#found waterlogged in winter

[icelogged]

[redsrooftopprincess]

Gravity (Part 2)

This may be becoming a thing. There will be at least one more chapter and I have no idea what to call this thing. Maybe by the end I'll know. 😅

Gn reader x Raphael

Warnings: Hypothermia, language (but I think that's a given in a Raph fic?)

Part 1 Part 3

It had been one week. One week since he'd slipped. One week since the fever carried him to your rooftop.

You haven't spoken. More specifically, he hasn't spoken. Apart from texting you when he made it home like you insisted he did every night, it had been radio silence. You texted him before his patrol like you always did, and he stared at his phone, expressionless, before putting it back in his pocket.

What could he say?

He'd already had the conversation a thousand times in his head, and as far as he was concerned, it didn't need to be said. He didn't need you to let him down easy.

Because you'd mean it. Every damn word. You're sorry. He's your best friend. Nothing has to change.

But it would change, there was no way it couldn't. Things were different now.

That night had been the worst of it. He'd left not long after his confession. At that point, just the sound of your voice was enough to make him weep, and he didn't want to make things worse. Not that he thought they could *get* worse.

He made up some excuse about Leo calling it early, and ran.

He was running now, through the freezing rain, a sudden cold snap in the middle of spring, and hoping that between the temperature and the downpour hammering into his coat, he could think about anything else.

It wasn't long before he was considering ditching the coat. It was already soaked through, and weighing him down, which was hard to do.

That gave him pause.

He stopped, ducking under an overhang, and opened his coat, pulling the fabric back to expose his side. He twisted and looked at the small device mounted onto his shell just under his shoulder blade. There was supposed to be a little red light. There wasn't.

Shit.

They each had them. One of the first inventions D had come up with after they'd started doing patrols as kids.

A blizzard had suddenly torn through the city one night, and they were woefully unprepared with only winter coats. The cold dropped their body temperatures, and then them. Splinter had to hunt across the rooftops until he found them, asleep and hypothermic, huddled behind a construction dumpster.

Donnie didn't leave his lab for days. He blamed himself, he should have known the blizzard was coming, that their gear was insufficient, he should have had *some* kind of backup heat supply. No matter how many times his family told him otherwise, it was his fault, and he would never let it happen again.

So he built something to fix it. Raph didn't really get a lot of the specifics, but the overall was that the small devices "converted kinetic energy into heat that was then stored and distributed throughout the inside of their shells." Or, as Raph understands it, as long as you keep moving, you won't die.

One night a few weeks ago, someone had gotten lucky and he had taken a rusted rebar to the chest that had shattered on impact. His regulator had been damaged by the shrapnel, but the weather had already been warming up, and then the season hit and it was forgotten about.

The rain must have been the final nail, only the exterior was watertight. It was dead. He could already feel the cold and damp setting in. He needed to get home. Fast.

He set off, the only sound other than the roar of the rain was the gradually slowing heartbeat that pounded in his ears.

*Fuck* it was cold.

It wasn't long before his waterlogged coat became too much to carry. He ditched it behind an air conditioning unit, and kept moving.

Hailstones felt like bullets as they pelted bare skin, and through the sheets of rain, the haze of cold and exhaustion that had started at the edges was encroaching. It wasn't long before he was too tired to think.

He was moving on pure instinct, without even the presence of mind to pray he could make it somewhere safe. Somewhere in the back of his mind a tiny Leo was lecturing him for not hitting his emergency signal.

He stumbles. He is so, so tired. The soft darkness of sleep is pulling at him like a rip tide. He drags himself to the next rooftop, barely touching down before he collapses.

[fiddleabout]

“Finally,” Ava sighs out.  It’s barely anything, but it has walls and a roof and, crucially, a firepit and a stack of bearskin blankets.  The door closes on the howling northern wind and Ava watches as the druskelle, ice crystallized in her dark hair and along her darker eyelashes, immediately sets to sorting the stacked firewood by dampness and finding a tinderbox and flint for the fire.

“You just never stop, do you,” Ava says as she sets to peeling off her ratty kefta.  Running away from Os Alta and the Darkling had seemed like a good idea at the time, keeping the sunlight that had found its way out of her away from him an imperative to protect Diego and the rest of Ravka, but in avoiding anyone Ravkan she’d ventured too close to the permafrost and stumbled into a druskelle camp.  And then the storm hit, leaving her to die in a cage in a sinking ship full of druskelle riding high on the fact that they captured Ravka’s only hope for destroying the shadow sea that kept them economically crippled.  Her kefta is a heavy weight that nearly drowned her in the ocean when the ship sank, and is just as liable to kill her now with how waterlogged and cold it is.

The druskelle doesn’t say anything, just like she hadn’t said anything since sulkily agreeing to let Ava’s sunlight and the barest edges of warmth it offered keep them from freezing while they swam their way to shore with her navigation.  

The kindling catches, and the drier pieces of wood burn quick.  Ava finishes stripping away her clothes, the faintest edges of heat from the infant fire licking at the clammy skin of her back, and she’s halfway to wrapping one of the musty bearskins around herself when a strangled noise sounds from behind her.

“What are you--”

“What, they don’t teach you basic winter survival in grisha murder school?” Ava says in perfect Fjerdan as she turns, waiting an extra half second to tug the bearskin up enough to cover her sternum and collarbones just to see the reaction she gets: a dark flush, highlighting freckles that had been almost invisible to date; an abrupt realignment of her gaze towards the patched roof of the shack; hands locked behind her back, as if she’s not actively shaking with the cold of her waterlogged and frozen clothes.  “You should, too, unless you want to suffer the embarrassment of freezing to death in an empty shack after surviving a shipwreck.”

“It’s not proper.”  Her eyes stay locked on the ceiling, her shoulders stiff under her sodden clothes.  Ava sighs and steps closer to the fire, close enough that the bearskin around her brushes along the sleeve of her uniform and the saintsforsaken wolfhead on the shoulder identifying her as an elite Fjerdan grisha-hunter.  The druskelle bristles; it’s undermined by the way she shudders and nearly trips jerking away from Ava.

“And dying is?”  Ava settles down with a sigh next to the fire, wiggling one hand out of the bearskin and holding it towards the fire.  The druskelle redirects her focus from the ceiling to the meager pile of firewood, feeding a larger log onto the growing fire.  It smokes aggressively, the heavy wet of the coastal winter leaving the wood damp and sizzling.  “And after I so generously saved your life.  Seems dishonorable to let yourself die now.”

“You--” she cuts off, lips pressing together tightly.  Or, at least, they try to; her teeth are almost chattering with the cold.  “You can barely swim.  You hardly did anything but a little bit of cursed light.”

“And you would’ve frozen without it,” Ava says smugly.

[thisstormbringsstrangeloyalties]

The Dark Defender - A Dexter Fanfiction (Part 1/6)

Read this story on Ao3

Next part

Story Summary: Meg Winters has a perfectly normal life and a wonderfully perfect boyfriend. Until she stumbles across a perfectly dark secret… and now her very life is in danger. No, not from the Bay Harbor Butcher whose waterlogged body of work has just been uncovered. But from something much closer… Desperate for help, Meg reaches out to a new hero in town, The Dark Defender, dealer of deadly vigilante dirty work. However, once Meg puts out a plea to The Defender, she must deal with the consequences, both bad AND good.

Author’s note: I wrote this story out of frustration with how I thought the Dark Defender from season 2 was SUCH a cool idea. I felt the fact that the Bay Harbor Butcher only killed other killers was something everyone just kind of slept on? It was only mentioned in passing a few times by civilians and only spurred one really shitty copycat. Personally, I think someone with such a strong moral code and harsh form of punishment would have developed SOME sort of cult following. And the Dark Defender would have been a good jumping off point for that. It would have been so cool for Dexter to have his darkest secrets revealed, only to turn around and discover that a huge group of people are ROOTING for him and that they think he’s actually doing the right thing. Definitely something I think he’s always craved, but never expected to find. Ugh. Okay. Enough rambling. Onto the story.

Wordcount: 2,189

* * * * * * * * * *

Meg Winters had a perfectly normal life and a wonderfully perfect boyfriend. She had been dating Zach O’Connell for nearly a year now, and they lived together in a small cottage in Miami.

The past year had felt like a dream to Meg. She worked in a bookstore. Zach worked in a retirement home, caring for others just as he cared for her. But it had been at the bookstore where they’d met. He’d come in looking for something to read, and she’d helped him find what he was looking for. And then he’d come back. He’d come back again and again. He had insisted it was for the books. “Your recommendations never miss,” he had insisted. “I can never put them down.” But it was never books they’d talked about.

Zach seemed to Get Meg in a way no one else ever had. He shared nearly all her interests, turned up whenever she needed him most, and somehow always knew what to say. When he’d asked for her number, she’d given it readily. When he’d asked her out, she couldn’t say “yes” fast enough. Things moved quickly then. Within weeks, they had A Song, they had A Spot, and then they were looking at A Place. Before they had even reached their half-year anniversary, they had moved in together.

There was tragedy, of course. Not long after they had settled into their new home, Meg’s best friend, Stephanie, had gotten into a terrible accident. Struck by a car while she was out running in the early hours of the morning. The driver had never been found, and the paramedics had said Stephanie was lucky to still be alive. Well, almost alive. Stephanie was in a coma, and no one knew when, or if, she would ever wake up.

The accident had very nearly destroyed Meg. Stephanie had been her closest friend since childhood. They’d done everything together. Meg couldn’t imagine a world without her.

The only thing that had kept Meg from falling apart completely was Zach. For some reason, he and Stephanie had never really gotten along, but after the accident, he’d pushed all that aside for Meg. He’d held her through every sob that wracked Meg’s body. He’d stayed up with her during every sleepless night. And he’d gone with her to every bedside visit in Stephanie’s hospital room. He’d even taken turns with Meg, reading all of Stephanie’s favorite books aloud. The doctors had said it was possible she could still hear them and that speaking to Stephanie might help guide her back to consciousness.

