years, but then they wanted to put us in foster care, and we knew they were going to split us up, so we ran. I think I was fourteen. We lived on the streets for most of our lives. Otan tried to get odd jobs sometimes, but it was usually easier just to steal.

“We usually stole machines and resold them. I got really good at picking pockets. It sucked, but we made do, you know? A couple years ago, we got in with Baylis’s gang – it seemed like a pretty good gig. We were doing the same things we always did, pulling cons, stealing shit, but at least we had a place to stay and somewhere to belong. People to belong with. But Baylis was – he – it wasn’t worth it, whatever protection or community he offered – it was. He was terrible.” Her voice breaks. She swallows roughly and composes herself again.

“So one day, after he tried to take advantage of me again, I, I tried to kill him. Used a knife. Got him in the cheek instead of the neck. Managed to get away, though. So we ran. Took as much money as we could and got out of there before anyone else knew. We’ve been running for a year, and I really thought –'' She has to pause to blink the tears away. John says nothing. In the silent darkness, she can almost pretend he’s not even there. “Shit, I really thought we were safe. It’s the most optimistic and stupid I’ve ever been, and now Otan’s paying for it.”  

“But not if you get the Flame,” John says slowly.

“Right. Not if I get the Flame.”

John keeps quiet for a minute. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks finally.

Emori shrugs. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe I just wanted to tell someone. I told Otan everything, and he isn’t here anymore.”

“My dad died when I was seven,” John offers. “Mom drank herself to death after that. I got sent to foster care when I was twelve, bounced houses a couple times. But the foster house I was in during high school was the same one Bellamy and his sister were in. That’s how I met him.” He trails off uncertainly.

“That’s how you became friends?”

“Yeah, I guess. He told me all his stories about Polis. Octavia – his sister, real piece of work – used to laugh at us for being so obsessed with it, but I felt like the Flame was the answer to everything. I’d buy my own place and live by myself and never have to go to school again, never go hungry – like a king. It sounded like a miracle. Should have known it was too good to be true, I guess."

Emori turns over to face him. It’s too dark to see his features clearly, but she can make out his profile against the dim light creeping in through the window. After a moment, he turns on his side to face her.

“How long did you look for it?” she asks, genuinely curious.

She can just barely make out the shape of his lips as he purses them in a frown, thinking.

“We started seriously looking for it when I graduated. Bellamy was two years older than me, so he’d been out and working part-time at this shitty taco place near our school for a while, and he had a bit saved, so we took it and went searching in all the places we thought it could be. For years. All we ever found was the village.”

There’s an odd look to him as he talks. Emori tries to place it.

Wistful, she thinks.  

“Why’d you stop being friends?” She knows that’s the crux of the story. Whatever went wrong here still bothers him. It’s a fresh wound still, no matter how much time has passed; being here is picking at it. Perhaps she should back off, but she’s never been good at that. There’s a slight scar on one wrist from scratching and picking at a scab, over and over again, as it tried to heal.

John is silent for a long while. Emori worries she crossed a line. Maybe in the morning they’ll both rebuild their walls again and stop sharing more pieces of themselves with each other. She’s shockingly upset at the idea. It’s interesting finding out what makes John tick; he’s interesting.

“He met Clarke,” John says finally, and though that’s all he says, it’s simple to read between the lines. There’s something familiar about him; she thinks his scars probably look a lot like hers do. It’s the rejection that had hurt him the most – the feeling of being easily discarded for something new and prettier and nicer.  

“Well,” Emori says. “His loss.”

John doesn’t answer, but his silence is easier to handle after that. Eventually, Emori gets comfortable enough to drift off to sleep.

--

She awakes sometime later to an empty bed and the muffled sounds of an argument leaking up through the floorboards beneath her. She’s not sure if she’s more afraid of John jeopardizing their mission by angering their hosts or Bellamy hurting him; either way, she quickly slips out of bed and tip-toes silently down the stairs towards the room she can hear their voices bursting from.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” says a voice to her right.

She startles, turning to see Clarke sitting at the kitchen table slathering a bagel with peanut butter. The light isn’t on, but the streetlight beams down on her from the window behind her, casting sharp shadows on her face.  

The argument spikes in volume; Emori flinches.

“Shouldn’t we stop them?” she asks.  

Clarke glances towards the voices and takes a bite of her bagel. She shrugs. “Bellamy asked me not to.” She looks back at Emori hovering awkwardly in the doorway. “You can come sit down if you want.”

Emori does. Clarke holds out the second half of her bagel, and she gratefully takes it.  

“The worst part about pregnancy is I’m just hungry all the time,” Clarke says.

Emori shrugs. “Oh. I wouldn’t know.”

They fall into uncomfortable silence, eyeing each other across the table. Emori wonders just how much this woman hates her, for bringing this unwanted chaos into her house.

“How’d Murphy drag you into this anyways?” Clarke asks. The way she says John’s name sounds bitter and mean.

Emori lifts her chin and stares Clarke in the eye. “I dragged him into it, actually,” she says defensively.

“Oh.” Clarke looks lost for words. “Why?”

The truth card worked with her husband. Hopefully it will work with her, too.

“My brother was kidnapped. Giving the Flame to his kidnappers is my only hope of rescuing him.”

Shock passes over Clarke’s face. “That’s terrible. You – you should go to the police. Instead of going on some wild goose chase for them – "

“No,” Emori cuts her off forcefully. Not with their records. Not if the cost of getting her brother back would be losing him to jail. She doesn’t want to tell Clarke that, though. “They told me not to. I can’t.”

“But, Emori,” Clarke says, her voice sweet with the kind of sympathy that tastes more like pity, “I’m sure they can help. They’d know what to do better than you –“  

Emori digs her nails into the wooden chair beneath her and tries not to yell. She can’t risk angering the only woman who can help her. “Please. They said they’d hurt him. I can’t risk it. All I need is a way to find the Flame. You’re my only hope right now, Clarke.”  

She secretly thinks that Clarke must be the kind of woman who likes having her ego stroked, because Clarke drops the argument at that and nods. “Of course. I’ll do what I can to help.”

“Thank you.”

Clarke finishes her snack and stands slowly, pushing herself up with the help of the table. “I should get back to translating, then. The sooner you can find it, the better."  

When she’s gone, Emori’s tempted to resume her attempts to stop Bellamy and John’s argument but thinks better of it. She’s already played her cards right; she’s confident Bellamy and Clarke will help her regardless of how much they don’t like John. Or so she hopes. It wasn’t just a line to get Clarke on her side – Clarke really is her only hope.

Emori heads back up to the bedroom, but despite how comfortable the bed is and how nice the sheets are, she can’t get comfortable. Her thoughts tangle in circles and knots for hours. She lies awake until John reenters the room and slips back into place beside her. She’s just starting to drift off again when the sun begins to peek through the window.

--

The mood in the kitchen the next morning is not much improved from the previous night. John and Bellamy must have said all they wanted to in their late night argument, because neither of them say a word to each other as they sit at opposite sides of the table. Emori picks uncomfortably at the food Bellamy offered her, stomach rolling. Her head pounds a furious, unrelenting beat behind her eyes that even coffee can’t solve.

Just when she thinks she can’t handle another moment of stifling silence, Clarke saves them, entering the room with the journal and a stack of papers in her hands and a triumphant grin on her face. The other three look up at her eagerly.

Emori opens her mouth, but Bellamy beats her to it. “You found Polis?” he asks excitedly.

“Polaris, actually,” his wife corrects as she takes a seat beside him and steals a piece of bacon from his plate.

“What?” he asks weakly. He looks like his entire world has been shifted on its axle.

“The name of the city was Polaris; Polis must have been a mistranslation.”

John snorts. His grin looks irritatingly smug. “Wow. What kind of explorer doesn’t even get the name right?”

“Christopher Columbus,” Emori suggests dryly. Clarke lets out a laugh, but the other two hardly seem to hear her.

“What kind of con man gets caught?” Bellamy shoots back.

“I only got caught because your wife turned me in!”

Emori’s head hurts too much for another argument. She kicks John’s shin under the table and ignores his startled look of betrayal.

Bellamy continues, oblivious, “You got caught because you’re as bad a con man as you are a friend.”

John stands so suddenly his chair rocks back. “Well, you’re one to talk,” he growls. “I stuck with your stupid treasure hunt for years, and as soon as I found a job that would actually get us paid, you fucking turned on me –“

Emori shuts her eyes and digs a knuckle into the skin between her eyes, kneading at it uselessly.  

“A job?” Bellamy scoffs. “What – conning innocent people is a job now?”  

“ENOUGH!” It bursts out of her before she can help herself. “Whatever shit happened between you isn’t important right now. I’m trying to save my brother’s life.”

John at least has the good sense to look sorry as he takes his seat again.  

“You’re right,” Bellamy says. “Emori, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she says tersely. “Clarke?”

“Right.” Clarke sets the journal down on the table and shifts through the papers. “It mostly describes the destruction of the city of Polaris and the survivors’ journey to a new home. It’s lucky you found this. It practically gives you a step-by-step guide on how to find where Polaris was. The author was some sort of priestess, I think. It seems like she was hoping they could go home one day and wanted a way to find it again.”

“How was it destroyed?” Bellamy asks.  

“Magic,” Clarke answers. The other three stare at her with disbelief. She shrugs. “At least according to the author. She talks a lot about the Flame being magical, too, though, so I think it’s just their belief system. She mentions that a woman used the Flame to take control of Polaris and caused it to fall into ruin. She sounded like a pretty tyrannical leader.”

“So it just fell to tyranny and people fled?” Bellamy reasons. “How’d she use the Flame to take control though?”

“Isn’t it just a really valuable jewel of some kind?” Murphy adds.

“Not sure, actually. It doesn’t really clarify what the Flame was, but it seems like it might have played a part in the succession of a new ruler. I think they talk about the Flame being powerful because it was a sign of power. They use this one word,” she glances down at her notes, “ heda , a lot. I’m not familiar with it, but I think from context it means king or queen. Whoever was heda possessed the Flame.”

“So it might not actually be valuable at all by our standards?” Emori says, her stomach sinking to the floor. “It might just have been valuable in their culture.”

“You mean after everything it really could just be a stupid rock?” Murphy asks.

Clarke shrugs. “I don’t know. The journal doesn’t exactly explain everything. I’m just doing a lot of guessing based on context clues. But it does sound like the Flame got left in the ruins of Polaris. And,” she shakes the stack of papers in her hands slightly for emphasis, “this is basically a guide book to getting there.” She turns to Emori and hands her the stack. “I translated everything. Maybe you’ll be able to make more sense of it."

Bellamy opens his mouth, but Clarke answers his unspoken question before he can even ask. “Yes, I have another copy for you to satisfy your curiosity.”

The smile Bellamy gives his wife in return is dazzling. “I love you,” he tells her. John scoffs quietly.  

Emori starts skimming through the pages. There’s a lot here. Clarke has been more helpful than she ever expected. “You said it basically gives us a guide. To where?”

Clarke grabs an iPad sitting on the kitchen counter and pulls up a map of the Eastern United States. “The village Bellamy originally found was around here,” she says, pointing at a spot in Virginia. “The survivors traveled south through the mountains to get there, never leaving the mountains. At one point the author describes crossing a river. I’m guessing that would be here.” She points at where the Potomac bisects the Appalachian mountain range. “She also talks about how they made their decision to go South because of a large lake directly to the North of where they started. So my best guess is somewhere around here.” The spot she points to is in eastern Pennsylvania, where the Appalachian Mountains cross through the state, just south of something marked the Delaware Water Gap.  

“But that’s just my best guess,” she clarifies.

“People hike the Appalachians all the time. How has no one ever seen the ruins?” Bellamy asks.

“They lived underground,” Clarke says.

“Like in the village,” John says. “They built some kind of bunker.”

“Polaris wasn’t a bunker. They used the natural cave systems and built their city there to be protected from invaders. But they destroyed the entrance to the caves somehow before the left. It probably just looks like a lot of rumble.”

“So the entrance could be anywhere in this region of a massive mountain range? And it’s only marked by a pile of rocks” John asks, gesturing to the map. “That’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“It’s more to go on than we had previously, at least,” Emori says. She picks the journal up and flips to the page with the hand-drawn maps. There are two. One where the writer of the journal clearly tried to record their journey from Polaris to their new home. It doesn’t quite line up with the map Clarke’s pulled up of the Appalachian Mountains, but it’s close.

The second shows a much smaller region with specific landmarks and notes jotted alongside them.

“Did you translate this, too?” she asks.

Clarke nods and pulls out a page. “Here. That one,” she points at what looks like a crudely-drawn skull. “Is marked as Skull Rock. If it’s named for how it looks, that might be a good place to start.”

“But hundreds of years of weather could have worn it down,” Bellamy adds. “I wouldn’t count on finding it.”

John huffs in frustration, running a hand through his hair. “Great. So what do you suggest?”