The ordeal was more painful than anything Meg had ever been through, and consequently, it had brought her and Zach together in a way she had never experienced with anyone before. They hadn’t even known each other for a year, and yet it felt like they had been together for a lifetime.

Meg really thought she had found The One. She was prepared to spend the rest of her life with him. They were perfect for each other. They could weather any storm together. Nothing could possibly tear them apart.

Or at least that’s what Meg had thought.

Until she found the box.

Living in Miami meant living with constant heat. And living in constant heat meant that any fault in the house’s air conditioning was a problem to be addressed immediately.

She had work off that day while Zach, on the other hand, had a full day at the retirement home, and though she wasn’t needed at the bookstore, she couldn’t stop herself from curling up in bed with her nose in a book. She was so absorbed in her reading that she didn’t notice how unusually warm the room was until a drop of sweat rolled down her nose and landed in the middle of the page.

She blinked, staring at the small soaked spot in confusion. Then she looked up. For the first time in at least an hour, she took stock of her surroundings. Everything seemed normal except for the uncomfortably stuffy temperature. Meg strained her ears and picked up the telltale hum of the air conditioning unit. Well, that was odd.

She marked her place in her book before closing it and getting out of bed. She wandered over to the bedroom vent, tucked almost under the bed itself, and put her hand over the grate. A measly stream of cool air poured out. She frowned. Was something blocking it?

She bent closer and peered through the grate. In what little light penetrated the vent, she thought she could see the silhouette of something in there.

She slipped her fingernails under the edge of the grate and worked to pry it free. Soon enough, she had loosened it enough to jam her fingertips underneath and pull it completely off. She set the grate aside and plunged one hand into the vent. She was half a forearm deep when her fingers brushed against something smooth and angular. She froze, grabbed ahold of it, and pulled.

She sat back at she looked at the small box in her hands. It was plain and made of finished wood. Her heart pounded as she hesitated at the latch. She felt like she had just stumbled across something she wasn’t meant to view.

Finally, steeling herself, she flipped up the latch and opened the box.

Her stomach sank at the sight that greeted her. Sitting on top was a bra. One of her bras. Her nose crinkling in distaste, she pulled it out and set it aside only to uncover more of her things beneath. Socks, underwear, a diary she had kept in high school, a diary she had kept in middle school. There were CD’s Stephanie had burned for her, old postcards addressed to her, even a USB drive she recognized as her own from her college days. She felt like she was going to be sick.

This was Zach’s box. It had to be Zach’s box. In fact, some sixth sense told her it was undoubtedly his. But why? They lived together, there was no need to keep a stash of her things, especially things this… personal. Why this invasion of privacy?

But still, something deep inside told her Zach had started this collection long before they’d started living together. It felt like some strange profile he’d put together, something to understand her.

She thought about how Zach had sometimes seemed to know her better than she knew herself, and pieces of a puzzle she didn’t even know existed started clicking into place.

She kept digging.

At the very bottom corner of the box, tucked away like they were the most secret thing of all, were what appeared to be… clumps of hair. Meg’s stomach turned as she pulled one out and examined it. It was short, brown, and bound by a thin rubber band. She set it aside and began pulling out more clumps, each tied together with another rubber band. As she pulled them out, a sense of unease began to weigh more and more heavily in her gut. There was something about the samples of hair that felt almost sacred, like there was a sense of pride behind each one. They almost felt like— like… Meg stuttered mentally over the word that rose so damningly in her mind.

They almost felt like trophies.

She pulled out another clump of hair and came to a halt. For the first time, the hair she held looked familiar to her. She sat unmoving, staring at it, willing herself to remember where she had seen it before. Then it came to her.

David.

David was one of the bookstore’s regular customers. Or at least he had been. He was a tall, handsome fellow with bright green eyes and ridiculously curly, pale blond locks. She’d recognize them anywhere. She’d spent plenty of time staring at them whenever David came into the store and leaned uncomfortably far over her counter, chatting about increasingly personal subjects with her. Every once in awhile, he’d gain enough nerve to ask her out. She’d politely turned him down each time, but David seemed to be under the impression that she’d change her mind if he just wore her down a bit more.

Once Zach had started coming into the store, he and David had encountered each other only a few times. Zach would walk in to find David bent over Meg’s counter like a vulture. Then he’d look at Meg and Meg would give him a “please help me” look, to which Zach had always obliged with gusto. Without a moment’s hesitation, Zach would barge into the conversation, leaving no room for David’s unwanted advances. After a few minutes of quiet frustration, David would give up on his pursuit for the day and leave in a huff.

After this had happened a couple times, David had stopped coming to the bookstore entirely. Meg assumed that, with Zach in the picture, David had finally accepted defeat. She couldn’t say she missed him or his patronage. But now, as she turned the curly bundle of pale blond hair in her grasp, she began to doubt it was as simple as that. A cold dread began to creep up her spine as his disappearance suddenly felt a lot more nefarious.

Her skin prickling with revulsion, she dropped the bundle of hair into the discard pile and picked up the next one in the box. She froze as it came into sight. The cold dread rose into a white hot rage.

She did not need to think about where she had seen this hair before. She recognized it immediately, knew it as if it were her own. The chestnut brown with the red highlights. It was Stephanie’s.

Meg’s hands shook. Her vision turned scarlet. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear something apart.

Zach. This was all Zach. Zach had done this. He had never really liked Stephanie. Of course, he had done this. He had been the one to hit Stephanie with his car. He had been the one to put her in this awful coma. This was a fact that Meg now knew in her very soul.

She wanted to fling the box away. Destroy it and everything inside. She wanted to run all the way to Zach’s place of work and beat him with her fists until there was nothing left.

But Meg did neither of these things. Instead, she reverently set Stephanie’s hair down next to David’s and reached for the box of horrors once more. There was still more inside and she knew she had to see this through until the end.

There were only two clumps of hair left, both blond and both similar enough to Meg’s own hair color and texture that, for a brief moment of terror, she thought they belonged to her. But then, no, they were most definitely not hers. That one was too dark and the other one was too curly. Unlike the other samples of hair, these two were not held together with a rubber band. Instead, they had each been tied up with a beautiful bow of ribbon, one a deep, midnight blue and the other a sleek, crimson red.

Meg stared at them, trying to figure them out. There was something special about these two samples, that much was clear. But what?

Once more, she felt the pieces of this new puzzle clicking together, and that’s when she knew.

Zach had mentioned before that he’d been in previous relationships. In fact, he’d been in two rather serious ones, but whenever Meg had asked about his exes, he’d clammed up. All she knew about them was that things had been perfect… until they weren’t.

“They just changed,” he’d told her simply. “And I knew that we’d never be able to work things out.”

And that was that.

Meg had tried not to pry. Zach had always been so quiet about his past, and she had never pushed him to say more than he was comfortable with. From what little she’d heard, it didn’t seem like the kind of stuff someone would want to relive. But now she wished she hadn’t been so understanding. She wished she had squeezed every last detail out of him.

She looked down at the hair in her hands again. This was all that remained of those two mysterious exes now, she was certain of it. And as she had this thought, another certainty settled over her, one that made her head spin and her stomach twist into knots.

She was next.

Meg sat unmoving for a long while, clutching the remains of her predecessors. Then, like a switch, she came back to life. Mechanically, she began putting everything back in the box, taking extra care to arrange it just as she had found it. She closed it, latched it tight, and slid it back into the open vent. She took time to make sure the box was positioned so the air flow was unblocked, then she replaced the grate, climbed back into bed, and pretended the whole thing had never happened.

Next part

[organised-disaster]

Sorry for the delay, but it's finished!!

I'm just going to tag @baxieblur-turnip and @randosfandos because they're the only interaction I get lol

SNOWBIRD: CHAPTER III

"You'll be fine, Rumes. Your name's only in once this year," says Yumi. She wraps a hairband around my braid, keeping it in place.

I rub my nose.

"Yeah, but you're in a bunch of times," I say. Yumi sighs.

"That's okay. It's my last year, remember? And so many other people have the same odds as me. We'll both be safe."

Yumi awkwardly stumbles out from behind me. I remain seated on the floor, staring at a scuff mark on Yumi's floorboards. Yumi crouches down slightly. She squeezes my shoulders.

"It's going to be okay, Rumi." I nod. Yumi gently tugs me to my feet. "Come on, then, Junco. We'll be in trouble if we're late."

Yumi had all sorts of cute little nicknames for me. Sometimes, I wished she'd just say my name, although it usually wasn't positive if she did. It was mainly "Rumes." I don't let anyone call me any of Yumi's nicknames anymore.

She called me "Junco" a lot, too. It was my favourite bird. Yumi said she started calling me that because her earliest memory of me is me pointing at one during winter. Yumi loved to tell me that story, too.

I was sick. Nothing that would hurt me now, but I wasn't a strong child, and such a mild illness hit me hard. I never really knew what I had. It never occurred to me to ask.

Yumi said that she came to check on me, alongside my mother. I was apparently standing up in my cot and watching the window.

I pointed at it and said, "Bird." I was talking about a fat little dark-eyed junco I had spotted. Yumi used to say how she was convinced it had cured me. She said she figured out that it was medicine and care, but she was young.

She found out what it was called and started using it as if it was my name instead of the bird's. She called me that less as I got older, but she almost never called me by my real name when I was younger.

I hug my knees closer to my chest.

"Junco, you should dig a -" A wave crashes over my cubic sandcastle, obliterating it and reducing it to naught but a pile of dampened grains of sand.

I frown.

"A moat. You should dig a moat. That way, the waves can't hit it that hard," Yumi finishes. I start to rebuild the sandcastle. Yumi walks over, her footprints shifting the waterlogged sand around them.

"You can't just rebuild it and expect it to be okay, you know," Yumi states. I halt my construction, watching as the waves once again take it from me.

"Why not?" I ask, resuming.

"You can't control the ocean, Junco. It'll break your blocks down over and over again, no matter how high you build it up," she tells me. I look up at her. She smiles.

"You can do so much else in situations like these," she chuckles. "You change what you can control. Like a moat! You could dig a moat. Or build a wall."

Yumi does both of these as I watch, fascinated. She uses her body to block the waves as she digs and uses the sand to build a wall.

She gets up. The waves once again crash around my sandcastle, but it remains unharmed.

"See? It can't do anything now."

I was only eight, I think, which would have made Yumi fourteen. She made it her business to ensure I learned something from all our interactions. Even if that something was simply that she loved me.

Yumi felt it was important. I didn't realise until just last year that she did it out of a fear of early death. A completely justified fear. Yumi was never paranoid, not even when she was literally surrounded by people who wanted her dead.

"Happy birthday, Junco!" Yumi says cheerfully.

"Yumes, aren't you supposed to be at the Reaping?" I ask her as I yawn. Yumi shrugs and hugs me.

"Ah, well, I have a few hours. A few hours for your birthday!" Yumi does a stupid dance that involves flicking her hands around and jumping a little. I giggle.

"I'm pretty old now," I state once I'm done screeching with laughter after Yumi unintentionally falls and lands flat on her face.

"Ten!" says Yumi excitedly. "It's your first milestone!" Yumi's cheerfulness seems slightly strange.

"Are you okay?" I ask. Yumi sighs. She smiles, albeit slightly forced.

"I'm just a bit worried, Junco," she says.

"Oh, but it's nothing major! Just silly little anxieties," she says, backtracking desperately as she sees my frown.

"Okay..." I say slowly. I don't believe her. I hope that's evident. Yumi hugs me again.

"It's fine, okay, Junco? You're fine. It's your birthday," she says. I don't know why she's hugging me so tight or why she's shaking so much.

"I think I'm a little old to be called 'Junco' now, Yumes," I say, changing the subject.

"Oh. Okay," says Yumi vaguely. "What do you want to be called?" she asks. I ponder her question for a moment.

"I like Rumes. Call me Rumes," I say. Yumi nods and smiles again.

"Well, Rumes," says Yumi, placing some extra emphasis on my name. "The Kaishurrs caught some nice salmon. Mother's cooking it for breakfast today!"

I smile. I do like salmon. Yumi relaxes at the expression on my face.

"I'll let you get your good clothes on, Rumes," she says. Yumi turns and leaves.

Mr Kaishurr is a fisher, as he was at the time, working in his big teams on their haulers. They'd sometimes go over quota, meaning they got to choose what to do with the excess.

Well, not really. They weren't truly allowed to, but the Peacekeepers turned a blind eye to it. Some even bought fish from them. District Four has never been a poor district, but if you were doing that physical labour, if you were being tossed about on the open ocean, at the mercy of the elements...

Well, would another bowl of soup truly hurt anyone? Another, more filling topping for your bread? Just a little more food at dinner? And the Capitol wouldn't even suffer without the extra. The Peacekeepers understand that. That's why the Capitol remains unknowing of District Four ever going over quota by more than would be noted.

The Kaishurrs often chose to share their excess with us. It's what we'd cook on special occasions. My mother was the reason we knew them, being incredibly good friends with Mrs Kaishurr. With their wives occupied with talking and laughing and cooking together, my father and Mr Kaishurr really only had the option to talk to each other.

Their conversations were stilted and awkward. They coexisted because it was easier than hating each other. Mr Kaishurr always rubbed my father the wrong way. He irritated me slightly, too, always talking and knocking people about or putting his arms around people's shoulders or talking far closer than he really needed to.

Neither of my parents fished - when they still worked - and worked much higher-paying jobs than the Kaishurrs did. My mother ran a glass-blowing business, as well as just making small-scale glass panes and such.

Most of the glass in Panem is sourced from here, although One is responsible for making most of the gorgeous things out of it.

My mother used to say how she loved the shapes and colours the glass made. That was why she did it, she said, and not because it paid well. It did, though. Fine glasswork such as Mother made was expensive.

My father worked on the mayoral council. Still works. He must be disappearing there all day to still be bringing in an income. He's fairly close to the mayor in his position, and he used to be good friends with him. Maybe he still is. I don't know when he'd find the time, though. He's buried himself in work and alcohol, even more so lately.

Sometimes, the mayor would come over for dinner with us. When Yumi was still alive, when Mother was still here, when Father still smiled, when the Kaishurrs were in the early stages of their fight.

Yumi would dress nicely, as would I. Our mother would start preparing food early while our father would clean the house. Mayor Esthel was his friend, but he was the type of friend that Father had to be cautious around.

Yumi gently kicks my leg under the table. I look at her. She pulls a strange face, tugging the skin under her eyes down with her pinkie fingers while she stretches the corners of her mouth with her other fingers. She sticks her tongue out.

I laugh quietly. Our mother smacks the side of Yumi's head, stifling a laugh of her own. Yumi stops tugging her face, her mouth snapping back to her normal smile.

We're silent again as we eat our dinner. I messily eat the bread I've been soaking in my soup, getting the hot liquid all over my chin. Yumi hands me a napkin.

I look up at her again. She's balancing her spoon on her nose. It falls off and clatters on the table. She quickly slaps it back onto her face like it never fell in the first place.

I laugh much louder this time, mainly at how goofy Yumi looks with her large grin and nose obscured by silver metal. Yumi seems satisfied.

Our father clears his throat, briefly distracted from his conversation by Yumi's antics. He's glaring rather pointedly at her. Mayor Esthel chuckles and waves a hand good-naturedly.

"Please, Sesten, it's fine. Your daughters act like my little girls. It's nothing I'm not well-versed in."

Mayor Esthel has two daughters, Tyra and Mechi. Completely identical to the point where they're sure they were confused with each other as babies. Both have straw-coloured, collar length hair cut in neat bobs. Each about my height.

They're both my age. We talk occasionally. Nobody can tell them apart by face alone, but Mechi has taken to embroidering her name onto all her clothing for that exact reason.

The day they swap clothing is the end of whatever we have together, I suspect. Tyra completely believes that she is more attractive than her sister and that they shouldn't be indistinguishable from each other.

They're both good-looking, with their fair complexions, sharp noses, and keen, narrow features, but Mechi is far nicer to be around. That doesn't stop both of them from being equally popular and equally desired. Tyra loves the attention while Mechi merely tolerates it.

I wouldn't say we're friends. Friends are too dangerous.

I hear quiet, muffled crying. I wander out of my bedroom, searching for its source. It's coming from Yumi's room.

I open the door. Yumi's face is buried in her hands, and her shoulders are shaking. She's sitting on her bed in a weak slouch. I walk over to her.

"Yumi?"

Yumi snaps up to look at me. She sniffles loudly and wipes her nose.

"Are you okay?" Yumi looks like she tries to smile. Instead, she bursts into sobs again.

I sit down next to her and wrap my arms around her. Yumi continues to cry. After a long time, she takes a deep breath. I hand her a handkerchief.

She wipes her eyes, then loudly blows her nose. She folds the handkerchief up.

"I'm sorry, Junco, I... It's not your problem, really," she says damply.

She pats my head. She smiles as more tears pool in her eyes. She pulls me into a hug.

"I love you, Junco. Don't ever forget that."

"Do you miss Otto?" I ask.

"Yes," Yumi chokes out.

"I miss Otto, too," I say feebly.

"I don't think there's anyone who doesn't," Yumi responds, equally quiet.

"I think she did a good job," I try. Yumi is quiet.

"She fought pretty hard," is all she says after a while.

Otto was a sweet enough girl. She was Yumi's closest friend, right up until her death eight years ago. She went down roaring. Yumi said she didn't like seeing Otto like that, but what did she expect?

Otovia Ossa, the best student in her grade and the most lethal fighter. She killed three other tributes before... Gloss, was it? Something like that, anyway. Before what's-her-name from District One took her down and won.

"Why?"

It was a stupid question, really. It had an obvious answer. But hearing it out of Yumi's mouth made it stick with me.

"Because she wanted to go home. In the end, the winner isn't the most vicious. They're not the best at killing. They're just the one who fights the hardest to get home."

I'll never forget that. It's burned into my brain. And I know. I know exactly how she meant it. I know what she was doing when she did it.

Yumi squeezes my hand reassuringly. I look at her. She smiles warmly. I smile back.

"The female tribute is..." Yumi doesn't let go of my hand. "Rumi Erudite!"

Yumi almost crushes my hand before she releases it. I stiffly walk forward. Yumi sputters from behind me. I get halfway to the stage before she shouts.

"I volunteer as tribute!" Yumi shoves me back into where I was. Our eyes meet in passing. She's angry. Her expression softens as she looks at me, but then she turns back to the crowd. Her eyes harden and smoulder again, the brown suddenly appearing black as she glares at them.

I didn't misunderstand the meaning. Yumi was always clear with me.

There's a close-up of Yumi's disgusted expression as she turns away, then the camera switches back to the Careers finishing the District Eleven tributes off. Yumi's district partner created a net trap. District Eleven was their first set of victims.

"Man up, Erudite," scoffs District One. "This is the 'fight each other to the death like animals for a chance to go home' games. Being a pacifist gets you killed." Yumi glares at him.

"It's barbaric," she spits. "Trapping them like fish."

"The barbarity is the whole point," shoots the other District One tribute in retaliation. Yumi still looks appalled.

"I won't have a part in it," she mutters. The other District Four tribute quickly comes to her aid as the other Careers growl and mutter as they turn toward her, faces twisted into snarls.

"So you're just dead weight, then?"

"You're using our supplies, but you won't contribute?"

"We don't need to keep you, you realise..."

"She doesn't mean it like that, guys. She'll help us, obviously, and she'll kill someone if she needs to. She just means she doesn't want to for the moment," says her district partner, pointedly turning and glaring at Yumi.

"She's not good at getting things across," he lies.

"That's believable," sneers District Two. District Four huffs.

"She is worth more alive than she is dead right now," says the other District Two tribute.

There's various mutters of agreement.

"Fine. We're eating you the minute we run out of food, though, Yumi," says District One. She's met with awkward silence. "It's called a joke. It's called a bloody joke, guys, relax."

So why? Why would she tell me that and do what she did?

District Four stomps after Yumi, his trident in his hands. He could throw it.