Clarke grabs a pen and draws a familiar infinity symbol on the corner of the page. “They marked the entrance with this. They wanted to shut off the city, but whoever wrote this journal wanted to be able to find it again. She says she left this mark at several places along their journey – like a breadcrumb trail.”

“Breadcrumbs is right,” John mutters. “How in the world are we going to be able to spot that in a massive woods?"

“Look,” Clarke snaps. “I did my part. I helped you even though I should have kicked you out of my house the minute you stepped in it.”  

Another fight is brewing, and Emori doesn’t have the stomach to suffer it. Not now – not when they have a chance, however small. Nothing else matters right now.

“You did,” she tells Clarke, cutting John off. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” She looks at John. “We need to leave, now. Ontari had a map too. She might already be there.”

He nods reluctantly. Clearly he has more he wants to say to Clarke, but the desire to beat Ontari to the Flame must win out, because he stands. “You’re right. We should head out.”

“Emori,” Bellamy calls, and she pauses, turning back to look at him. “Good luck. If you need anything else – if we can help you find your brother in any other way – please call me. Here,” he grabs a post-it note and quickly jots down a phone number, thenhands it to her. Emori holds it in her hands, marveling at it.  

“Thank you.” The words catch in her throat. She pulls her eyes away from the number to stare into his eyes. She half-expects to find some sign of trickery there, but she only finds sincerity. It blows her away.

“Emori, come on,” John calls from the doorway.

“Right,” she says but hesitates. “Wait. I forgot something in our room.” John looks confused. They’d already packed up their bags early this morning and loaded them in the car, likely because John hadn’t wanted to stay any longer than they needed to. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”  

She hurries up the stairs and pauses in the hallway, glancing behind her to make sure no one has followed her. When she’s certain no one has, she makes her way down the hallway, passing the room they’d stayed in completely and heading towards Bellamy and Clarke’s instead. She slips in and stops at the jewelry box sitting on the dresser, then pulls the items she’s had hidden in her jacket pocket all morning free – a golden necklace and a set of jeweled earrings.  

She’d taken them on a whim early this morning, when she’d been certain that Clarke was downstairs in the study and Bellamy was in the kitchen, but now, with the translated journal waiting for her and Bellamy’s number in her pocket, the thought of taking them leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

With the items back in place, she hurries back downstairs. “Aright,” she tells John. “I’m ready."

“Hey Murphy,” Bellamy says. John looks at him expectantly. “Please find it so I can tell you I told you so. And don’t die before then, alright?”  

It almost, Emori thinks, sounds like a ‘be careful.’ If she wasn’t mistaken.  

John scoffs. “Like I’d give you the satisfaction,” he says before he leaves the house.

Emori looks back at Bellamy and Clarke. “Thank you,” she says again, clutching the journal and Clarke’s translations tightly, unsure how to tell them they’ve given her hope again.

John already has the car started by the time she gets there, and he wastes no time peeling out of the driveway once she’s seated. He still looks tense, hands tight on the wheel. As helpful as Bellamy and Clarke were, she can’t help but wonder how miserable he was in that house – how awful he’d felt seeing Bellamy make a new life without him.

“I’m so glad to be out of that house,” she admits. He glances at her in surprise. “God, it was so stuffy and perfect looking. I hated it.”

John snorts. “Everything was so white,” he adds. “Like a fucking hospital. Or a museum or something.”  

“Awful,” Emori agrees.

“Yeah.” He grins at her. She likes his smile. “It’ll be a couple hours, at least, to Pennsylvania,” he says as he turns up the radio.  

Emori nods, then looks down at the translated pages in her hands and settles in to read.

Unseen by either of them, a small black car follows them out of the neighborhood and onto the highway.

--

note: I have the full backstory for Murphy, Bellamy, and Clarke figured out, but it will never come up in this fic. Let me know if anyone’s curious!

Until next time! Stay healthy!

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun Part 4/? - Not At Rest Part 5/? - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/? - Sitamun Rises Again Part 7/? - The Curse of Madame Desrosiers Part 8/? - Sabotage at Guedelon Part 9/? - A Miracle Part 10/? - Desrosiers’ Elixir Part 11/? - Athens in October Part 12/? - The Man in Black Part 13/? - Mr. Neustadt Part 14/? - The Other Side of the Story Part 15/? - A Favour Part 16/? - A Knock on the Window Part 17/? - Sir Stephen and Buckeye Part 18/? - Books of Alchemy Part 19/? - The Answers Part 20/? - A Gift Left Behind Part 21/? - Santorini Part 22/? - What the Doves Found Part 23/? - A Thief in the Night Part 24/? - Healing Part 25/? - Newton’s Code Part 26/? - Montenegro Part 27/? - The Lost Relic Part 28/? - The Homunculinus Part 29/? - The End is Near Part 30/? - The Face of Evil Part 31/? - The Morning After Part 32/? - Next Stop Part 33/? - A Sighting in Messina Part 34/? - Taormina Part 35/? - Burning Part 36/? - Recovery

Nat comes to, and her friends are there for her.

Nat woke up in a bed, with Sir Stephen looking down at her.

“How long was I out?” she asked, and looked around.  Most of the walls were painted white, although the one behind the head of the bed was yellow, and the floor was hardwood.  Gold curtains covered a pair of French doors that led out onto a little balcony.  Above the bed were two stylized paintings of baskets of flowers, in inoffensive colours. This was a hotel room.  “Whose room is this?”

“The room is Madame Desrosiers’,” Sir Stephen replied.  “We didn’t think she’d be returning to it.  And you have been sleeping perhaps an hour.”

Nat sat up a little.  Sir Stephen was wearing a heather gray t-shirt now, but the burns he’d sustained were peeking out above the collar and below the sleeve.  These looked much improved, more like scar tissue than blistered skin – all trace would be gone by this time tomorrow.

She held up her burned hand.  It didn’t hurt anymore, and when she examined it, it looked completely whole.  Even her fingernails were back.  The only sign that anything odd had happened was a ragged tan line around her wrist, where the new pale skin met the part that had been out in the Mediterranean sun all week.  She flexed the fingers.  They were a little stiff, and prickled as if she’d been sitting on them and the circulation was only just coming back, but there was nothing apparently wrong with them.

“Where are Newton and Desrosiers, then?” asked Nat.

“They escaped into the hills while we were seeing to you,” said Sir Stephen. “Sam, Clint, and Sharon have gone to search for them.  All three are well-armed.  Your father and Jim wanted to stay here with you, and Sharon made me stay, too, in case the alchemists returned to finish what they began.”  He turned to the doorway.

Allen must have heard her voice, because he was on his way into the room. He set his coffee cup down on the bedside table, sat down on the bed, and gave Nat a hug.  Nothing was said, he just sat there clutching her so tight, it almost made her ribs creak.

When he finally sat up again, with tears in his eyes, he took her restored hand in both of hers.  She squeezed his fingers.  When she’d been hurt in the past, the only people who took an interest were the doctors, cold and clinical, repairing her so she could be of further use.  Now here was Allen, whose own world would have ended if she’d been hurt.  It was a warm, safe feeling, at the same time as it seemed like a tremendous responsibility.

“I’m okay, Dad,” she said.

“I know.”  He brushed her cheek.  “Thank heavens.”

Jim was now standing in the doorway, although he was hanging back to give Nat and Allen a bit of space.  Natasha wiped her own eyes – where had those tears come from – and smiled at him. “Thanks,” she said.

“Don’t mention it.”  Jim held up a hand.

“No,” said Natasha.  “That was five days of your life.”

“Maybe not that much,” Jim said.  “We used some on the bird.”

“Still,” Nat insisted.  “Thank you.”

He smiled softly.  “You’re welcome.”

The others returned after midnight, empty-handed and disappointed.  There were hundreds of little towns and farms on the slopes of Mount Etna, some of them now being evacuated ahead of what was looking more and more like a potentially serious eruption.  The police had refused to let them go as high as they would have liked, and they’d eventually had to admit that they didn’t have a hope of finding Desrosiers and Newton.  Then on their way back to Taormina, they’d gotten stuck in traffic, crawling along for hours as everybody tried to go the same way on roads that had not been well-maintained.

“Did you at least get Laura her pistachios?” Natasha asked.

“Yes, I did!” said Clint proudly.  He put two bags of them on the table, and then took out a cluster of rather more mysterious objects, held together on raffia like a bunch of fish on a string. “Also this ceramic garlic.  They had it at a place here in town.  There were all kinds of ceramic fruits and vegetables, but I thought the garlic was coolest.”

“What’s she gonna do with ceramic garlic?” asked Jim.

“I don’t know, I just thought it was neat,” Clint confessed with a shrug.  The cloves, which were hollow, rang softly against one another as they twisted on the raffia.

“Maybe it’ll keep away ceramic vampires,” Nat suggested.

“You must be feeling better,” Sharon observed.

Nat flexed her hand again.  It was no wonder, she thought, that Clint kept rubbing at his side.  It was a weird feeling, knowing she’d been injured but not having any evidence of it.  It was as if the new skin itched but on the inside, where she couldn’t scratch it. She wondered if Jim felt that over his whole body.

“The ferries are jammed with people evacuating,” Sharon said with a yawn. “So we can’t go back to the mainland until tomorrow at the earliest.  According to the radio, scientists keep saying the volcano won’t erupt violently, but it’s hard to believe that when the government is working so hard at pulling people out.”

“That’s probably exactly the way the alchemists like it,” Nat said, lying back on the pillows again.  She had expected to be exhausted, as if being healed by the elixir ought to be hard work, but she felt fine.  “They want to work in privacy, so emptying all the surrounding towns is perfect for them. Especially if they’re going to create the stone in or around the volcanic crater.”

“Desrosiers said that was stupid,” Clint reminded her.

“I don’t think we can believe a word Desrosiers says about anything, including that,” Nat replied.

“Great,” Clint grumbled.

“Maybe you can get Laura one of those necklaces made of the lava stones,” Sharon suggested.

The others all seemed to be tired, and one by one they retired to sleep on the sofa, in the chairs, even on the floor of the hotel room, leaving the bed for Natasha.  It would have been a pretty useless gesture anyway, as Nat was used to sleeping in uncomfortable places, but there was also the fact that she wasn’t tired.  It was as if the elixir had come with a shot of energy drink.  She managed to doze a little, and then woke up with a warm breeze on her face.

Everybody else was asleep – except for one figure, who was standing out on the balcony with the doors open.  Nat wasn’t surprised to see that it was Jim.

The windows on this side of the building faced towards the volcano.  With the street so narrow and other buildings all around them, the peak of Etna was not visible from the balcony, but the rising column of steam was lit ruby red from below, flickering as the lava bubbled, crusted, cooled, and then welled up again.  Nat got up and crossed to the window to stand next to Jim.

“Quite a show, huh?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

“Another thing you’re grateful you got to see?” Nat asked.

“Maybe,” he said.  “Volcanoes are neat… it would be cool to get up there sometime when it’s not actually erupting.  To get a look at the craters and rock formations.”

“You know those things exist,” Nat mused.  “How do you know it?”

“I have no idea,” Jim admitted, shaking his head slowly.

“What do you know about the philosopher’s stone?” asked Nat.

Jim had to think about it a minute.  “I couldn’t read that stuff he wrote out in his journals… I wonder if that’s because he can’t easily read the code, either.  Maybe I only know the stuff he knows without thinking about it.  But I know that the stone uses nuclear reactions to rearrange matter, copying a template.  It’s sort of like the cells I’m made of.  They use the DNA they’re given to rearrange themselves.  That seems to be the basis of alchemy: learning what nature’s templates are and how to copy them and create something new.”  

“So he needs gold if he wants to make more gold,” said Natasha.  The standard joke, as presented in half a dozen Terry Pratchett books was that alchemists could turn gold into less gold.  “And a feather from the holy spirit to make himself a god.”

“You don’t think that’s gonna work, do you?” Jim asked.  He was clearly unsure himself, but then he had reason to be concerned about what Newton was capable of, if anyone did.

“No,” Nat replied firmly.  “Mostly because I don’t think their sacred feather is a real relic.  A feather just wouldn’t last that long.  I’ve seen human hair that was only five hundred years old, and it was all bleached and basically just turned to dust the moment it was touched.  Since the pigeons are dark, I suspect it’s from a seagull.  That means all Newton will accomplish with it is turning himself into a bird, or maybe a whole flock of them, or just a weird mass of keratin.” It depended on how much detail the philosopher’s stone could replicate something in.

“Sorry,” she added a moment later.  “You don’t want to hear things like that, do you?”

“Not really.”  He reached for her hand, then hesitated.  “You don’t think… since those cells have no DNA in them and don’t necessarily know which body they belong to, if we touch, will we stick together?”

Nat shrugged and touched his fingers with her right hand.  It felt normal.  “Looks like no.”