"Fight me, you idiot! It's just us! Why are you still running?!"

Yumi doesn't respond to him, losing her footing in the mud and slipping but not entirely falling. She continues fleeing. Her district partner finally decides to try, shifting easily into a sprint. He gains on Yumi immediately.

He yanks on her jacket, throwing her to the ground by her hood. Yumi makes no visible attempt to resist. He raises his trident in front of her face, and his whole body tensed as if to throw it. He holds himself there for a while.

"Yumi..." he says quietly, his trident falling from his hands. "...please fight. This is getting depressing."

Yumi looks up at him and smiles, although slightly sad.

"No."

I couldn't put the pieces together. I can now, of course, but I was twelve, and she was eighteen, and I firmly believed she was amazing. I couldn't see her flaws.

And I couldn't see why she would let him kill her without even resisting. I realise now, though, that Yumi saw it as a way out.

As her escape. Yumi never liked the idea of the Games. She never liked being trapped under the Capitol. If she had been around when it happened, she would have wholeheartedly supported the rebellion that started this whole mess.

She kept quiet. She loved me. She protected me. And then when the moment came, the time when she could help our family...

She didn't take her opportunity.

She loved human life in general more than she loved me.

That's fair, I suppose.

Finnick Odair yanks his trident free of Yumi's body. As he is declared the winner, he throws the trident far away from him. It buries itself in a tree trunk. Finnick drops to his knees and begins to sob.

For a brief moment, there is only the babbling of the commentators on the screen. Something shatters.

What do I remember, I wonder? What do I remember of my mother's screams, of my father's mournful fury? I remember the sound of my mother screaming until her throat was raw. I remember how she sounded as if her heart had been ripped from her chest.

I remember my father's bleeding, shredded knuckles as he continued to punch the walls until they gave way. I remember his face. I remember my mother's. I remember...

I don't even remember what I felt. I loved my big sister more than anything.

There was a funeral. Yumi's friends attended. Yumi's parents attended. The girl who had practically become Yumi's younger sister attended. Finnick attended. Did I attend? Did I attend the gathering meant to mourn, if I had never once mourned? I don't know.

I left dandelions on her grave. She liked dandelions.

My father gave the eulogy. My mother couldn't. She was forgiven fairly easily, so wrought with grief that she wasn't really present in the first place. District Four talked about me. They thought I didn't hear them.

Everyone loved Yumi. Most cried when she died. They expressed their sympathy to my family. My parents were inconsolable. Some people tried to talk to me.

I'm told I showed nothing. That I was completely and utterly blank with no sign of mourning or sadness or anger or anything that would be brought about by the death of a sister.

I'm told I unsettled people. Because a child's eyes should never be so dull or emotionless, I'm told. So they started avoiding me. They still do.

I receive sideways looks. I receive double takes. I receive second glances. People walk faster when I am behind them. People do not show me their backs if they can help it.

I loved my mother, too. Although the last time we ever spoke was the hour before Yumi's death.

Mrs Kaishurr, of course, attempted to console her. My mother's other friends, my uncles, my father, they all made efforts to help her. I think the last time I ever saw her was when we passed in the hallway.

She didn't look at me. She hadn't looked better than she'd been before, but she wasn't crying. Her eyes still seemed flat and hollow. The circles under her eyes were much darker than they had been.

Her hand was briefly on my shoulder. She gently squeezed it. And then she walked into the study.

She was a lovely woman. Brown curls down to her upper back and brown eyes to match. She was patient. Perhaps too loving. She had her hobbies. She didn't even leave a note. She loved her friends. She was a loving mother and wife.

It was my father that I looked most like. Yumi's distinction from me came from our mother's eyes and curls, but our narrow faces and black hair came from our father. Yumi was a combination of both our parents. I clearly only took after our father.

My parents used to joke about how I was exclusively my father's daughter and that my mother had no part in me. My father would then say that this was a blessing, because I was already such a pretty girl and that if I looked like my mother he would have to start nailing boards to our doors so people couldn't break into our house and propose to me on the spot.

My mother would laugh and smack him with whatever was in her hand at the time, often a spatula.

I wasn't the only victim of my father's jokes. He would occasionally ask Yumi how many boys she'd turned down that day, to which she would respond with a random number. My mother would sigh and shake her head, smiling.

There wasn't any sign of a struggle. Most of her things were missing, along with some bags. The door was unlocked. It's reasonable to assume she left of her own accord. She didn't even look at me. She couldn't, apparently. If the conversations overheard through doors are any clue.

We still don't know where she went. We had no guesses, no indication. We just assumed she went to another district. I wonder how well that went for her. I used to despise her for it, for abandoning her family when they needed her. I don't blame her for leaving anymore, though.

She left because she just couldn't face it anymore. Because she couldn't look at her home and know that one of her daughters would never return to it. Because she couldn't look at her surviving daughter without seeing the other one. Because she couldn't look at her daughter, knowing why she'd never see the other one again.

I can't blame her. I'd leave, too, if I knew that I would be forced to live in a home that could never feel full again.

Some good leaving would do now, though. Now that the damage has already been done. There wouldn't be a point. And besides, who would miss me?

Who would miss Rumi Erudite, the girl good at nothing but violence? Who would miss Rumi Erudite, the girl who only knows how to hurt? Who would miss Rumi Erudite, the girl that everyone would be correct to hate?

No one. I know that if I vanished, no one would look for me. My father already refuses to acknowledge my existence, as if pretending he only ever had one daughter would prevent him from losing the second. There is occasionally food on the table when I get home, but beyond that, I am dead to him. I doubt he's even doing it to save himself anymore. He ignores me out of habit and hate.

People would hear that I had disappeared. They'd remark that it was odd, perhaps, if I didn't leave a note. That would be the end of it, and no one would speak of Rumi Erudite again.

Maybe I should. I should just leave in the middle of the night, quietly and without making a spectacle of it. Since nobody would care.

I kick the wall across from me, hoping to put a hole in it. The wall does not give, but when I bring my leg down, something makes a crinkling noise. I look up to see what it was. A small, rectangular parcel sitting under my foot. I pick it up. It fits nicely across both my hands. It says my name on it in a neat, very deliberate script, as if the person writing it had to spend a lot of time and effort forming each letter. Sera's handwriting.

I tear the paper off it. A photo frame, thicker than most that I've seen. I run my fingers over the patterns dug into the dark wooden border. Framed is Yumi.

A greyscale drawing of her, done with graphite pencils. It's incredibly detailed. Yumi is facing the artist and smiling warmly. A few of her dark curls are caught up around her ears. She looks a little windblown, her hair preferring the left side of her head to sit.

I turn it over to find that it has a stand. Pinned underneath the stand is a note in Sera's slow handwriting.

Happy birthday, Rumes. Love ya.

I run my fingers gently down the glass panel in the front, tracing the outline of Yumi's face. The surface is uneven and rippled. I pull my thumb down the frame again and am pricked by a sliver of wood. This is Sera's handiwork.

It's not really a surprise that she made this. She's quite adept with things like these, a skill developed by years of gutting fish. Her hands tremble, but she can hold them still when she concentrates. A smudge on the side of Yumi's right eye tells me that Sera probably drew this, too.

Of course. Of course she did. Because that stupid girl just won't give up on me and move on.

My knuckles whiten as I grip the portrait of Yumi. Sera. I want to strangle her. I want to shout at her. I want to call her an idiot and slap her until she regains her senses. I want to hold her close and never let her go. I want to beg on my knees at her feet for her to forgive me. I want her to leave my life entirely.

She's an idiot. She'll never learn. She'll be the one who gets lost looking for me. She'll be the one who gets hurt defending me. She'll be the one who wastes her life on me. She'll be the one who stands too close when I lash out.

She's the only one who stayed in my life. She was the only one who comforted me after Yumi died. She was the only one who came to my aid when everyone was correct to say those things to me.

I grab Sera's arm and pull her away. She resists, ignoring my statements that she's done enough. The boy, covering his bleeding nose and what will turn into a black eye, cusses and runs off.

I use my thumb to wipe the blood away from Sera's cheek. She draws the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing the blood from her busted lip.

"Tetra shouldn't be allowed to talk to you like that," she mutters.

"And you shouldn't be allowed to get into fistfights with people who insult me," I snap back angrily.

Sera folds her arms across her chest.

"It's not fair. He w-w-went after Yumi." I let go of her face.

"He went after me, not Yumi," I tell her. Sera frowns harder.

"He said that -"

"It doesn't matter what he said. He was going after me." Sera's expression changes from a confused frown to near tears.

"Rumi, it isn't your fault."

It makes me angry, so angry, when Sera lies to me. She thinks I can't tell that she lies to me. But we've known each other for fifteen years. I recognise cues that basically don't exist. I can identify her mood based on how quickly she blinks.

I see all her little tells, her painfully obvious tells. And they infuriate me.

I am not a thinker. That is not what I do. I act before I ask, as I've been told by my many frustrated primary school teachers. And by plenty of others, to remove the needlessly complicated words.

I act on anger. I act on sadness. I act on hate. I do not act on happiness or love or anything that Sera does. That is why she does them, to make up for every horrible thing I do.

I regret acting in that moment. It would have been better if I had done nothing, nothing at all. It made me want to cut off my hands. She didn't deserve it. She hadn't earned it. She had already taken so many hits for my sake. And then I administered one more, and it was the one that made her cry.

Sera places her hand on her cheek, rubbing where I hit her. She looks rattled. I clench my fists tightly, backing away from her. Tears spring into her eyes.

"I'm... I'm sorry..." I mumble. Sera starts to tremble. Her tears drip down her cheeks. She looks utterly betrayed. I walk away faster, shaking my head. Sera's shoulders start to shake as she sobs. I turn and run entirely.

I ran all the way home and locked myself in my room. Rumi Erudite doesn't cry. She gets close, yes, but she doesn't ever cry. She's not capable of it. She's not capable of empathy.

She is capable of violence. She is capable of smashing photo frames and shattering mirrors and punching walls and hurting everyone around her.