They stayed there a few minutes longer, watching the smoke glow red and orange. It would flicker and die and then start up again, over and over as the lava simmered below.  It was the kind of thing people usually only saw on television or in National Geographic magazine. Knowing it was only a hundred miles away was exhilarating.

Then it stopped.

Because of the long cycle of flickering, it took a moment for Natasha to realize that it wasn’t going to start up again.  The mist around the peak was still present, lit from below by the lights of the towns and the traffic, but the glow of the volcano itself had died out.

“I guess it’s done for tonight,” said Nat.

“Yeah,” said Jim.  “Looks like even the volcano wants me to go to bed.”

Nat knew how to put him to sleep now.  “Come with me,” she said, squeezing his fingers.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I want you to,” she said.

“You don’t need me,” Jim said.  “You’ve got your friends and your father here.  They’ll look after you.”  He was reminding her that they were permanent and he was not – and that she had real human relationships and he could not, and he didn’t want her to sleep with him out of pity.

“Yeah, but right now I want you,” she said.  Jim needed to feel wanted.  So, honestly, did Nat sometimes.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Very sure,” she said.

“All right.”  He stroked her cheek with his thumb, and she smiled at him as he leaned down to let their foreheads touch.  “They’re all gonna see us when they wake up.”

“They can say whatever they want,” Nat replied.  If anybody wanted to judge them, she would let them know exactly what she thought of that.

[randomthingsthatilike1]

Was talking with @tomas-abe​ about this--have you ever thought of a supergirl leverage au?

Honestly, I’ve talked so much about how Kara isn’t a horrible liar—she’s a phenomenal liar. She makes everyone think she’s a bumbling, harmless, ordinary, average human—her kindness isn’t a lie, but as we’ve seen with RedK—it is a choice. And we’ve seen her with Clark— “you really have the clumsy thing down.” But for Clark that was real. For Kara, it’s an act. She’s the heir to a house renowned throughout the galaxy for its scientists—and she was about to become the youngest person in Krypton’s history to enter the science guild. But she was told over and over and over to be ordinary, average, unremarkable—to hide herself, hide anything that marks her as alien. She’s a genius in a room full of preschoolers who are just now learning concepts that she’s understood since before she could walk—of course she’s bored with earth science.

Supergirl isn’t a lie, but it’s not quite the truth either—and neither is Kara Danvers. Both are part of her, but at the same time they’re both personas that she embodies and can step into almost at the drop of a hat—they are constructed and built. And yes, when outright confronted, she is a horrible bluff—she can’t do it. But almost everyone forgets or glosses over how much pain Kara must always be in, the anger she carries inside of her of being the very last, of being sent away, of being alone. They forget that she is not simply a human with powers but forever and always Kryptonian with powers—like how everyone thinks of Clark, like we’ve seen in Myriad how even Clark thinks of himself, Kara never thinks of herself as human. She has a different language and values and culture and religion and she fools everyone into thinking that she’s just like them(for more about this, here’s the post I made that’s a lot more comprehensive). That isn’t Kara’s stage. This kind of complicated and woven falsehood is her stage. Sound like anyone?

Kara would totally be a grifter. Especially a Kara who wasn’t found by Clark, who wasn’t found by the Danvers—this is Kara without a purpose, who sees her cousin flying over Metropolis with the house of El’s Crest on his chest and doesn’t need her. She has nothing to live for—so she wanders, constantly pretending to be someone else and she gets good at it. She has a soft spot for swindling people who violate environmental laws because it’s easier—and never goes after anyone who doesn’t deserve it. That doesn’t mean it’s necessarily legal. She’s also got a soft spot for art—it’s marvelous, in a way even Krypton never was. And grifting is something that makes her feel alive, covering up for just a little bit the gaping hole in her heart where Krypton used to be. And really, she doesn’t have very many ties, or attachments—she travels light, easily able to switch identities and leave at the drop of a hat. There’s this undercurrent of sadness in all of her identities, even with the happiest of her personas—which just makes her a mystery and all the more magnetic to the people she’s trying to con—she’s able to seem so damn genuine and sincere it’s addicting.

Not to mention someone who can easily see everyone’s tells because of advance senses, hear their heartbeat and see infinitesimal twitches and expressions that pass in a millisecond—she didn’t visibly use her powers as Cat’s assistant, but she still kept the job for 2 years before using super speed or strength—and that was because of how well she could read Cat, who went through probably hundreds of assistants before finding Kara. That would be essential for a grifter. Plus, we know that she learned English in less than a week. An entire language in just a handful of days—being able to learn regional dialect and adopt accents and

She goes by so many aliases, trying to run away from the memory of krypton. But her current alias? Kiera. Kiera Deveraux.

Kara woke up alone on Earth and saw her no longer baby cousin with their family crest on his chest doing perfectly fine—he’s grown, he doesn’t need her. How would he even know about Kara in the first place, or any of it? Kara’s been doing this since she was 13, and now she’s probably 30 something, maybe 32. We’ve had Clark even say—Kryptonians age very slowly. She still looks like she’s in her early 20’s. She doesn’t seem to age maybe that makes her even more legendary but she likes to use make up to make her look older because that truly fucks with people, although she never goes after bad people.

One thing that is truly different from Krypton, and not in a bad way, or a lesser way, is the way humans create art—she loves art. And it’s something that she bonds over with their thief.

As for who’s Nate, the alcoholic whose young son died because of corporate greed, the mastermind who thinks of every contingency and almost obsessively observes and analyzes? Why, that’s none other than Cat Grant. Cat Grant

Cat, who was a war correspondent for the Daily Planet but god that was so much danger, maybe too much when she finds out she’s pregnant with Carter—she wanted a break from them and she made a split-second decision. She’s still planning on creating CatCo, but that takes money. And she’s not asking her mother for it. Journalism doesn’t pay all that much frankly—and she gets a commission off of the things that she recovers.

But she spends every single cent she saved up for CatCo paying for medical bills for her son. She has so many regrets in her life—this isn’t one of them.

She hasn’t talked to her ex in months—M’gann as Maggie, much more adjusted, still hurting but not self-destructing and spiraling like Cat is. They met when Cat was pregnant, Carter the result of an impulsive and kind of crappy one-night stand that she has no desire to track down. This is a Cat who knows about aliens maybe, a bit more discreet. Except—M’gann maybe isn’t the most-adjusted because hospital bills are expensive, and Carter may not be biologically hers but he was still her son too and she would have done anything to help pay for those medical bills—including illegal and shady alien fight rings to help pay for medical bills, almost killing herself in the process. The week Carter died M’gann could barely even walk.

It’s why Cat never told M’gann about the experimental treatment she found. There was nothing her wife could have done.

By the time the series starts she’s definitely drinking her life away, and divorced from her ex.

So—I’m guessing it’s not much of a surprise to say that Alex is the hitter. This is Alex without growing up as Kara’s little sister, without losing her father. Without the pressure of being an older sibling to a special needs child being raised by a single mother—without the worry that if Kara was found to be special needs she would die, because if anyone other than the DEO (and trust me, intelligence agencies are notorious for being petty and not sharing information. They probably keep it to themselves) finds out about Kara she will be taken apart molecule by molecule. This is an Eliza who has Jeremiah to temper her, and a hell of a lot less stress. Alex probably has the most stable childhood and came out of it with minimal scarring.

Sure, maybe the DEO came knocking but this is the Danvers family with nothing to lose—they could threaten Alex, but the Danvers can threaten to expose the DEO. In canon, it would be mutually assured destruction with the Danvers exposing the DEO and the DEO likewise exposing Kara. Not the case here. Once the DEO came sniffing Jeremiah and Eliza enrolled Alex in a shit ton of martial arts class. And just remember, Alex was a surfer—her balance is phenomenal to start with. She has years of training in childhood to get a leg up, and she gets into competitions in college—Alex is always competitive, always a need to strive and be the best, especially since she lives a childhood without Kara. She hasn’t found out quite yet that there are more important things than being the star.

This is Alex without intense depression, guilt, anxiety, and massive responsibility on her shoulders—Alex parties sure, but not a supreme or unhealthy amount. She’s able to finish her post grad studies and med school almost faster than the time that it takes for people to get their undergrad degree, her parents supporting her decisions and hoping their daughter follows in their footsteps. But it’s not quite that simple.

Intelligence agencies frequently recruit from elite colleges. Alex changed so much when she made the decision to be Kara's protector—she’s a different person, one who maybe feels a bit purposeless, and wants to serve. It definitely causes a wedge between her and her parents. They don’t want that life for her, they want her to become a doctor and a scientist and to be safe. But Alex has never wanted to be safe, just extraordinary. It causes a falling out between them. She definitely is a field agent, and probably did some pretty shifty things. And then went to work for Damien Moreau.

Wow, did that get fucked up. She becomes the retrieval specialist/hitter.

In every world, it is Kara who brings out Alex Danvers' protective spirit. Even this version of Kara who is warier and a little less openly heroic—she sees danger or someone getting hurt around her and of course she helps, but not in the same flashy way as before. Alex looks at her and thinks "this dork needs to be protected." And in every universe Alex becomes protective of Kara, and at first it’s because Kara is so damn seemingly hesitant and gentle and clumsy, and doesn't know it's bc Kara is always trying not to hurt someone

But God later, later it's so Kara will never accidentally kill someone and then, when she finds out that Kara is this way because of her super strength, she becomes all the more protective when she finds out it’s because Kara doesn’t want to accidentally kill someone. When she learns the truth it actually makes Alex want to protect her even more. But like, emotionally. Like "this gentle thoughtful alien has to worry about being gentle always so you better not startle her you asshole"

But surprisingly out of all of them Alex probably has the least traumatizing childhood tbh. Post childhood is a different story.  all that shit, she has a skillset already. Instead of acting, she’s terrorizing undergrads as a professor—she does have a PhD. She’s not Elliot, she doesn’t need food and something useful to do with her knives like he does. She has an MD and can practice medicine but she never really did a residency anywhere—plenty of field experience though. She’s been trying to the whole teaching thing for like the past year.

And when they all get together for their first job, and even after it all goes sideways Kara still doesn't really trust these people so no way was she revealing that she could probably be more effective than most hitters. So when Cat gets the crew to stay together she's like ���this can be dangerous so I'm getting us a hitter,” Kara stays silent. Cat and Alex knew each other for a long time when cat was finishing her time as a war correspondent Alex was just getting her start. You know how they find Sophie at a theater? They find Alex at a lab, since she wasn't hired for that con they didn’t get a hitter they got a grifter instead—Kara.

Nate and Sophie knew each other ahead of time, but in this story? It’s Alex and Cat. Kara isn’t Sophie, she wouldn’t try and walk on the straight and narrow by being an actor—that’s not what she wants. But Alex? Alex has a PhD. Alex has been trying to teach college kids for the past year as a professor, but before that, on her very first job? Involved a run in with a certain war correspondent—Cat Grant. They kept in touch and now the gang needs a hitter unrelated to them and oh Cat has the perfect candidate.

Also, if in every universe Kara brings out Alex's protective side? in every universe, Kara would expose herself for Alex and save her plane from crashing. There was that time the plane blew up, and maybe they couldn’t stop it—Kara isn’t going to let everyone she cares about die. Not again. She reveals herself for the first time since she landed on Earth—and that’s when things start to get interesting.

And next: their thief: the one and only Lucy Lane. Her mom signs her up for both dance (primarily ballet--but really the type of dance can change depending on what’s close to the base they’re on and which dance classes the country they’re in offers)—and gymnastics from a young age. We’ve heard plenty of General Sam Lane, and we know that he’s both Lucy’s father and Lois’s—along with the fact that Lois and Lucy have an age difference, and they’re not close. But what we know absolutely nothing about? Lucy’s mother. Because I kind of hc that Lucy spent a lot of time abroad going from base to base growing up. And maybe something happening to her mother, also when she was young. Now, there’s just one question: what happened to her?

So. There are a few options. Maybe she was sick. Maybe one of her dad’s enemies happened—either one he made domestically, or internationally. You don’t get to be a general without coming out enemy free. Especially from someone like Sam Lane. This is a man who has absolutely no compunction about torturing someone, who’s xenophobic as fuck and we’ve seen with James is pretty damn racist as well (and most likely homophobic tbh)—and Jenna Dewan Tatum is Lebanese. So I def hc Lucy as Lebanese, and Lois has a different mother (and yeah, you can totally be racist if you’re married to someone who isn’t white). He very well could have done something to Lucy’s mother. Or maybe even she just left—it’s not easy being Sam Lane’s wife.

If it was her dad's fault there's a very good chance he goes weeks without talking to her and maybe that’s the first time she stole. It’s been 3 weeks forgot to leave little Lucy money for takeout or groceries and she’s all by herself, recently moved to a new country so no one knows her, Lois gone, she doesn't know how to talk to her sister, and this is before cell phones and she definitely doesn’t have an email, and esp w international communication there's no skype. In one universe she decides against it, collapses on the floor where her father finds her and has a massive freak out, internally promising to change his behavior and stop neglecting his daughter so much but in this one? This one she goes out and steals for the first time gets a taste for it.