She is capable of sitting in a ring of broken glass, her knuckles bleeding and cut by the shards stabbed into them that she couldn't be bothered to remove. She is capable of being discovered by the friend that she punched in the face.

That friend is capable of wrapping her arms around Rumi Erudite and brushing the hair out of her face. That friend is capable of telling Rumi Erudite that it is all alright as she gently pulls the mirror fragments from her awful hands. That friend is capable of bandaging Rumi Erudite's self-inflicted wounds.

That friend is capable of listening and nodding while Rumi Erudite gives the most worthless apology anyone has ever heard.

"I... I didn't mean it, Sera. Please. I didn't mean it."

"I know. It's okay. Did I push too hard?"

"..."

"Rumes?"

"Why do you always blame yourself?"

"Haha. You're exaggerating a little there, Rumi."

"I'm serious. What part of this was your fault?"

"I... Uhm... You... Tetra w-w-was being an ass! He -"

"You didn't deserve that. I'm... I'm sorry. I got angry and you were close."

"It's okay, Rumi, it really is."

Sera bounces back. She brushes things off. She ignores, she overlooks, she turns a blind eye. To everything I do wrong. She thinks I don't notice what she discards of her morals for me. She knows I'm not a good person.

I don't know why she's stayed by my side all these years. She's had six to leave, six to work out how to phrase it without hurting me. Sera is kind. She lets people down gently.

I don't deserve that, though. I deserve to be dropped from a great height, in the metaphorical sense. Perhaps in the literal, too. Maybe I would walk off myself...

I cut off that train of thought as quickly as I can, shoving it back to the dark corner of my mind where it resides. It's much worse than simply fantasising about leaving, and I'd rather not touch it now.

Sera tends to hold it out of my reach, though. Even if it hurts her, she stays by me. For fifteen years, I've been a thorn in her side. For twelve, I've hurt her. For six, I've been...

Awful. I am awful. I am a monster. And Sera is an angel, an angel, and she will always hold out her hand to me so that one day I may stand in her light. That hand...

That hand that is calloused and scarred from years of work. That hand that is wonderful to know and to love. That hand that is safe to be near.

That hand that is always gentle even when it is undeserved. That hand that is never raised against me, not even when it would be considered self-defence, not even when it is necessary, not even when it is right. That hand that is often wrong, that persists nonetheless.

That hand that is always outstretched, always waiting for me to take. No matter how many times it gets bitten and clawed and stabbed, it will never retreat. That hand whose owner always smiles, be it happily or sadly or with worry. I hate that smile.

I hate Sera. I hate her rough hands that feel so warm wiping the blood off my face. I hate her gentle tracing of the scars on my knuckles and abdomen and face and arms. I hate the way she holds my hands, acting as if they have a purpose that isn't pain. I hate the way she cups my cheek in her palm, and I especially hate the way I lean into it.

I hate the way I stain her hands with the rust-coloured aftermath of my training to die fighting. I hate the way I worry her with my cuts and bruises. I hate the way I resist when she tries to use me for comfort. I hate the way I abuse her.

I hate the way I dare use up air. I hate the way I dare waste her time. I hate the way I dare take up space. I hate the way my eyes are hooded. I hate the scar on my cheek. I hate the sight of my face. I hate how I love winning fights. I hate how I love the sensation of flesh under my fists.

And, oh, how I hate that all I know to do is hate.

I hate.

Sera hugs me desperately, hiccuping and sobbing. Yumi gently pries her off me. She sniffles loudly, and her face screwed up. Yumi hugs Sera, clearly feeling sorry for her. This proves to be a mistake, as Sera instantly latches onto Yumi with the approximate force of a vice.

"Sera, sweetheart, let me go," says Yumi kindly. Sera responds by burying her face in Yumi's stomach. Yumi pats Sera's head. "We'll be late, Sera. We'll get in a lot of trouble with the Peacekeepers if we're late."

Sera releases Yumi, desperately trying to contain another ocean's worth of tears.

"It's only her first year. She'll be alright, Sera. You guys can go to the beach again afterwards, like you normally do!"

Sera nods. She looks at me, then hugs me again.

"It's a beautiful day for the beach, Sera."

"Okay."

"Come on, Rumi. I wasn't joking."

"Come home, Rumes..."

"...please."

And hate.

Sera wipes her eyes. Then she wipes them again. And again. I hand her a tissue, which is instantly soaked by all the water pouring from her eyes.

"I'm so happy you're still here, Rumi," she manages, voice choked by emotion."And Yumi's going to be okay, right?"

"Of course she will. She wouldn't leave us. She'll fight."

"Y- Yeah... Yeah, I bet she w-w-will! Yumi's amazing! She'll be okay. I bet she'll w-w-win and not have to hurt anyone, either! She's smart enough to figure it out." Sera inhales unsteadily, her usual smile brought to her lips.

I hug her.

And hate.

I do not let go. I cannot ever let go. The world will fall to pieces if I let go. She is dead, so she is holding me together. And I am holding her together also, because Yumi is not here to do it for us.

She weeps. I cannot.

But it won't change the fact that my mother left.

My father barks a laugh. It's angry and mirthless.

"Of course she would. Because she just can't take anything, can she?! She just -" My father abruptly smashes his empty bottle of drink into the wall. It does not break.

"- can't -" Again, he forces the bottle into the wall. " - take -" I hear the bottle crack, but it remains sturdy. The wall is dented now.

"- anything!" The bottle explodes into a shower of shattered glass and alcohol dregs. It's almost pretty, with the way the light hits it.

But it won't change the fact that my father does not accept that I exist.

I gently open the door to my father's study. He is sitting at his desk, head down, and glass in hand. It's mostly empty. Paperwork litters the floor. I read one. It's about a request for a new Peacekeeper division.

I make no attempt to wake my father. He will not like it if I wake him from whatever heavy, dreamless sleep he has deliberately drowned himself in.

But it won't change the fact that Sera was injured.

I clutch the hem of my mother's dress, peering around her in an attempt to see into Cod's home. They talk at the door.

A little girl with blonde hair wanders into my field of view. She turns to look at me. Her face is badly scraped, stitches running from her chin to her nose and her eyebrow to her hair parting. Her nose is mostly obscured by a bandage.

She studies me for a long time, attempting to place me in whatever memories that have not bled out of her. She beams, her grin crooked, and waves.

She calls my name, and I call hers.

But it won't change the fact that Yumi is dead.

"Finnick?"

"Yes?"

"When you get home, can you please do something for me?"

"Of course, Yumi. Anything."

"Tell my family I love them. And there's a girl named Sera Kaishurr. Tell her I love her, too."

"I will, Yumi. I promise."

"My baby sister, most of all. Don't let her forget."

Yumi's slight smile does not ever fade.

And it will never change the fact that I killed her.

[antagonisticism]

Chapter One: Passing Notes

The morning was quiet. Temperate waves hit against the rocky beach in slow succession. Their meeting point only marked as they receded with slightly darker sand than what blanketed the drier areas of the beach. Cold air whipped and cut into the men in the dark suits as they stood, motionless despite its howling protests. 

Their suits were spotless and uniform. It was only at their shiny black leather loafers where the sand had kicked up around them and the cuffs of their pants that gave any indication they had actually walked to their positions rather than levitating onto the shoreline. Black sunglasses hid their eyes from view. Clear earbuds were in the right ear of each man on duty. They stood spaced out but in a semicircle around the reason they were there. 

One man stood farther inland and extended his hand in welcome to the other that just showed up.

“Glad you could make it on such short notice.” The man gripped the gentleman’s hand firmly. “Detective Esirpras, I presume?”

Detective James Esirpras  shook his hand with the same amount of force as he gave a curt nod. 

“Special Agent Barlowe, thanks for giving me a call.” He turned his head to the direction of the semi-circle. “That’s the body you spoke about?” 

The special agent nodded and they started to make their way down the beach toward the body in question.

“Yes, sir.” He said. “Found it at about o-five hundred by a couple walking their dog. They said it was their dog who alerted them he was even washing up on shore.” 

He squinted his eyes as the morning sun poked through the clouds to shed its light upon them. Still not enough to break off the winter wind’s chill. James crouched down for a further inspection of who laid before him. 

“Damn dog started whining and wouldn’t move from its spot next to him. Had to get a couple guys to pull it away when we got here.”

Waterlogged bodies were always the worst one could afford to handle as a new case. Destroyed evidence and bloating were the first two inconveniences that came to mind. The body here had minimal entry wounds from what the detective could see. 

It was a middle aged man. Salt and pepper hair clipped short. Navy blue polo and khakis. His shoes had either been taken by the assailant or washed away at sea. A gold watch on his wrist flaunted his wealth as it still ticked along even after a nasty ordeal. 

The Detective pulled out gloves from his pant’s front pocket. He put them on with a quick ease of experience. 

Slowly, he pulled back the right side of the corpse’s collar. A jagged open wound where he had bled out was situated between neck and shoulder about an inch deep. The first signature. James trailed his eyes up to the lips. There, they were sewn shut with black thread so tightly the skin had no no give. The second defining signature. He blew out a harsh breath. 

“Wallet had my card?” He asked, already knowing the answer. 

“Yes, sir. Wallet had no ID, credit cards, nothing. Just your laminated business card in one of the slots.”

James stared a little longer at the dead man.

“We usually would work this case ourselves. What, with multiple bodies with the same signature.” The agent began. “But seeing as how this is the work of someone already well acquainted with you. . .”

The detective glanced back at him as he stood. “I appreciate it. I’ve called in the crime scene techs and medical examiner. They’ll be here any minute. Do you and your boys want in on this?”

Special Agent Barlowe shook his head. “We’re already backlogged from the Palinski case. You can take head and just keep me informed of any changes.”

James nodded in agreement as he pulled off his gloves. 

A sharp honk sounded near the entrance of the beach and both men glanced up. A gunmetal gray van had pulled in. Outdated and boxy, with tinted windows discouraging anyone from looking inside. Detective James Esirpras knew that van all too well. 

“Cavalry has arrived.” He said. 