It helps that there are so many asshole men in the military, there was that line about not wanting to work for old white men. As an adult, she doesn’t steal from anyone who can afford it, but as a kid she’s mostly just trying to get by with a neglectful father, picking victims at random but going for the ones who at least dress like they won’t miss the wallet too much. But maybe, when they’re back in the States for the first time in years, Lucy steals from the wrong person—and Archie does exist in this world as well. He takes her in, but not really--the same thing he does to Parker. He teaches Lucy, and she gets good fast.

Lucy’s 14, 15 when she leaves her father for good. It’s not the first time she runs away but it’s the first time she doesn’t come back, or the first time Sam can’t find her again. Because he’s now General Sam Lane, he has subordinates who would go and find her but this is when they're back in the US and they’re a bit more limited now. One day she just packs up a few things that she doesn’t want to leave behind and poof. Disappears. She’s not quite a master thief but damn she’s getting there. She kept up with ballet and gymnastics, Sam thinking that it would be good structure but jokes on him.

So much of the art Lucy steals was either created by old white men, or stolen by old white men. She later doesn’t feel bad about taking it. This is a Lucy who was always on her own, with so many questions, traveling from place to place and never really made friends so she doesn’t quite get people, not really.

So that just leaves the hacker: Lena. Her background would still be the same, adopted at 4, hated by Lillian, Lex a good big brother and loving and welcoming. And maybe Lena’s 12, maybe she was being teased a bit at her fancy boarding school for being too smart and pudgy and has really bad acne that won’t go away no matter how much Lillian pays dermatologists and Lillian wants her to wear contacts but she has glasses she really likes and is very publicly known to be adopted and is not at all heterosexual and is surrounded by pretty girls at school all the time, the poor baby gay.

Basically, the absolute worst things to be in middle school all in one girl. and Lex, her still darling older brother who loves his sister more than anything, tells her that she just needs to figure out how to be cool and is like you know what's cool? Motorcycles. He makes his baby sister be in full protection, but he’s just in his usual suit, not wearing even a helmet.

Lena was behind the wheel, Lex letting her drive and is right behind her. There was a crash and Lex insisted that Lena wear a helmet, but he didn’t. And Lena wakes up in the hospital, arm broken, a concussion, and her brother dead. Can you imagine how much Lillian would be on the warpath? She knows that Lillian doesn’t like her but this time she sincerely worries that Lillian will kill her for this. She’s sometimes worried about her safety but not really her life—not until now. So. She runs. Lena goes by her birth mother’s last name, not Luthor—that’s far too distinctive.

She gathers as much cash as she can. It’s not immediately, of course. It’s over a few weeks. She continually takes out slightly over average for the Luthor’s weekly allowed amount of money from her account, not too distinctive but paying in cash stops a lot of questions from ever being asked.

She’s definitely the youngest out of the bunch. But Lex taught her more than how to ride a motorcycle, he also taught her to hack until she was just as good as he was—maybe even better. That’s when she disappears. She's a kid but she knows how to hack her way into leaving hotel reservations and accounts--leaves a back door into Luthorcorp if she ever needs it. But she never uses it.

She doesn’t want to be traced or found, doesn’t want to be reminded of Lex, of what she fucked up. Lex was the golden boy who was saving the world, everyone loved Lex, Lena most of all. This isn’t the Lex who tried to kill her. Some signs of mental issues there, like not wearing any protection riding a motorcycle but nothing like trying to kill his baby sister, or xenophobia.

And damn, this is a world without Lex Luthor. Without his influence, or quite a few of his inventions, or any of his xenophobia but with so much more of Lillian’s hate and rage.

And God, she’s season one Parker level of uncomfortable when grifting. She can channel who she was expected to be as a Luthor, but that’s kind of the extent that she can do. She spent so much time alone, and she’s already awkward, to say the least, before her brother’s death. Lex was one of, if not the only, person who understood her.

Lena grew up a Luthor, and then was a hacker. She probably spent a lot of time in hotels, especially since she ran away so young, she tried her very best to avoid people but she knows how to look like she fits in to those fancy hotels thanks to years with the Luthors, she doesn’t look like a runaway but god she’s so bad with people, she tries avoiding them as much as possible and she’s so awkward looking as a kid and a teenager and it’s just when she meets the Leverage crew is she finally starting to grow into her looks—she’s not used to being hot tbh.

Also I’ve wondered, especially in later seasons, how the leverage gang got so many clients because even just word of mouth like they go all over the country and even the world—we saw that ep w Parker’s torn ACL that they go to Japan, and in the ep with the boy’s heart they were coming back from a con. There may very well be someone doing referrals. And that person here? Is Diana of Themyscira, art museum curator. After all, the leverage gang acquires so much art, they send it somewhere. And they trust Diana

It’s not just Diana, and it is a lot of word of mouth, but they probably have someone in a law office or courthouse or something who sends along cases/failed lawsuits and with Maggie? She’s always gonna be in the criminal justice system, but what if instead of a cop she became a lawyer? She sees the system fail people over and over and somehow hears about Leverage Team and starts sending people to them. And like, Maggie as a lawyer can still be kind of a daredevil! She's that lawyer that picks up hopeless cases and fights against big powerful people at the stand—think of season 1 of arrow Laurel Lance. Team Leverage has to rescue her from kidnappings and thugs sent to beat her up relatively often (except Maggie Sawyer knows how to defend herself thank you very much so they sometimes just have to do some clean-up or Lena some hacking to get back at the people threatening their friend)

And then there’s James and Winn—hello the show’s version of McSweeten and Taggert. So to start: James. Not every single major event in someone’s lives needs to be because of a world shattering story, like a sister who falls from the sky. Maybe it could be something simple, something you don’t even think about. there was a delay the day James was in metropolis, before he took that photo of Superman. Maybe there was a simple flat tire keeping him home-bound, or he stayed after a class to talk to a professor. Because that photo might be what got him a job at the Daily Planet and definitely a Pulitzer. Canon James described himself as just a kid with a camera, and let’s say Clark is like what, 22 when he debuted? Let’s make James about 4 years younger—around 18.

James double majored in both Peace and Justice alongside Photography, sold that photo of Superman for an absolute king’s ransom, and he drops out of school to be a full-time photographer. But that doesn’t happen here. Being good at looking at a scene and observing every single thing that happens is still a p good skill for an FBI agent honestly? could be something inconsequential. “An eye for detail" is what his instructor says when he's up for promotion into full-fledged agent. He’s always wanted to help people, be a guardian for others. This is how he does it. Knowing what to photograph for evidence, maybe how to case a place, or even as a cover? is a pretty good skillset for an FBI agent to have frankly.

And then there’s Winn. Consider this: if Cat doesn’t establish CatCo, then Winn wouldn’t work there. Winn is the son of the Toymaker, a child murderer. Winn wants absolutely nothing to do with his father, publicly renounces him and hasn’t ever visited him before. He joins the FBI hoping he can use the skills his father taught him to do good and to keep him on the straight and narrow and stop him from ever becoming like him. Maybe starts as a forensic computer analyst and works his way up.

This is the only pairing that I’ve decided on but James and Winn definitely get together and poor James, he’s been flirting with Winn for so long and Winn just doesn’t notice.

They’re a rag tag group of people, and the only ones of the 5 that go by their real last name are Alex and Cat. Lena doesn’t want the Luthors to find her, and Lucy doesn’t want her Lois or the General to find her—she barely remembers Lois, and what she does remember is someone who never really cared about her. And Kara wears personas like a wardrobe—she’s never told anyone her name before.

The four of them are all brought together for one con—but the con’s on them, although not for long. Mon-El (who’s human in this—guess what I do make the rules) really shouldn’t have tried to use Cat’s son. He doesn’t even know what hit him.

[fanfics-bts]

Just Another Salty Customer / A Yoonmin Oneshot

Genre : Fluffy fluff , Coffeeshop! au.

Requested by anon. Hope you like it! <3</b>

(requests are open!!)

Fic:

It was a slow day where Jimin was working, brewing coffee and writing orders in a small cafe downtown. The cafe was near to empty with white noises of the music playing in maybe some party/ies down the block.

It made sense that there would be parties since it was a Friday night, and Friday nights for people unlike Jimin and the old couple sitting at the corner table, meant parties or in their words “fun”. Jimin knew better than to be like that or to stay with people like that, he liked to think she was mature. Why do you wanna sell your youth away for these bizarre things? he thought. Completely ignoring the fact that even if he had been given the chance to enjoy parties, he couldn’t. Because a) he’s not much of a social butterfly if you couldn’t already tell and b) he’d rather spend his precious time writing lyrics or reading books. . : . Dazed out in his own thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the ring of the door bell clingking when a black-hooded figure came in . (he got scared for a second,-what if he’s a thief-, but then his red tinted puffed face with those cat like eyes said the opposite of scary) He put money on the counter with a slight bang,“ Black coffee, no sugar”, he huffed out, his voice sounding grumpy. He looked at him and smiled a little as he set up the coffee machine, and Jimin ..being Jimin just has to make conversation, “Coffee in a Friday night.. tough day huh?”, he said . He only gruffed and said “ Stop talking”. He smiled even more, his eyes turning into crescents, “ Someone’s salty, you sure you don’t wanna add some Sugar to the coffee of yours?” “ Just shut up”, he said .And this time Jimin listened. He eyed the boy’s  tired self, the hoodie hiding most if not all of his features, except for his disgruntled face. But he tried to mind his own business with this and started making his order. ~•~ “Here you go.” he said and smiled . “ Have a goo-” he said but was cut off by the door bell signaling his leave. Aish, he sighed. He hated salty customers like that raven haired dude, but oh well. He has a job to do and money to earn. ~•~ The next day, around the same time he had come back yet again, except he didn’t look tired and wasn’t wearing a hoodie that would swallow him up. He wore light blue jeans and a black t-shirt , his hair pushed back, you could see his face a bit clearer this time around, and as much as Jimin hated to admit it, the salty dude was actually pretty handsome. He realised she was staring and so he fuzzily and quickly went back to his  work. (he has been swiping the same cup for minutes now ) He had gotten what looked like iced coffee and was about to leave when he saw Jimin looking at him..dang it,you stupid Jimin .And then he saw the boy was speed walking to him. Jimin wasn’t in charge of the counter, so it was pretty clear that the other boy was walking to him as he was somewhere opposite to the counter where the boy had gotten the said coffee of his. And the closer he came, the more the angry expression of his face came to sight. Oh lord he looks furious…and kind of good-*cough*, he internally facepalms at her thoughts. What the hell, Jimin. he thinks. “You.” , he started with venom in both his speech and cold glare. He faced her and smiled(sarcastically that is) “well hello.” “Where is it?”, he grumbled. “Wha-”, he said but was interrupted again “ you know what I’m talking about now give it back”., he put his hand out. “Okay, look you’re not making any sense right now and I have a job to do so ple-” he says but got interrupted (yet again) when he grabbed the slightly shorter boy by the arm and pulled him. He yelped in a not-so-manly way as he was now face to face with the boy…well more like face to chest because of obvious height differences . (Jimin tries not to fawn much over how firm his *cough* chest is …) he tried to get away but didn’t quite work out . Damn it,he’s strong. He came closer to the shorter boy’s face, so close he that could feel his soft breaths, and the boy could count the eyelashes adorning his light brown eyes. “Where’s .. My..Notebook?”, he said in a gruff voice that sent goosebumps shivering to his spine. “I d-don’t know..what you’re t-talking about”, Jimin stutters. And damn him for getting all stuttery just from being close to a boy.(A really good looking guy at that) He hates himself for getting all flustered, but it only makes sense knowing that he hadn’t even kissed a boy before (despite knowing his sexuality) ..and thinking that only made him even more flustered, because now he was looking at his lips and  goddamnit Jennie stop he’s just another salty customer.

The-raven-haired-guy-he-didn’t-know-the-name-of had noticed him staring, making him smirk a little . He let go of him now, with that one-hell-of-a-stupid-yet-goddamn-attractive-smirk still plastered on his face he spoke again,“ Alright”, he raised his hands up in a surrender-like motion, “ If you say so”, with that he turned around to walk away, but turned back,contemplating on speaking what it was that he wanted to say. “ It has just has something really important in it.”, he said. “Oh..and tell me if you find it.” He added with a wink and left . To say Jimin was overwhelmed was the least you could say, How would he tell him if he doesn’t even know the boy’s name? And...Did he just wink at me?! He almost internally screamed out of frustration, his heart was beating a mile per hour, what was up with Jimin and this guy. And what is it about him that makes Jimin feel so agitated and annoyed yet flustered and mushy?! He didn’t know what it all meant, but in the end she was left flustered for that cute …wait what? No! Stop it, Cheezus Jiminie!!. ~•~ 3 hours later. Jimin was the  person in charge of the cafe that day so as expected, he had to lock all the doors. He takes the money earned for the day to the storage room.

As he goes out, he notices a small black journal lying on the counter shelf near the cashier. Curiosity got to him as he strides his way towards the notebook that’s definitely not supposed to be there.

Jimin picks up the notebook, eyeing it , it was a black leather journal with a pen clicked on to it. He opens the first page and sees the name ‘MIN YOONGI’ written in capital.

Someone probably left it here, he thinks. And as he thinks that, his mind goes to that one customer who had asked Jimin for his “very important notebook”. Maybe this was his..?

Jimin was thinking a lot of things but the first thing he took note of was that,

The boy’s name was  Min Yoongi.

“Min Yoongi” he mumbles, testing the sound of the salty-yet-cute customer's​ name.

He should’ve just closed it and left it for when he comes looking again, but being the curious boy he is, he turned the page.

He’s just looking for his contact info, that’s all. He convinces himself.

The page was filled with inked letters, written in a cursive handwriting. He read it,

“ The first time I saw you, you’re a white cream mocha,

And your eyes, a sweeter sweet than cafe latte.

​​​​​​And now I’m thinkin maybe you’re Americano

Be​​​​​cause you got this strong effect on me

But now I know , you’re a caramel macchiato,

With your cat-like smile and caramel brown hair.

And as much as I am embarrassed to say, I think you look really pretty."​​ 

Jimin’s heart skipped a beat at that because, aww that’s so cute and the girl/boy must be so beautiful to have someone as salty as him smitten for them..

As someone who composes music himself,he’s pretty sure that lyrics this good must be from some professional artists of some sort, cos there’s no way Yoongi’s that good at composing lyrics.( Or Jimin was too awestrucked to admit that the boy’s talented) .

The next page was written in Hangul, and Jimin, although being half korean, couldn’t read the language for the life of him, but along the lines of Korean words was three words scribbled messily in English. ’ I love you’.

Jimin’s heart tugged at that for reasons even he didn’t know of. The boy was in love with a someone, and although the boy was technically a stranger, it still kind of hurt him just a little, he was the only person getting up in his space anyways.

Although he knew he was hurting her confused self, he flipped the page yet again, and his eyes widened at what he saw, It was a drawing, moreso, it was a drawing of himself…..smiling while making coffee.

And underneath the drawing were small words, "I love you Park Jimin . :)  , Call meee~ 0××××××”.

Jimin closed the book immediately..cos oh my God.WHAT THE HELL DID HE JUST… he must be hallucinating or something because there’s no way that Min Yoongi was …talking about Park Jimin, the annoying and talkative barista with no social life  . He opened and closed the book a couple times, praying that he’s just seeing things.

​​​​​​Jimin didn’t know what to do but what he wanted to do for starters is to smack that boy’s head because ​​​​​​how did he know that Jimin would read it and damn so that’s what he meant when he said “let me know if you find it”, to call him?

Jimin’s heart was most probably running a marathon by now, he in no way is believing what he saw. But if it was true, which it isn’t, how can he call him such beautiful things like that?!

He had so many questions and although she’s supposed to be closing the store by 8, it’s 8:37 and she's​ still sitting on the counter with his cheeks flushed.

He was agitated, and so he decided to just call him already. Each ring of his phone caused him  to hold his breath and when he did answer after the third ring, Jimin was at a loss of words.

“Hello?” A gruff voice says.

“..h-Hi..” Jimin squeaks out a reply, stuttering.

And Yoongi chuckles. “I see you finally found it..?” He says airily.

And when Jimin doesn’t reply, too out of it to even try, he speaks again.

“ Are you still at the cafe?” He asks.

“Yeah..” Jimin replies.

“Kay, I’m coming, wait there”, and with that he cuts the call.

~•~

Jimin doesn’t know how long it took for him to come but it sure felt like hours.

So when the door bell clingked , Jimin stood up immediately, probably too nervous, brushing off the non-existent dust off his black jeans.

As soon as Yoongi spotted Jimin in the lonesome cafe, his eyes curled up into a smile, showing his gummy teeth and oh my God this is not fair, he’s so freaking cute

Yoongi shyly walked over to him, with his smile still plastered on his face.

And if Jimin wasnt already a  blushing mess, he sure as hell is now.

“Soo~..” Yoongi starts. “Did you.. like it?” He says sheepishly.

And Jimin only blushed harder if that’s even possible, he was sure he could hear the hammering of his chest.

“I-I guess” he says and Yoongi lets out a breath he didn’t even  know he was holding.

“Thank goddddddd!” Yoongi groans and laughs. “ I thought maybe writing bout coffee would be too cheesy” he chuckles.

“It was pretty adorable” Jimin says and giggles.

“At least for a boy as salty as you” he remarks sassily.

And Yoongi fake gasps.“ouch”. They laugh quietly although no one’s there.

Yoongi drawls out again,. “I mean, I don’t know if you know but we’re in the same class, and i know how much you love writing lyrics so i just-” He blabbers on, seemingly nervous.

"oh…?” Jimin looks at him dumbfoundedly. If he felt bad before, he felt worse knowing how he didn’t know the boy in front of him, why didn’t he notice him before?

“so..”, Yoongi starts again.. “Is it a yes..?

“For what..?”, Jimin asks back

Yoongi’s happy eyes drooped a little as he said “..you.. did you not read my letter?” He says a bit disappointed

“What let-? Oh! Is it the one in Hangul?”, he asks

Yoongi nods meekly. 

Jimin chuckles cheekily and says, “I may or may not know how to read Hangul..hehe” he says sheepishly.

“Oh.I’m-well sorry! I didn’t know ” Yoongi says.

“Nah it’s okay,read it for me!” She says.

“O-okay” he stutters , what the hell was this fluffball doing to the boy. He coughs before starting,“Park Jimin, you may not know me well or at all as of now, but all you need to know as of now is this…I think I love you.” So that’s the part Jimin read in English, “ And I know it might seem so sudden because I might not know you well enough, but. .maybe we can? I want to know you more than your smile and the way you talk, more than your laugh and everything beautiful about you. I wanna know you more and so I hope you’ll let me, and you’ll give me a chance, cos goddamnit I’m not usually this cheesy, but will you go out with me?”

He breaths in shakily .

Jimin breaths out heavily.

He smiles widely after hearing that. “ Awwwe! That’s so cute” he playfully smacks his firm chest. And as surprising as it is, the boy blushes and smiles widely. “ So is that a yes?!” He asks giddily, and oh my lord, what happened to the salty boy who loved black coffee?

“I never said that~” Jimin folds her arms and sasses her hips out. His smile falls immediately and god this was so fun.

But he felt a bit too cruel and said “ I’m not saying no, but not yes either, let’s get to know each other first and I’ll see” he says.

He seems alright with the answer and says “I still consider that as a yes” he smirks .

“Yah!” I say and he runs off laughing.

Jimin doesn’t know what he’s getting into, but he knows that he’s learning to like that salty-yet-cute customer more and more.

The end! What do you think of this ? I never really wrote a coffee au before so it is a bit nerve wracking,  but oh well, I hope I fulfilled your wish well , anon!

Requests are open btw~ 

xo :) 

[baekuras]

About the "Get to know me!" ... All of them? X3

//cracks knucklesHERE I GO TELLING YOU EVERYTHING ABOUT MAGNIFICENT ME!

1. What is you middle//full name?My only name is Dalia and my last name which I won’t tell you, I don’t have a middle name

2. How old are you?17 years old and dying

3. What is your birthday?May 23rd!

4. What is your zodiac sign?Gemini~

5. What is your favorite color?Red nd Black nd Purple nd that one Blue is nice too

6. What’s your lucky number?Idk if its lucky but I like 7

7. Do you have any pets?Had fish and budgies before, got a single rabbit now who is 6 and still kicking like a youngster, he is great and nice and I honestly expected him to be dead by now because the others died so early but...thats good

8. Where are you from?Germany~

9. How tall are you?Like, 170cm

10. What shoe size are you?...I have no idea if you measure shoes differently in america/anywhere but here I am a 38

11. How many pairs of shoes do you own?...I am not sure but I’d guess about 10? Maybe 2 or so more?

12. What was your last dream about?The one where a certain dragon king sniped an immortal black wizard and furries&co fought against gods

13. What talents do you have?Reading fast, determination

14. Are you psychic in any way?Idk if thats psychic but my gut is usually right? I dont think I am though

15. Favorite song?Right now I am Metal Gear Rising trash so....anything that played while Sam was being sassy on screen probably

16. Favorite movie?Dragon Riders probably

17. Who would be your ideal partner?Immortality, a good life, more art, all the animals

18. Do you want children?Whats a child can you eat it?

19. Do you want a church wedding?I would either go full fancy so yes w/ a big ass trip showing off how amazing me and my partner areOr just keep it lowkey, depends

20. Are you religious?Nah, on paper yes still but that will change soon because I won’t pay the church money if I don’t even go there

21. Have you ever been to the hospital?Yep, but only to visit, I myself was only at the childs doctor and dentist and idk if that rly counts

22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law?I tried to steal chocolate once because I didn’t have enough money...it didn’t work I am not a good thief apparently

23. Have you ever met any celebrities?Myself every time I look in the mirror~But no

24. Baths or showers?SHOWERS! Except if you wanna relax and not wash yourself, then baths I guess

25. What color socks are you wearing?Gray(should have asked yesterday, those were warm, comfy red and black striped ones!

26. Have you ever been famous?For what? My huge ego and mood swings and anxiety and depression?Idk I don’t think I ever was or am right now, but I have gotten more “famous” so that’s cool

27. Would you like to be a big celebrity?Not like super big, no, but maybe big enough so that I can live comfortable or smth? I don’t want ALL the attention, only sometimes, but all the drama there...urgh no thanks

28. What type of music do you like?ALL

29. Have you ever been skinny dipping?Nope

30. How many pillows do you sleep with?2!

31. What position do you usually sleep in?Right side or stomach, with head turned to right side, maybe one leg up

32. How big is your house?Lower floor, 4 rooms,bath,floors,cellar part,big enough though

33. What do you typically have for breakfast?NothingToast with something,or bread with something, on weekends though

34. Have you ever fired a gun?God I wish but no

35. Have you ever tried archery?Once! On a school festival! I wanna do it more and again but I can’t go into some club bc STRESS AND ALL THE SCHOOL AND FUCK HUMAN INTERACTIONS but i love it! I would love to actually ride on a horse doing so too because I love both, horse riding and archery!

36. Favorite clean word?Cat... karandasch sounds super nice too but it literally just means pencil(still,russian has some nice sounding words)

37. Favorite swear word?ALL OF THEM, mostly used one is fuck

38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep?2 days

39. Do you have any scars?Just look at my left arm/handOne on the upper arm,one on the lower, one on the thumb, on on the hands inside, one on its back, maybe one on the...pointing finger...INDEX FINGERI treasure them tbh also they are pretty small except the one on the lowert arm and inner hand

40. Have you ever had a secret admirer?I think I had once? People said so? But idk myself didnt care enough

41. Are you a good liar?Yep

42. Are you a good judge of character?I try

43. Can you do any other accents other than your own?No

44. Do you have a strong accent?Dont think so

45. What is your favorite accent?Ones I understand without trouble

46. What is your personality type?INFP

47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing?Can’t remember

48. Can you curl your tongue?Not anymore

49. Are you an innie or an outie?Innie

50. Left or right handed?Right

51. Are you scared of spiders?Sometimes

52. Favorite food?CHICKENBREAST FILET W/ RICE AND SAUCE!!!!

53. Favorite foreign food?those crunchy chicken..things you can get at a chinese place? they are like...orangy? Pdoes that count i remeber loving them i want them and i wanna do them myself °^°

54. Are you a clean or messy person?Mess

55. Most used phrased?as if I’d notice that...(no rly idk)

56. Most used word?(also dunno)

57. How long does it take for you to get ready?10mins once i actually get up,otherwise 45mins+

58. Do you have much of an ego?...Yes and also no but yes

59. Do you suck or bite lollipops?Suck  them more than bite

60. Do you talk to yourself?ALL the time

61. Do you sing to yourself?all the singing time

62. Are you a good singer?....no

63. Biggest Fear?Being left by everyone I think? idk everything is going to shit anyway and here I sit, sipping a cup of cacao

64. Are you a gossip?Not rly

65. Best dramatic movie you’ve seen?idk

66. Do you like long or short hair?BOTH! BOTH IS GREAT OMG!Long hair-you can do SO MUCH with it like style wise and short hair just looks rly amazing too its just so niiiiice to have too and aRGH HAIR IN GENERAL IS AMAZING AND I LOVE IT!