“Alright.” Barlowe looked around at the men who were still standing in their positions, unmoving. “We’ll head out, then. Like I said, keep me updated on any changes. I’ll leave the rest to you.”

He didn’t wait for a response from James. Instead, he lifted his hand and made a sharp motion to move forward. The suits followed the order and the group of them marched off the beach. James nearly rolled his eyes at the action. A jarring sight of what should normally be seen on a beach. He stopped when his eyes landed on the entrance of the beach and the woman they were walking towards. 

Madeline Juliet Sanaz. A short brunette with full lips always curved into a half-smile, as if she always knew something devious. The oversized waterproof muddy green overalls that were state issued for watery crime scenes she was wearing didn’t do her justice, but they did make for an entertaining look. They were clearly one of her coworker’s she had borrowed for the job. James watched as she tied her hair up into a messy bun before she reached into the back of the van to grab a camera and evidence markers. 

His view shifted back to the body when he spotted the Medical Examiner starting to walk his way. An older man with a hunched back and a black leather bag full of tools to obtain and preserve evidence. 

James could have sworn the man was like someone out of one of those Tim Burton films. What, with gray-white hair being tousled to and fro by the wind, deep bags under the man’s eyes, and a tight expression on wrinkled old lips. 

He hobbled through the sandy terrain. It was a slow pace that made James tap his finger against his crossed forearms impatiently.

“Great day for the job, huh?” The detective said jovially as soon as the examiner got to the body. He knew the answer before it came.

An unenthusiastic grunt. 

“He hasn’t gotten his morning cup of coffee.” A low, serene voice commented behind him.

James nearly lept and pulled out his weapon from surprise. He sharply turned to the voice’s owner and swore. Madeline had yet again snuck up on him with the ease of a panther. James had always been hyper-vigilant since childhood, aware of his surroundings at all times. Friends back home would regularly say he was impossible to scare because of it, and it was true. However, Madeline continually seemed to know how to make it impossible for him to spot her presence. 

Ever since her arrival to the department, she snuck up on him in more ways than he would like to admit. 

“You need to get a bell tied around your neck, Mads.” He snapped. 

“Kinky.” She whispered back with the same devilish tone she always took around him. 

He stared.

She winked, walking past him to get to the body and her boss who had crouched down to work on it with his bag of tricks. 

Their usual routine and almost now a ritual of sorts. 

“If you two are finished.” The medical examiner, Dr. Allard, quipped. “I would like to get these photos and evidence bagged quickly. It’s shitty enough he has been in the water as long as he has.”

“At least it’s low tide and we have time to survey the area.” James muttered. The other man glared up at him while Madeline turned her face to hide her expression. “Just trying to be positive, doc.”

“You are trying to “be positive” over the body of a murdered man?” He scoffed. “This is the body of a person, Detective. Maybe show a little respect. Some somber decorum.” 

James muttered something along the lines of “sir, yes, sir” while circling the examiner and body. 

The process was quiet and methodical as more and more crime scene techs swarmed the area. Each either taking notes, or pictures, or placing markers by possible evidence. They all worked as a unit, knowing the ins and outs without having to even look up. Efficiency was their first language as no stone was left unturned without someone documenting it. Seeing as this wasn’t the primary location where the murder occurred, it was quick. 

Before the two hour mark, they had completed all of their collective checklists and gotten a gurney to move the body.

Dr. Allard sharply told James that he would be giving the body a look over after lunch and to be there by dinner to go over any significant or insignificant findings. 

From there, the morning and afternoon went by quickly. Calls on other cases he had been assigned and a meeting with the Captain to debrief on what had happened. He compartmentalized the expectation of what would happen next. This man, this type of case, was nothing new. The victim’s wallet emptied out with nothing but James’ business card. He never knew who the victims were and had to wait for a way to identify them. Again and again, ever since the start of his career as a detective. Each one more hopeless than the last. Never a break in any of the cases like them.

Their files danced around his head in a taunting fashion. 

Never to be solved. 

After briefing the captain, he went to the bathroom to wash his face. The ghosts still hung around him as he pushed past the door to the sink. His right hand reached out to turn on the faucet, but he paused when he saw himself. 

Chocolate brown hair clipped close on the sides and slightly longer to comb back on the top. A strong jaw with stubble clenched in tension of thinking about the past and the present. His eyes met themselves in the mirror. They were the color of coal, dull and exhausted. 

He stared at himself for a minute longer, then turned on the water. 

He was trying to fight the disappointment welling up inside of him. A case like this would be hard on anyone on his team, but especially him. He had graduated from the police academy top of his class with unending praises. Every higher-up he met consistently told him of his bright future ahead of him. They promised the most adventurous journey of his life. 

And then, Julia Harford happened.

She had been a young college girl from out of town. Pretty blonde hair and a bright smile. At least, that was what her drivers license had shown when they finally found her in their system days later. 

Her body had been found in a motel off the interstate. It was laid on the bed ever so carefully with blood from the knife wound in her neck spreading slowly throughout the sheets, staining them crimson. Her lips had been sewn shut and her eyelids closed. She looked like an angel, he had thought. One not allowed to watch or speak of the horrors this life had put her through. 

He had spent months on that case going over video footage and eye witness statements. Interviewed countless friends, possible enemies, and yet no one gave him a single reason why they would kill her. None had the ability to harm a hair on that girl’s head when it really came down to it. 

It nearly broke him. A psychological warfare he had never been familiar with. The unknown killer taunted him with just enough evidence to let him grasp in vain for the right answer that never came.

“How long are you going to stand there sighing and groaning?” Madeline’s voice shot through his wandering thoughts and reeled him back into the present.

He caught her gaze in the mirror. “This is the men’s room.”

She was leaning back on the fully open door with arms nonchalantly crossed and shrugged. 

“You came in here ten minutes ago and Dr. Allard is cursing up a storm. I chose the safer option.”

They stared back at each other for a few minutes longer through the mirror before James sighed, shaking his head. 

He turned off the faucet and walked to the paper towel dispenser by the door. 

“I’m assuming the autopsy is not going well?” He asked, patting his hands dry. 

“There’s something he needs to show you.” She bit her lip, troubled. “I’m sorry in advance.”

James nodded and walked past her to the hallway outside. They walked together in silence. Each step closer to the dreaded show and tell he knew was coming. The final signature this killer did to keep the detective’s attention. One of the only constants in each case he worked involving this mystery monster. 

“He has a note in his mouth, doesn’t he?” James asked, already knowing the answer. 

Madeline was quiet for quite some time. They kept walking. He hit the elevator button and the doors slowly opened. Coworkers, attorneys, and the like all rushed out and skirted past them. They waited as the others walked out before stepping into the elevator. Mad's head was tilted down where James couldn't see her expression as the elevator doors closed and she whispered the dreaded answer.

“Yes.”

[film-in-my-soul]

D, stucky!

-> Scent Kink (non A/B/O, non werewolves), Masturbation <-

D is for Dirty Secret

It's wrong. Steve knows it's wrong. Even if it weren't Bucky's shirt held between his hands, a man's shirt, there's no mistaking the wrongness of bringing the fabric up to his nose and breathing in deep.

Steve's eyes flutter closed at the first inhale, a shiver of lust making his stomach clench, half from arousal, half from the shame he'll never entirely brush off. Still, despite knowing that, he can't stop himself, and he hasn't really tried to since the third time he'd used the excuse of having the time and energy to do laundry so he could get his hands on something of Bucky's.

Like a ritual, Steve runs through the reasons why he shouldn't. He ignores that it grows shorter every time he kneels at the foot of Bucky's bed, and when he's done, Steve eases his conscience with the reasons it's not that bad after all.

First, it's not like the shirt is clean, and even if Steve were to get it messy, he is going to clean up after. Bucky won't know the difference; he'll probably even muss up Steve's hair and call him a good little housewife for cleaning up while he's at work, anticipating the elbow Steve will jab him with. It's a trade-off, all things considered, a bit of payment for doing the work Bucky always likes to complain about. And really, if it stops Steve's resolve from breaking, something that feels closer and closer as the winter months draw nearer and Bucky insists on Steve taking his better coat when he leaves for sign painting in the early hours, then Steve can't find it in his heart to give more than a token protest against the need that lives inside him.

Justified in only the loosest sense, Steve swallows thickly, buries his nose in the balled-up cotton, and takes in another breath. The next burst of heat that rolls through him is all pleasure, fleeting guilt assuaged by the wash of Bucky. The groan that works itself from Steve's chest is just as unstoppable as his right hand falling to his lap to undo the fastenings on his slacks.

It hadn't always been like this, Steve acknowledges, panting hot into the bundle of cloth and slipping his slim fingers beneath the waistband of his shorts. There hadn't always been this wriggling little desire in the back of his head when he'd catch a whiff of Bucky coming in from the dance halls or off a night shift at the docks. But, one day during a wet summer, the roof of their apartment started leaking while they'd both been out, and everything changed. Steve's bed had suffered the damage, sheets already beginning to stink with mildew, the mattress waterlogged, and the crates they'd used to prop it all up warping from the weight and rain. Without a hint of sunshine on the horizon, it had sent Steve right into Bucky's bed, the other man not giving him a chance to argue over why the floor and a handful of blankets would be just as good as the lumpy mattress he'd been suffering with already.

That night, Steve had found himself with his face pressed into Bucky's pillow, Bucky against his back, smelling like damp summer heat. It had felt, at the time, inevitable, laying there in the dark and then in the dawn, cock hard, breathing in Bucky's scent as slowly as he could so the other wouldn't get suspicious or worried about Steve's lungs if he caught Steve struggling for air. After that- after getting himself off while Bucky had gone to gel up his hair and brush his teeth to start the day, biting Bucky's pillow and licking his own fingers clean to hide the evidence- well, some wires had gotten crossed.

So here Steve is, one hand shoved into his drawers, the other holding Bucky's shirt to his nose and mouth, getting off as quickly as he can without risking an asthma attack or ruining his pants by shooting off too soon.