67. Can you name all 50 states of America?Bro, I cant even name all states of germany how tf am I supossed to tell americas states? We got Washington...Texas apparently exists,canada is on top of america, there is a place called new york...and other cities and states and stuffThats all thats my american knowledgeAnd OhioI know that nameprob ore when I read them but states? all 50? no

68. Favorite school subject?...the last one of the day

69. Extrovert or Introvert?Introvert

70. Have you ever been scuba diving?Nope,but would like too astho I cant get under water

71. What makes you nervous?everything

72. Are you scared of the dark?Eh, idk, depends?

73. Do you correct people when they make mistakes?Sometimes?

74. Are you ticklish?//backs off....no

75. Have you ever started a rumor?Nope

76. Have you ever been in a position of authority?...none I remember

77. Have you ever drank underage?Have been asked to by my mum bc new years and all that but no

78. Have you ever done drugs?Also no

79. Who was your first real crush?I never ever ever had a real crush

80. How many piercings do you have?None

81. Can you roll your Rs?“A bit

82. How fast can you type?HIGHSPEED

83. How fast can you run?snail speed

84. What color is your hair?Brown!

85. What color is your eyes?Brown or green and anything in between

86. What are you allergic to?Nothing except stupid people and school

87. Do you keep a journal?A dream one

88. What do your parents do?Fuck me up?My legal guardian mum is cleaning buildings and whateverMy biological mum is driving around to assist the elderly in their homesAnd idk about my dad

89. Do you like your age?Ya

90. What makes you angry?AllBeing ignore,d not taken serious, not understood, being made fun off, my friends being made fun off, having my words twisted around, illogial thinking stupid assholes that deserve to burn in hell being around me and trying to talk to me...My favourite character being treated like shit writing wiseAnimal crueltyPeople cruelty altho I am so done w/ people most of the time that I am just like "Oh again?" which is kinda sad but its still fucked up

91. Do you like your own name?I LOVE IT!

92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they?NOPEBtw i read some nice names on toilet doors in school...."Why did you give me that name?""It was written on my old schools toilet door...the second one""...wtf is wrong w/ you"would be the convo then tho

93. Do you want a boy a girl for a child?I want a dog

94. What are you strengths?DETERMINATION

95. What are your weaknesses?LIVING!

96. How did you get your name?IDK!

97. Were your ancestors royalty?....i doubt it

98. Color of your room?White and gray and also red also some blacks there

99. Color of your bedspread?....it...changes? Bed itself is white and black but...the rest changes?

100. Make up your own questionkaro you have failed me y u do dis, y

[theislesunfamily]

[Your Affairs] You Need a Will

I’ve written this out more than a dozen times now.

War and death go together, moreso than peace ever did. I expect my death to come at some point, and perhaps it will be in this campaign after so many. Soldiers learn to not just deal with others dying, but must at some point take their own possible end into account.

In the case that I do die, let it be known that I, Ithanar Islesun, on this fifth day of January, hereby fully revoke my former wills and codicils and declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament.

I declare Hylaen Highhearth to be the executor of this will. As a longtime friend of our family, and our groundskeeper, I trust him enough with this task. He has always been diligent, thoughtful, and very aware of our affairs as his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and so on and so forth were.

I leave the actual physical estate which rests here in the center of the Isle and has belonged to our family for generations to Hylaen as well. He may use it for his own purposes, whether that be residing within it as an occupant or he may burn it down to the damn ground. This place is an old thing, and could use some changes, which he may decide upon.

Most of the possessions within the estate, and the wealth that comes with that, will also be left to Hylaen. However, there are certain exceptions, which are listed below…

All documents with information pertaining to trading and shipping routes, including maps, in our family’s name will be left to Ildrielen Islesun despite my reluctance. However, her profession as a Farstrider and tracker makes her well equipped to utilize said documents and maps to their fullest capacity.

Our quarrel has not ended, but I am willing to see some reason here.

I leave my journals and smaller trinkets to Ithaerin Islesun, who may do whatever he would like with them. Knowing him, he will probably try and pawn the trinkets off. Let me remind him now of their sentimental value, as some did belong to our mother, father, and other relatives.

Do not sell the journals.

Nobody wants to read them anyway, except for you. You always loved to pry. It is what makes you such a good thief.

My arms and armor can be given to the Sunspear Battalion, and its commanding officers. They may do with that as they will, whether they melt it down and build something new or donate them to a recruit.

I do not leave anything to Inthius Islesun, as we have no clue of his current whereabouts. He is perhaps dead at this point in time, but let him know we never tossed out his artwork or the room he called his own when he would need time to work out something wonderful. It is still there, brother, for you to use.

Signed by, Ithanar Islesun

At the bottom of this document, there is a small note scribbled rather informally…

Fuck you, Hylaen, but thank you for inducing such guilt that I decided to rework this. 

There is yet another note scribbled below this one as well, though the first few words have been scratched out…

Make sure you leave Ris left one of her dresses here years ago. The yellow one. Make sure that gets back to her.

This document is a follow-up to “Who Needs a Will?”, a story written as part of the “Your Affairs” quest  You can read that by clicking HERE.

[teddyaltman]

Do the odds 🐢

1: when you have cereal, do you have more milk than cereal or more cereal than milk? i have cereal dry bc milk is gross but i do like cereal as a snack3: what random objects do you use to bookmark your books? mostly plane tickets or train tickets

5: are you self-conscious of your smile? yes altho i used to be worse7: do you name your plants? i only have one plant and no it has no name but now i feel bad, what should i name my plant???? 9: do you like singing/humming to yourself? Y E S always its a running joke at work that i’m always singing to myself 

11: what's an inner joke you have with your friends? my mind has gone blank idk 13: what's something that made you smile today? texting15: go google a weird space fact and tell us what it is! “you are taller in space” - this is fuckin me up cos princess leia is sO TINY imagine how small she would be on earth im emotional17: what color do you really want to dye your hair? i actually rly like my hair the colour it is at the moment but i’d prob go darker to try it rather than super blonde again idk19: do you keep a journal? what do you write/draw/ in it? no im not organised enough for a journal but i do doodle in my work diary when i finish a to do list21: talk about your favorite bag, the one that's been to hell and back with you and that you love to pieces. i love my backpack that i haggled for in venice it’s blue and white and super comfy and i love it23: what's your favorite thing to do on lazy days where you have 0 obligations? netflix (and cuddling~)25: what's the weirdest place you've ever broken into? i broke into my friends house once by crawling through the kitchen window bc she forgot her house key27: what's your favorite bubblegum flavor? bubblegum flavor? idk?29: what's something really cute that one of your friends does and is totally endearing? dan always squeezes my hand rly tight when he’s happy and i love it when he’s happy31: what is your opinion of socks? do you like wearing weird socks? do you sleep with socks? do you confine yourself to white sock hell? really, just talk about socks. i rly like socks, especially when they’re fun socks i hate just black or just white socks!! i like to wear them to bed too otherwise the monsters might get my feet but if its super hot i might not. i don’t always wear socks in the day but i’ll mostly put them on for bed

33: what's your fave pastry? uh idk but i had an amazing vegan donut in dublin it was delicious 35: do you like stationary and pretty pens and so on? do you use them often? i like pens but just like basic bic pens i like to have lots and lots but uh i like looking at stationary in paperchase but i rarely use it37: do you like keeping your room messy or clean? i like it clean but it is often messy because i am Terrible39: what color do you wear the most? burgundy! 41: what's the last book you remember really, really loving? i read an anthology (the last one) from the otherworld series when i was in aus and honestly it was great i loved it so much that series means so much to me and it ended so many characters stories in a beautiful way43: who was the last person you gazed at the stars with? i have no idea tbh45: do you trust your instincts a lot? close my eyes and leap? uh yeah i try to trust my gut!47: what food do you think should be banned from the universe? pineapple49: do you like buying CDs and records? what was the last one you bought? i don’t rly buy physical cds anymore and i don’t have my own record player so~ i bought ed sheeran’s new songs last night on itunes??51: think of a person. what song do you associate with them? marygrace - mr brightside53: have you ever watched the rocky horror picture show? heathers? beetlejuice? pulp fiction? what do you think of them? yes, yes, no, yes - i love rocky horror and i wanna see it live, heathers is Great, and pulp fiction is p good!55: what's the most dramatic thing you've ever done to prove a point? lmao i am a dramatic person idk i’ve probably done a lot of dumb shit57: go listen to bohemian rhapsody. how did it make you feel? did you dramatically reenact the lyrics? i cba but i could sing it from memory and yes of course59: what's your favorite myth? uhh idk i don’t rly have a fav??? i do like mythology tho esp greek stuff and i read some p cool fantasy books based on myths and metahumans61: what's the stupidest gift you've ever given? the stupidest one you've ever received? lmao i don’t even know omg my sister got me condoms once??63: are you fussy about your books and music? do you keep them meticulously organized or kinda leave them be? okay so my DVDs are all alphabetical except disney classics which have their own section, and boxsets are also separate, my books are in cubes and they’re sorted by age, also author and in series when applicable. also there’s a star wars section. i can’t wait to have my own place so i can get proper bookshelves tho tbh65: is there anyone you haven't seen in a long time who you'd love to hang out with? my cousin adam! he lives in greece and i didn’t manage to go visit him over christmas when he was home which was sad 67: how do gloomy days where the sky is dark and the world is misty make you feel? a lil gloomy but then i’ll take buddy for a walk and we’ll bounce along together and he always makes me feel better69: what are your favorite board games? trivial pursuit, bezzerwizzer, pointless, articulate, taboo, pictionary, citadels, life ... i love board games71: what's your favorite kind of tea? anything fruity73: what are some of your worst habits? biting my nails, speaking too loud, chewing ice75: tell us about your pets! MY BABIES okay i have two dogs; meg is a black lab and she’s an ol lady now but she’ll always be my angel girl and she got me thru some dark times in high school tbh, okay then my boy - Buddy Boo Rainbow Maurice is his official name (blame my sister) but my lil buddy he’s my saviour honestly, so he’s a beagle cross but we dunno what with and he’s HUGE like a beagle on steroids but with his lil beagle face and floppy ears like goddamn cutest ever tbh he’s such a bundle of joy i love him So muhc. then i have 3 chickens (we used to have 5 RIP) and they’re called Dragon, Jemima and Sue Ellen (yes, she’s mine, yes named after a Dallas char) they’re p chill i read to them sometimes last summer we read the book thief and hp philosophers stone77: pink or yellow lemonade? yellow79: what's one of the cutest things someone has ever done for you? dan’s mum invited me to spend christmas with them when she found out my family were going away and she made me a special christmas eve present like i was just ~another kid in the family and i went again this year and honestly it’s just the sweetest thing i love them all so much and they’re all so welcoming and wonderful and i don’t deserve such goodness in my life (also shoutout to delani who drove all the way to may and kate’s to surprise me for new years!!!)81: describe one of your friend's eyes using the most abstract imagery you can think of. like the sea when a storm is brewing, but with a hint of steel underneath and the sun is still just visible on the horizon83: what's some of your favorite album art? tswizzle speak now, ed sheeran + ??? idk i use spotify on my phone mostly i don’t look at album art hahah85: do you read comics? what are your faves? sometimes, i like anything about girls tbh87: what are some movies you think everyone should watch at least once in their lives? The Holiday, Star Wars, The Parent Trap, Rear Window, 17 Again, It’s a Wonderful Life89: are you close to your parents? yes they’re my heroes91: where do you plan on traveling this year? canada! hopefully disneyworld too, and i;d like to see more european cities; lisbon, krakow, berlin!!93: what's the hairstyle you wear the most? i either shove my hair in a bun, braid it or wear it down 95: what are your plans for this weekend? hang out with my friends!97: myer briggs type, zodiac sign, and hogwarts house? INTJ, scorpio, gryffindor99: list some songs that resonate to your soul whenever you hear them. little miss, ours, truth in your eyes, follow your arrow, sugar we’re going down, a thousand miles, she is the sunlight, cotton eye joe

[jackfollmanwriter-blog]

The Phantom

No one knew more about the West Texas Phantom than grizzlymane415.

I exhausted all of the available information online - the Wikipedia page, the citations on the Wikipedia page, the weird blogspots, wordpresses and even a couple of Angelfires back in the day, the annoying slideshows which promised shocking revelations, but delivered none and just crashed my browser - they had all been laid to waste. My last bastion for any good information about the Phantom was an unsolved murder subreddit populated by other lonely weirdos who were probably collecting unemployment checks and ignoring the creepy messages on their numerous online dating profiles.

The group was great for the passionate discussions about the Phantom I could only have with complete, anonymous strangers who didn't assume I was some kind of sociopathic serial killer myself when I wanted to talk about my fascination with the still free killer of more than 20 people who stalked the plains and oil fields of West Texas in the late-80s. The group was also well-stocked with fascinating theories, like how the Phantom may have been a railroad conductor, or how he was a well-known high school football coach named Butch whose crimes were covered up to protect his legacy.

I also relished when some "newb" would wander into the group and start spouting out information we all had already dissected down to the finest molecule. It got to the point where I put a sticky on top of the page which focused on the six principle pieces of information which defined the Phantom and led to  my gang's particular fascination with him. Unless someone had NEW information about any of these principles, any posts about them would be promptly deleted.

The Phantom took all of his victims in broad daylight (whether or not they were killed during the day was up for debate)

All of the Phantom's victims were regular women, not the common prostitute victims most serial killers claimed

He used an 1894 Marlin Model rifle. An incredibly rare and valuable weapon.

It is likely he had a regular, white collar job as his killing sprees tended to take place just once a year in two-week spans.

It is possible he used railroads for transportation as nearly all of his killings took place near rail stops.

Tracks from a 1959 Chevrolet Apache truck were found leaving a few of the scenes.

However, none of this fully-satisfied my appetite for discovery. The only person who was able to do that was grizzlymane415.

It all started when grizzlymane415 posted viciously gruesome autopsy photos of one of the Phantom's first victims. The images were so horrifying I felt I should have put that white powder they use in autopsy rooms in cop shows/movies underneath my nostrils so I didn't vomit all over my keyboard. Full disclosure, about 90 percent of what I know about crime comes directly from TV and movies.

RachWhov: How did you get that?

I couldn't have typed the question fast enough. I never got an answer.

That would be far from the last juicy nuggets grizzlymane415 would post. Within days, he posted a copy of a letter to a news reporter at the Lubbock Avalanche-Journal. The letter took credit for the first three murders which had been attributed to the Phantom and another I had never heard of which had never been connected to the Phantom.

RachWhov: Where did you get that?

I would get an answer this time from grizzlymane415, but not necessarily to that exact question.

(Note, for some reason, grizzlymane415 always typed in all caps. Sorry, I know)

grizzlymane415: THE PHANTOM LEFT CLUES EVERYWHERE. HE WAS ACTUALLY ONE OF THE SLOPPIEST SERIAL KILLERS TO NEVER GET CAUGHT. SOMETIMES I THINK HE DID IT ON PURPOSE. DID YOU KNOW HE USED TO TAKE MONEY FROM THE WALLETS OF EACH VICTIM AND THEIR JEWELRY TO RAISE AT LEAST SOME DOUBT IN THE COPS' MINDS THAT MAYBE HIS VICTIMS WERE SIMPLE VICTIMS OF ROBBERY?

RachWhov: I never heard that.

grizzlymane415: IT'S TRUE. CHECK ALL THE CASES. DO A LITTLE MORE GOOGLE SEARCHING. YOU WILL SEE SOME OF THE THEORIES.

grizzlymane415 was right. Everything I could find online suggest The Phantom had stolen money from each victim and their jewelry. Reports never seemed to focus on that too much, but it was occasionally mentioned. While it was never really mentioned in the stories, online threads and comment threads on stories frequently pointed it out, sometimes with foolish dissenters chiming in that he was just a random thief or many of his killings were just random robberies in the area which were attributed to him.

grizzlymane415: DON'T BELIEVE THE FOOLS THAT SAY IT WASN'T HIM EITHER. THEY DON'T KNOW WHAT THEY ARE TALKING ABOUT. THE COPS KEPT TABS ON ALL THE PAWN SHOPS AND GOLD BUYERS IN TEXAS AND NONE OF THAT JEWELRY EVER WAS SOLD AGAIN. SO IT WAS NOT SOMEONE KILLING FOR A QUICK BUCK.

RachWhov: I believe that, it wouldn't make a whole lotta sense.

grizzlymane415: AND YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW THE CRAZY PART YET. THE JEWELRY SHOWED UP AGAIN, BUT IT WASN'T SOLD.

RachWhov: What?

grizzlymane415: CORRECT. THE JEWELRY STARTED SHOWING UP ON STATUES AROUND CHURCHES IN TEXAS. ANY VIRGIN MARY STATUES THAT HAD FINGERS WHICH COULD FIT THE RINGS OR NECKS FOR NECKLACES.

grizzlymane415 attached a few pictures of virgin Mary statues with rings and necklaces on them in what looked like Texas settings. The hair on my arms stood at attention. It was enough for me to put the brakes on the forum, and grizzlymane415, for a little while. I slunk back to my other favorite haunts of the Internet – Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, OKCupid – for a little while to stay safe and warm.

But I had to go back to the forum. At first I thought I would just ignore grizzlymane415, check out other cases, chat with my other super non-creepy, anonymous Internet friends, but I just couldn't do it. Here was my dream. Someone who could help me solve the crime which had engrossed and haunted me for years and I was going to run away because I was a scared, little girl? Plus, what's the worst that could happen? It was an anonymous board.

I cracked.

RachWhov: Where did you get those pictures.

grizzlymane415: THINGS ARE OUT THERE. HAVE YOU READ ABOUT THE JUDY PARCH AND PETRA HOLLIVER MURDERS?

RachWhov: Nope.

Tip – don't ever Google the Judy Parch and Petra Holliver murders. It is one of those cases which cues up first-page results of gruesome photos which will cling to your brain like an old stick of gum burned onto the sidewalk of a city street. My search pulled up a black and white photo of two women who I assumed were Judy and Petra clinging to each other in the backseat of a car, a blood-drenched blanket just not quite covering the damage of their faces.

To me, it wasn't even the gore of the photo which struck me so hard. It was the image of these two women who were clinging together like the last thing they wanted to do in the world was let each other know they loved one another before they suffered the world's great insult. They didn't even get the respect of having their final moments filled out with color. Nor, did they get the closure of having their case solved. Which brings me to one of the first major curiosities of grizzlymane415.

The murders of Judy Parch and Petra Holliver had never been connected to The Phantom in any way that I could find. Plus, they were murdered more than 1,000 miles away from The Phantom's stomping grounds of West Texas in Yucaipa, California, 50 miles or so outside of Los Angeles.

Overall there wasn't much information about the murder of Judy and Petra, other than a few archived articles from 1990 in the The Press-Enterprise in Riverside, California and some brief cold case pages. Not even a Wikipedia page frustratingly lacking of hyperlinks to other stories to engross yourself in. Their murder was just a little footnote in the murder history of the Inland Empire of California.

RachWhov: There is nothing at all on the Internet which connects The Phantom to the murder of Judy and Petra. Where are you getting this?

grizzlymane415: CHECK THE RECORDS ON THE CASE. OTHER THAN THE LOCATION, IT ALL POINTS TO THE PHANTOM. REMEMBER YOUR OWN PRINCIPLES ON THE TOP OF THIS PAGE.

I did live in California, but hours away from Yucaipa, so driving out there to check their public records search wasn't in the cards. However, my fascination with The Phantom runs deep, and I was able to get in touch with an old high school classmate who lived in Yucaipa who I Paypalled cash in return for wasting a Saturday morning and afternoon going through old murder records for me.

grizzlymane415 was correct, the Yucaipa muders covered all of the bases of my principles except the sixth.

The bodies of Judy and Petra were found just before sunset on a February day, meaning they were murdered sometime during the day.

Both women worked for the school district and were married, with children. They were in no way prostitutes or people who operated in "risky" behavior.

Ballistics showed the women were shot with an 1894 Marlin rifle.

The women's murder occurred in middle of the two-week stretch of The Phantom's last killing spree.

The bodies were found less than a mile from train tracks.

RachWhov: You were right. Everything adds up to Judy and Petra being victims of The Phantom. Why is this not out there anywhere? Couldn't that bring a huge break in the case?

grizzlymane415:

RachWhov: I get it, cops suck, but this isn't right. Have you told the police there?

I didn't get an answer. A week went by.

RachWhov: ???

Another week.

grizzlymane415: I THOUGHT YOU WERE CAPABLE OF NOT NEEDING HAND HOLDING ON THIS, BUT JUDY WAS THE WIFE OF THE POLICE CHIEF IN YUCAIPA. YOU THINK HE WAS VERY INTERESTED IN KEEPING THE DETAILS OF HIS WIFE GETTING MURDERED IN THE BACKSEAT OF A CAR, HALF NAKED WITH ANOTHER WOMAN IN THE PUBLIC EYE? YOU DO THE MATH.

Another curiosity. I couldn't find anywhere, or in anything my friend from Yucaipa sent me where it said Judy and Petra were "half naked" when they were shot. A self-taught expert on my murder myself, I knew this reeked of a detail cops would deliberately leave out of public record to filter out false confessions. Something only the actual killer would know about the murder.

My house grew cold in the middle of an 80-degree day even though I didn't have air conditioning. It's entirely possible grizzlymane415 was completely making this detail up, or it was something he had heard through word of mouth, but those goosebumps upon my arms also knew another thing most self-taught murder experts learn in their 101 class. Murderers love to brag about their work, even though they know it almost always leads to them being caught.

I went over to the front door of my house and checked the lock.

I cut off all communication with grizzlymane415. He probably wasn't really The Phantom, but at best, he was an asshole who was trying to get underneath my skin. I didn't need that. I already had three online dating profiles adept at connecting me with sociopathic beta males who get off on messing with your head.

I remained on the board. I couldn't pass the monotony of semi-employed life and single woman living in a town of just 16,000 without the comfort of faceless online companionship which revolves around the cold murders of human souls.

Things were fine for quite a while, probably a few weeks, before I received another message out of the blue from grizzlymane415.

grizzlymane415:

grizzlymane415: KNOW WHAT THAT IS?

I didn't have to even look it up. I just assumed it was an 1894 Marlin rifle.

He was probably some dumb fuck 15-year-old boy fucking with me who pulled the image off of Google or a gun message board or something, but I can't act like I wasn't totally scared shitless by the thing.

My response came in the form of deleting my account. It may have been the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, but it was all I could do to keep my sanity. It wasn't worth it. Sorry Reddit.

*

Tyler came back in the heat of summer. I flinched when I heard the familiar rumble of his old motorcycle pull into the gravel of my driveway. Tears welled into the corner of my eyes when I walked out onto my rickety porch to see him pulling his helmet off of his shaggy brown hair.

Tyler and I were engaged, technically maybe still engaged. We never officially broke it off.

We met just after college, when both of us were fighting off the adult world by being full-time snowboard bums in Tahoe. We moved in with each other in just a couple of months out of financial convenience, but somehow dated just casually for a few years before we turned up the heat.

Tyler finally proposed about a year before this. That's when things started to get weird between us. I don't think either of us could take the pressure. Engagement meant we were creeping towards adulthood – getting real jobs, paying taxes, moving off the mountain. We decided we would start working on getting "real jobs" in Reno - maybe even Sacramento. We got a rustic rental house in Truckee, California to stay in an earthy little town, but still get a little bit away from Tahoe and try to figure out our lives.

We were in no way ready and took it out on each other. I shocked myself when I discovered I was in no way interested in an office or professional job after a few interviews where I felt I wanted to rip the business casual outfit off of my body and run out into the snow to do what I truly wanted to do with life.

Even more shockingly, Tyler went in the other direction. A quick taste of an internship at a law firm stoked the fire of opportunity which apparently burned inside of him once you got past the haze of weed smoke, shaggy hair and dirty beard.

Tyler came home late from work one night, told me about his plan to move us to the Bay Area where he had a full-time job opportunity lined up and we slowly but surely slipped into a fight which led to him driving off on his motorcycle to go to "San Francisco."

It would be more than six months before he would come back.

I couldn't believe it was him when I saw Tyler walk up the porch, but he didn't let me get a word out before he grabbed me sternly on the back of the head and pulled me in for a kiss. We went inside the house without a word spoken and headed to the bedroom.

We would exchange a few words for the next hour or so, but it would be dark before we had a real conversation.

"How was San Francisco?" I broke the numbing sound of our breathing as we laid in bed.

Tyler just gave a dismissive laugh.

"Not good?"

"No. I was just only there for like three weeks, sleeping on Mike's couch. Couldn't get a job, couldn't afford to live there."

I could tell Tyler was embarrassed when he responded. He knew what question was coming next. He tried to distract me by grabbing the modest engagement ring he gave me months before out of the pocket of his jeans which were sprawled next to us on the bed. He slid the ring onto my ring finger.

"Did you go to your parents?"

"Yeah," Tyler almost whispered his answer before he kissed me behind my ear lobe.

I figured Tyler ran back to the comfort of his parents' five-bedroom house on the coast in Orange County once he said San Francisco didn't work out. I would have done the same, but swap out Orange for Marin.

"What...

Tyler pushed his index finger upon my lips.

"Let's not ruin the moment. Talk about that stuff now. We're just going to get into a fight about it."

"Okay," I agreed, upping the pitch on the second half of the phrase.

"How the fuck is it so hot in here?" Tyler broke the silence and jump up out of the bed naked.

Tyler shuffled over to the large bay window doors of the master bedroom of the house, unlatched them and pushed them out onto the little deck which housed a few pots filled with neglected plants about 10 feet up off of the ground below. I admired Tyler as he stood in the pale moonlight the open doorway let in, his back to me, his arms outstretched. I slipped the ring off of my finger and placed it in a little crystal bowl I kept by the side of my bed.