Wracked with shivers, haunched over himself, and muffling his panting gasps of pleasure with the spit-slick fabric, Steve drags his tongue over the shirt, wanting to taste the lingering hints of a night of dancing and spilled lemonade. Steve can almost hear a voice that sounds a lot like Bucky in the back of his head, teasing him with a tone that's just a bit smokey, like how Bucky sounds when he's done with a cigarette.

"You gonna cream yourself, sweetheart? Make a mess in your shorts?"

And even though it's not someone real asking him, Steve nods, digging his face into the shirt and hiccuping on an indulgent sob when he catches another hit of Bucky's stale cologne. The spice of it makes his cock throb, the undercurrent of work-sweat a stab to his gut even stronger than the feeling of fisting himself, tight and rushed.

Steve tips forward, lets his upper half drape over Bucky's bed, and arches into his hand, spine bent awkward, his orgasm bright and hot beneath his skin as it grows in throbbing pulses. He lets himself imagine the soft, wet fabric against his mouth is something even softer and bites back a whine.

God, what he wouldn't give to slide his mouth and nose down Bucky's stomach, to catch the drying sweat of a day's work against his tongue, the salt tang of sea and summer so sharp it might hurt to taste. Even still, what deal he wouldn't strike to go further, to let his face fall into the perfect crease of Bucky's thigh and groin, the hair there rough and the scent as strong as it will ever be, in that most protected place. He could come from it, he's sure, wouldn't even need a hand to fuck into, just Bucky crooning low and letting Steve take it all for himself.

Steve is so lost in the idea that he almost doesn't feel his climax peaking, the coil of pleasure-pain behind his navel tightening, pre-come leaking over his forefinger and thumb where the curve over the slit as he strokes himself. But it's there, right at the tip of his tongue, a choking sound of need and a stutter in his hips that threaten to spend his already sore knees sprawling as his balls begin to draw up and his shoulders begin to shake. 

He has just enough time to pull his cock from his shorts and drag Bucky's shirt from his mouth to press the fabric against the head of his dick, biting down on Bucky's mattress to muffle his grunts as he finishes, eyes squeezed shut and chest tightening at the distant thought at mixing him and Bucky together, even in this tiny way.

There's a moment, spent but still muggy with orgasm, where Steve draws Bucky's shirt away from his softening cock and contemplates bringing it back to his mouth to smear the both of them on his cheeks and chin. But he's already going to be running against the clock doing the laundry before the sun goes down and Bucky gets home; throwing in a shower on top of that isn't worth the momentary pleasure he won't get to linger in.

When he gets off the floor, Steve’s knees pop, and he knows they’ll be smudged with faint bruises in a few hours. Distracted by the familiar pain and receding waves of climax, Steve doesn’t hear the telling creak of floorboards from the bedroom doorway. So when a voice breaks the semi-quiet, his heart flies into his throat as he swings around, soiled shirt clutched to his chest, pants still unzipped and loose on his hips. He meets Bucky’s eyes, the other man leaning against the doorframe, all lazy angles and hooded eyes.

“You got a funny way of washing laundry, pal.”

[icelogged]

I LOOK UNREAL RN if i had both piercings in it would be over for all of you </3

[seizurecubes-fakemon]

Spedraggle - the waterlogged pokemon Type: ghost/water Ability: Unburden or Burden (gives an Iron Ball to any opponent without a held item) or Insult To Injury (raises the power of moves used against targets with negative status conditions) Moves: Undertow (60/100%/physical. Holds the target underwater, putting both user and target in a semi-invulnerable state this turn, then deals damage the next turn). Shadow Claw, Poltergeist, Flip Turn, Wave Crash, Avalanche, Knock Off, Curse, Hypnosis, Punishment, Destiny Bond, Toxic.

When many people feel trapped by obligations, this pokemon begins to appear. Its body is always wet, but it is most commonly found in dry, urban environments, miles away from bodies of water.

I graduated from a master’s degree earlier this year, making this my first winter holiday season in a while without the looming shadow of January deadlines, and it’s pretty great. Alas, my sister is still going through it with her studies. This one goes out to anyone who feels swamped by work when they’d rather be hibernating.

[sinnerclair]

found some old writing and was curious,

Snow fell against the dry ground harshly as I gloomily stared out the wooden window pane, adjusting my sunhat that no longer served any purpose at the current moment.

It was 1816, the deprived year when summer looked like another frigid winter. The horses had succumbed last week to starvation, and so had the cattle. My family has been left with barely anything to hold onto, like many others in our small town located in a rural area of southern Germany. We weren’t just hit by snow; rough rain waterlogged crops and slowly killed them. As a result, food provided by these crops was quickly depleted for both people and livestock, killing both within weeks or months.

Even though farmers were willing to sell off their crops for at least some money to purchase goods, only a few bought crops in the crisis; and despite many people’s efforts, heavy rains eventually killed off those plantations. As far as food was concerned, we only had beef, corn, strawberries, and some leftover pie from the month before. I grabbed some cold meat from the old icebox and sat at the table with it. I began eating alone as the snow was the only noise filling the deafening silence.

We have four more months until this year concludes. But it felt like forever until this devastating frozen summer came to an end.

Four more months.

Four.

More.

Months.

[plushiepunk]

Plushie Restoration: Elmo and Winter

HELP I deleted the draft on accident so now I have to start over

Ahem

Recently I got some older Build a Bears off of eBay and decided to restore them!

Elmo is from the 2004 Sesame Street collab and stands at 19" tall!

Winter is from the A Friend Fur All Seasons 2007 collection and is 14"

Under the cut is the whole process I went through both for posterity and in case anyone wanted a step by step guide on restoring build a bears :)

Here are there before pictures!! They didn't smell bad which was a pleasant surprise; Winter did have a bit of an "old basement" smell but that came off in the wash so they both smelled a bit like soap

As you can see they're not in bad shape, just well loved over the last 17-20 years

First order of business was to unstuff them so they didn't get waterlogged in the wash! I used my seam ripper on their back stitches and found their original hearts, find a friend ID tags, and Elmo had a sound chip in him!

I wish I had a way to restore the sound chip, but since it's literally 20 years old I'll settle for keeping it as a memento

Ta da! Fluffless!

As for the washing process, I did a gentle cycle with a deep fill and All Free and Clear detergent

Insert the funny spin cycle photo

The drying process had a bit of trial and error: I eventually put them on the shoe rack so they wouldn't bang around in the wash (Elmo has big plastic eyes so this posed a very loud issue)

I set it to a 50 minute timed dry on the lowest heat setting and checked on them every ten minutes or so. I also found that you have to rotate them on the shoe rack so they dry evenly

Winter was dryer than Elmo a lot quicker, but after they were both only a little damp I took them out and got to brushing

I cleaned a wire dog brush and went against the grain until they were super fluffy again!

As you can see Elmo had a lot more debris than Winter!

After this I hung them up on hangers so they could dry the rest of the way overnight

The next day it was off to build a bear! I actually work there so my experience/process will likely be a bit different than the average person, but I'll still let you know both what I did and what you would likely do!

I added a sound chip to Winter and placed both their original hearts and a new one in them so they could be extra loved!

After they were stuffed (I like mine pretty firm), I closed them up with a ladder stitch and a kiss!

And there they are!! Fully restored build a bear friends. This was such a fun process and I'd honestly love to try it again with new friends sometime!

And here they are at their big brother BeeGee's birthday party. I guess it's their birthday now too!!

[kadavernagh]

TIMING: Current-ish LOCATION: The beach PARTIES: Marcus and Regan SUMMARY: Marcus does a good deed by pulling a dead body from the water, but Regan is there to question him about the strange circumstances.

Another quiet night, Marcus thought to himself. Normally a quiet night along the shore would be considered a good thing, but this town had taught him that quiet almost certainly means trouble. And trouble always seemed to find its way to Marcus one way or another. No ships out at sea right now, and there hadn’t been for a while. Marcus figured it may be a good time to do a quick patrol along the beach to look for any drowning swimmers. 

As he slowly made his way down the steps in his long descent towards the beach, he could feel a knot start to form in his stomach. Usually drunk college kids liked to mess around on the beaches at night. While this on its own didn’t bother him, there was nothing wrong with having a little fun with your youth after all, alcohol and unpredictable ocean currents were never a good mix. He had saved six people from drowning since coming to this town, not including the strange pale woman from the pier. 

At first he kept a calm walking pace, glancing out at the water to look for anybody who may need saving. His pace increased to a sprint when he found a mass floating about 20 feet from the shoreline. The curve of their back bobbed up and down over the waves, their head and feet must have been under the water. They weren’t moving. Fearing the worst, Marcus dove in without even removing his shoes, trying to pull the body back to shore as quickly as possible. 

Leave it to Maine to have record temperatures on the year she was stuck in a winter coat. At least by the beach, it buffered her from the wind, and night lended a chill to the breeze. Plenty of people wore layers at the beach. She didn’t stick out too much, right? Did it matter? It was late, anyway. And why was she still chasing any form of normalcy? Forget it. Regan shuffled through the sand, letting her feet guide her. They rarely let her down, leading her straight toward the inevitable.

In the distance were two figures – a person in the intertidal zone standing by an inert lump, tide lapping at them both. Her skin prickled with thrilling, familiar death. And that lump she spotted was no small find. Not a gull nor a fish. Bigger. A seal, a dolphin, or maybe…

Regan’s feet picked up pace. When she saw what her body already knew was present, her eyes twinkled, and she took it all in. He was beautiful. Not the man – to her, he didn’t exist – but the body. Bloated, waterlogged flesh that had been picked clean in spots by ambitious fish. Eyes that had swollen and erupted out of his skull and long-disappeared down something’s gullet. Seaweed tangled in his remaining hair and draped across the drenched, tattered clothes as if claiming the body for itself. The man besides the body was, Regan supposed, also quite handsome, though it had taken her too long to really notice him.