Tyler yawned when he turned back to me and crawled into bed. He pulled another item out of his jean pocket before I could ask another question.

"You still?" Tyler sheepishly offered up a pipe.

"Yeah, yeah," I took the pipe right after Tyler filled it.

I lied. I hadn't smoked since Tyler left. Too poor. Too depressed and honestly too lazy to go out and get weed myself.

I took a heavy, heavy hit and deflated back down onto the bed. It felt divine.

I watched Tyler take a stiff hit himself. Turned down his second offer.

The hit kicked the malaise and fatigue which was pumping through my veins into overdrive. It wasn't long before I was struggling to keep my eyes open. I could tell I was going to fall asleep before 10 and that was fine for me. I let it come, a cool, gentle breeze drifted through the open bay window doors and gave me a kiss goodnight.

*

I woke up with a calm in my blood I had not felt in quite some time. The comfort of no longer sleeping alone seemed to put my soul at ease. The fresh morning sun of Summer was shining bright through the open door, melting away the refreshing cold of morning. It was just about a damn perfect morning. The kind you would see in a commercial for coffee.

I yawned and looked over to Tyler asleep on his back next to me, the pipe comically rested on his shoulder like the parrot of a pirate. I moved a little bit closer to him but hoped to not wake him at the same time.

My attempt to keep Tyler awake didn't work. He weaved his hand into mine as soon as I slipped over to his side of the bed.

"What happened to the ring?" Tyler said with a froggy, morning throat.

"Oh, uh. I took it off. My fingers swell up in my sleep sometimes, so I don't sleep with rings on. But I can put it back on."

I stretched my body back over across my side of the bed and blindly dropped my hand down into the little bowl. The ring wasn't there. I furiously scanned my hand around the dish a number of times.

"What the hell?"

"What?"

"The ring is gone?"

"You sure you didn't just put it somewhere else?"

"Yes."

I got up out of bed and stood over my nightstand. The ring was not in the bowl or anywhere near it. I dropped hard down to the floor and combed the slick hardwood, looked underneath the bed and behind the nightstand. It was nowhere to be found.

Crawling on all fours, I turned my attention to the floor which led to the open deck door. Quickly stopped dead in my tracks.

Ever-so-faintly pressed into the dust of the floor were boot tracks – the tread of the boots looking like cookie cutter stamps of dog kibble upon the floor.

"Shit."

I traced the tracks to the open door of the deck.

"We didn't just lose a thousand dollars, did we?" Tyler asked from behind.

"That's the last thing I am worried about right now," I shot back. "I think someone came in here and took the ring last night."

It took Tyler a few seconds to reply, but when he did, his voice carried the tenor or building fright.

"Are you serious?"

I turned to see Tyler looking down at me.

"You're joking, right?" He added.

I looked down at the boot tracks one more time.

"Unless you walked around here with boots last night and lost the ring, I'm not."

My mind instantly went to grizzlymane415. I hadn't communicated with him for a while, but he was the last creepy thing taking up residence inside the dark recesses of my brain.

But how the hell could he have tracked me down?

I never shared any personal information with grizzlymane415. There was no information on my profile. I was unsearchable on Facebook and pretty much everything else and he didn't even have my real name. Even RachWhov didn't have a direct connection to me. Rach was short for my middle name and Whov was a play on my last name of Hoover, but the combination of those two would lead nowhere.

Oh shit. Nevermind.

The thought building in my brain shut down every single sense of my body for a moment.

Instagram. Fuck.

My username on the Instagram account I hadn't updated in nearly a year was RachWhov and it was a  picture journal of my life for the past few years, including a fine documentation where I visually bragged about our killer little house in Truckee.

"You think someone climbed up onto our deck in the middle of the night, snuck in here, grabbed just the ring, nothing else, and left without us waking up?" Tyler asked from over by the deck.

"Uh huh. We, were, high."

"Well that's comforting," Tyler snipped before turning back around to me. "Who the hell could have done that?"

"No idea."

I lied. I was not yet ready to tell anyone else about my online life and I myself was far from convinced grizzlymane415 was the one who took the ring. It was a pretty outrageous thought that he found my Instagram and was able to find exactly where I lived and snuck into my bedroom and stole the ring.

I logged into my Reddit account to see if I had received any new messages from grizzlymane415.  

grizzlymane415: WHERE DID YOU GO?

grizzlymane415: SORRY IF I WAS A DICK. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS SHIT?!?!?!?

What followed was a link to an article detailing a string of three murders which had taken place across the Southwest over the past couple of weeks – one in West Texas, one in New Mexico, one outside of Las Vegas. All three had the calling cards of The Phantom, including taking place in a two-week cluster. Worse yet, they occurred in the order which suggested The Phantom was moving in a Northwest pattern, right towards Northern California.

grizzlymane: HE'S BACK.............

I typed up: Where do you live?

Was about to hit Enter...

"Hey," Tyler's voice shot up from behind me in the living room.

I jumped up out of my seat, scrambled to close my browser.

"You looking at porn?" Tyler quipped from behind me.

"No."

Tyler let out a deep exhale.

"I found something weird in the mailbox."

Tyler pushed a bullet into my face. I don't think I had ever actually seen one in-person so it would have been a jarring vision even if he hadn't explained it was resting in our mailbox.

"It was just sitting in there. There weren't letters or anything else."

"Shit. Shit. Shit."

"What?"

"This just has me totally freaked out."

"Well let's go down and talk to the cops."

Tyler had a good idea for the first time in a really long time.

"I gotta take my motorcycle down to Devin's shop anyways."

He followed it up with a really bad one.

"Just take my car with me. We should go together."

"Devin just texted me. If I don't get it down there in like twenty minutes, I won't be able to get it looked at till Monday and I might need it this weekend. I'll just meet you at the station."

I didn't even want to know why Tyler might need his motorcycle for the weekend.

"Fine."

"Alright," Tyler grabbed his motorcycle helmet before he had even finished the word.

"Wait," I pleaded.

Tyler was already out the door.

"Motherfucker."

I could still see the dust lingering from the tires of Tyler's motorcyle when I walked out into our dirt driveway. I fought the urge to call him. He wouldn't answer anyway.

The morning glow which made the start of the day so glorious was long gone. A hazy sky of moist gray hung above, threatening rain and a cold wind whipped around the side of the house.

I jumped into my battered Ford Focus. Shook my head to myself about Tyler's ridiculous selfishness, wondered if I should just say fuck it and drive straight to my parents' house in Marin, but I couldn't do it. It was only about a 10 minute drive down the highway to the station and I was pretty sure the cops would be able to at least bring me some soul relief for a little while.                             

The road from our house to the main highway was probably the last road I wanted to be on at the moment. It was a glorified gravel road, lined with trees and tree-surrounded little shacks and shanties next to the river. Once upon the road, my eyes lingered on something sticking out of the tall grass next to the road - Tyler's motorcycle, propped up halfway between the road and the woods.

I took my foot off the gas, slowly pushed on the brake, felt the world outside my car window come back into regular speed.

Then I felt something hit my bumper.

What the?

I shot a hurried look into my rear-view mirror to see a black truck stuck onto the bumper of my car. The afternoon haze and the brevity of my glance didn't allow me to see the face of the driver behind the wheel, but I took in the outline of a dark hat and dark gloves draped upon the steering wheel.

Another thud hit hard upon my bumper, pushing me off to the side of the road. I tried to correct, but couldn't pull it off, my car went off the embankment of the country road and rumbled into the tall grass field which flanked it.

It now felt as if I was on some kind of rocky road amusement park type ride. My car bounced up and down, roughly and wildly, everything inside the cab, myself included, thrashed about violently. The seatbelt was the only thing saving me from smashing up against the windshield or the steering wheel.

I had much more sinister fears at the moment than smashing my head against the wheel and there was no way a seatbelt could save me from them. Another look out my rear view mirror while airborne allowed me to see more of the truck which had slammed into me from behind and I recognized it all too well. I knew nothing about trucks, but I could pick out a 1959 Chevrolet Apache in any lineup.

My car finally started to slow as I approached the line of trees which led into the woods. The entire world around me got darker when the front of my car smashed into the light shrubs at the edge of the tree line and started plowing over some of the younger trees. It came to a stop just under the cover of the tall firs.

I wasted no time in ripping off my seatbelt, going for the handle of my car door, but it wouldn't budge. The door appeared to be wedged up hard against the thick trunk of a tree.

I climbed over to the passenger-side door. My eyes threw a glance out the back window of my car and saw the black Apache parked on the side of the road.

"Ah, shit!" I screamed when the passenger-side door wouldn't open either.

I shot another look out of the back window – didn't see any movement, but heard the familiar sound of a truck door closing. I didn't wait to see if anyone was walking out of the truck, dove into the backseat and tried one of the back doors.

The highest I have ever felt in my entire life was when I felt that back door give and open out into the darkened forest. I piled out of it before I even got the thing all the way open.

I dragged my field of vision across the grass between the Apache and the back of my car when I climbed out of the car. The driver of the truck was out of his vehicle, his black cowboy hat obscured his pale face just enough to where I couldn't make it out. He took tall strides around the front of the truck in a long, black trench coat.

I wasted no more moments in observation, turned into the woods and fled, pissed at myself for leaving my cell phone in the center console. It didn't matter now, my only hope was running deeper into the woods, finding a house, the river or something, basically just losing the approaching stranger behind me.

For a second, I thought I heard the rumble of the river coming in front of me, but the sound quickly took a familiar form. It was Tyler's motorcycle. I slowed my sprint, shot a look over my shoulder. At the edge of the trees was Tyler on his motorcycle, he reared back on the cycle, tried to maneuver his way through the brush which served as the doormat for the thicker forest.

"Tyler," I screamed through the trees. "Call the cops. Call the cops."

But he couldn't hear me over the sound of his motorcycle. I came to a complete stop and watched him make his way into the forest where he would have a little bit more space to snake his motorcycle around trees. I tried to also look out behind him, where the truck was parked up near the roadway, but couldn't see that far.

Tyler put the motorcycle into a skid just before he reached me. He killed the engine and jumped off, was  greeted by me screaming out at him over the sounds of his dying engine.

"Where is he?"

Tyler whipped around, looked back through the woods.

"The guy in the truck. He ran me off the road."

Tyler lifted up the belly of his shirt to show a horrible road rash sprayed across his stomach.

"I hid in the woods for a while. I tried to call you, but you didn't answer."

"He ran me off the road too," I screamed in Tyler's face. "Where is he?"

Tyler kept his eyes off through the woods.

"He peeled out and drove off when I got back on my motorcycle. He's gone."

I followed Tyler's eyes through the darkening woods and had to agree. There were no signs of the driver, or his truck.

*

The cops had a really tough time not just believing what I told them happened, but even understanding it. I had to pull up Reddit on one of the officer's computers to show them all what it was and how it worked.

Honestly, it seemed like they all thought we were concocting some kind of elaborate alibi to cover up a domestic squabble and/or drunk driving accident. They basically did the least amount of work they could to document it and stopped returning our calls after a couple of weeks. I told them all of the details about The Phantom of West Texas. They didn't care in the least. I may have well just said The Phantom of the Opera.

Making it a little harder to believe my story, I deleted my account and apparently so did grizzlymane415. There was no record of our conversations, all of our comments within the board said they were posted by [deleted].

I found the generic form email for the FBI and a couple of police departments in West Texas, but I never even heard back from them. Maybe the only people who still cared about The Phantom were me and my weirdo Internet friends. Maybe it was a sign that I should just forget about that kind of stuff. At least that was Tyler's opinion.

We left Truckee that day, took the important stuff out of our house and never came back. We moved to Marin County where Tyler was able to get an entry level job with my dad's company and I could find a real job in the office of the local hospital with some of the friends I grew up with.  

Speaking of growing up, it was officially time to. I left the Internet serial killer groupie community behind me and focused on my job and trying to re-plan a real wedding with Tyler.

The months went by and I had almost completely forgotten about that old life and that horrible cloudy day, or at least I tried to, but I could not fully run away. My blood ran cold when I received a voicemail on my phone after getting a missed call from my former landlord, Dale, back in Truckee.

I initially thought the message would be a scolding for the state we left the house in or bailing on the last five months of our lease, but Dale actually seemed to have a softer tone than he usually used. He wanted to get in touch with me because someone had left what seemed like an important piece of mail for us in the mailbox. He just needed our new address so he could send it to us.

I chewed my nails down to the tender skin the next few days, feveriously anticipating receiving our unopened mail. Dale was polite in insisting he would absolutely not open our mail for us, even if we wanted him to (which I did).

I tore into the little forwarded envelope as fast as humanly possible when it showed up.

I recognized exactly what was in the envelope as soon as I opened it up. It was my engagement ring, the tiny little diamond perched upon the top of it glittering back at me.

A note fell out of the envelope.

It was just a cursive signature written in black ink.

It read: The Phantom.

Originally published by Thought Catalog on www.ThoughtCatalog.com.