“What’s this about?” She blinked, processing what was happening here. Perhaps she should have been more alarmed by the body. Even in this death-saturated town, people managed to be caught unawares. The man appeared stunned, though Regan couldn’t tell if it was because of the body or because he was seen by the body. But she didn’t need to give the decedent an examination to know it was not freshly-dumped. He was no killer. This seemed serendipitous. “Did you find this body?” Which raised more questions. The clothes were too wet and free of sand, the skin showing no evidence of gulls’ plundering, for this to be a beachcombing find. “Did you find this body in the water? How did you drag it out of the ocean?” Touching the body would have been unavoidable, unfortunately, though salt water was good at chafing away evidence by itself anyway.

Her walks always ended this way. Her hand dipped into her pocket and emerged with her ID. “I’m Dr. Kavanagh. I work at the Office of the Medical Examiner.” Though this probably seemed like a chance meeting to him, it was anything but. Regan didn’t subscribe to fate, and certainly not Fate, but death hooked her and reeled her toward whenever she needed to be. “You won’t be surprised to hear that I have some other questions for you. I think we have a few minutes before I have to alert my investigators, and I’d like to have you on your way as soon as possible.”

By the time Marcus had reached the man in the water, it was obvious he was beyond saving. Bloated, and partially decayed. Or had something been eating at him? He reminded himself of how terrifying the circle of life could really be. He didn’t fancy the idea of dragging this corpse to shore, but he figured the least he could do for the man was get him identified so that they could have a proper burial. He knew several former comrades of his who would have been grateful to have had the same courtesy extended to them. 

When he reached the shore, he was greeted by an unwelcome sight. A woman was standing at the shoreline watching him, as well as the body he was carrying. 

Shit. 

Surely she wouldn’t think he had killed the man, right? She didn’t seem to be especially suspicious of him, she almost seemed curious. Also, in spite of it being a warm 78 degree night, she was dressed in a winter coat. Her first impression she left on Marcus was… curious to say the least. 

She was questioning him, which couldn’t be a good thing. It would be pretty easy for Marcus to prove he had nothing to do with the poor man’s death, but he didn’t want to deal with the headaches of a police interrogation. While the people in this town didn’t generally seem to show many biases, he never had a good history with the police. Being implicated in a murder wouldn’t help his case in any way if it came down to it. He was relieved to hear she was a medical examiner. Surely she of all people could see the decomposition and know this couldn’t possibly be a fresh death. 

“My name’s Marcus, Marcus Fremont. I tend to the lighthouse up that way” he said, gesturing towards Hanging Rock. “I also use down time on my shift to search for any swimmers that need help, lot of drunk college kids putting themselves in bad situations. Evidently, I found this guy way too late”, Marcus said, gesturing to the man’s body on the ground. 

“It is… welcomed meeting you, Marcus Fremont.” Maybe not good, but welcomed, yes. His account of what happened was, at the least. Regan took in the nervous way he was holding himself. The way his feet shuffled in the sand and uncertainty in his voice. “Let’s get this out of the way. I am not assuming you have anything to do with the death.” But with that said… “However, if you did have something to do with it, I will find out, and you will not get away with it. I like to make myself clear.” She fished out a small spiral notebook and pencil from her bag. They weren’t official tools of the investigation but they were enough to capture Marcus’s ad hoc account, before she sent him off.

“Bodies are heavy, even in the water.” She leveled her gaze at him, though it was more studying than accusatory. “You must be quite practiced in pulling people to shore if you were able to do this. Where were you when you saw the body? And what did you see, exactly? Did you presume the body to be a live person?” She readied her pencil.

The woman’s cold demeanor wasn’t a relief to Marcus, but he was glad he wasn’t being implicated in the poor man’s death. He watched as she readied a pad and pencil and wondered why she would need to take some kind of eyewitness statement if she wasn’t a cop. Sure, she worked with the cops, but this part wasn’t her job was it? Shouldn’t she be calling a detective over or something? 

“I used to be in the navy. Had to pull plenty of my shipmates out of troubled water, at least during training. Hard to do that kind of rescue on a real ship. And during those trainings we all were wearing 40-60 pounds of equipment on our body which, of course, would get waterlogged. In other words, this wasn’t much of a struggle for me.” Marcus explained, feeling proud that his strength had almost returned to him completely. If nothing else, he always had his athleticism to fall back on as a point of pride. 

“I was probably about halfway down the shoreline between here and the lighthouse when I saw something floating. I couldn’t tell from that distance that he was already a lost cause, so I dove in to try and get to him as quickly as I could. Once I got closer, I realized he was well beyond saving. But that didn’t mean I was going to let his body become fish food”. 

He glanced at the woman in front of him again, curiously. There was plenty that was off about this woman, and he had some questions of his own. 

“Now, if you don’t mind. What are you doing out here so late? And I hate to be critical about people’s fashion and whatnot but, why are you wearing that big coat? It’s a pretty warm night, all things considered. Might have been why this guy decided to go for a swim.” He said, glancing at the body of the man again. 

Marcus’s story was more than believable – Regan didn’t know very much about what went into training people in the Navy, but she figured any Navy Seal could probably pull the body of a full-grown human being from the water with relative ease. Probably even easier dead than alive. Regan knew from experience that those who drowned alive flailed and could easily drag others down with them. A shudder ran through her as she thought of her grandmother’s deceptively strong grip. Jotting down the details Marcus provided made for a worthy distraction. “It’s good you were around, then. I don’t know how I would have been able to pull him out.” Felt the body’s presence, certainly. But it would have become some tantalizing treat that she could not reach. “One last thing. Your contact information, please.” She readied her pen.

Regan eventually realized she was being studied back. “This is… official Medical Examiner garb.” Her stomach squeezed with the lie, but she did not allow herself to flinch. “Do not concern yourself with it. We need many pockets, you see.” Even though she’d pulled her notebook out of her bag, she closed it and inserted it into one of the pockets just to demonstrate a point. “Plenty of people walk the beach at night. I was going beachcombing.” Which was true, though the objects of her affection were not shells or sea glass. I can have an answer for everything, too, Regan thought, despite not finding Marcus particularly suspicious. 

She shook her head at his speculation. “No, he died before tonight.” Though how far before was hard to say. Water changed decomposition, giving fewer clues to the post-mortem interval. But if the fish-bitten holes in his clothes and skin were anything to go off of, it had at least been a couple of days. She gave the cadaver a look of admiration, taking in the salt-shriveled flesh and clumps of remaining hair. “Once we identify him we may be able to gather information about when he was last seen alive, and where. Not my favorite method. Humans are unreliable.” She pulled a business card from a different pocket and handed it to him. “I expect you to contact me if anything else about this occurs to you. But perhaps there’s more to be said right now.” She raised a brow.

Marcus observed closely as the woman in front of him wrote down every detail of what he said. He had hoped he wouldn’t be called to testify as a witness of any trials that popped up in the future. He didn’t do well with informal questioning like what he was getting now, he fared even worse when being questioned in more official settings. It’s why he chose to live a life in secret while officially being presumed dead, it was much easier than having to come up with a believable excuse to go AWOL to the U.S Navy. 

“I imagine you have a lot of tools of the trade. Magnifying glass, scalpel, gloves…” he trailed off, unable to remember anymore things he could imagine a medical examiner using. He knew what a doctor used and also figured a detective would want a magnifying glass. “Didn’t mean to make it feel like an interrogation”, he added, still not fully sure he wasn’t in one himself. 

He gave the woman his contact information without any argument. He learned from an early age that the more he cooperated with the law, the better things will be for him overall, even if he didn’t particularly want to cooperate. He had hoped this night would be the end of his questioning and hoped even more that he wouldn’t be getting a call asking him to testify. 

“Nothing else at the moment, I think we about covered it. Saw him floating, tried to save him, realized it was too late, dragged his body to shore. Didn’t know the guy, obviously, but felt he deserved a proper burial as most people do.” He paused to look at the man’s body again before returning his gaze to the strange woman in the big coat. 

“I know people can be very unreliable with their stories, especially if it’s really been multiple days. But I really do hope you guys can figure out who this man was. Just so his family can get some closure” 

His words hung heavy on his tongue, knowing that his own family didn’t even get the comfort of knowing he was alive until very recently. 

“Rib spreader, bone saw, delightfully long needles…” Regan continued, enjoying the rise her equipment sometimes got out of people. “Your willingness to help is appreciated,” she said with a nod of her head, though she knew it was less of a willingness and more of an obligation. People didn’t tend to tell her much of anything until she showed her ID. Dr. Rickers probably didn’t have the same issue; Regan imagined most people just believed he was a medical examiner on the spot and opened up to him. Not only was he an exemplar of their occupation, he had this annoying quality that made others actually want to engage with him. Except for Regan. She was the only person with sense.

Pulling her phone from one of her many pockets – and shooting Marcus a glance that said see? Helpful – sent a text alert to her office, who would come down here with the police. There was little scene investigation to be had. The body had obviously been dumped and drifted this way from elsewhere. “I assume you can usually be found around here?” Regan asked him. She had his contact information, but that wasn’t the point she was getting at. “If you see anything, please inform my office. And if you see any choice animal carcasses, message me, personally. Got that?” Her voice lightened at the request – which for her, was as friendly as she got. “You have been fine to meet, Mr. Fremont. Memorable, at least. Most individuals don’t bring me bodies. Keep up the good work. If you would like to leave now before my office arrives, you may. You’re dismissed.” 

Sometimes people really were good samaritans. But even though Regan didn’t think Marcus was at all responsible for this death, something told her this would not be the last she would see of him.

[theretirementstory]

Bonjour et bienvenue from a cloudy Bar-sur-Aube where the temperature is only 6c. It has been windy and yesterday did it pour with rain! It was wet inside and outside of my house, I really do wish that on one dry day the roofer will arrive and fix this problem. I can’t see it being done this side of Christmas but I have been wrong before 😉.

So what have I been doing this week? Well it has been week three of radiotherapy so that’s 15 sessions “under my belt” which means there are just two more sessions to go 😁. That gives me the opportunity to plan my Christmas and New Year meals. I think I have decided on the starter, Marinated Goats Cheese with Pears and Walnuts 😋, I think a light dessert too so thought pavlova or meringue with fruit and cream. I was going to have filet mignon (pork) but am contemplating a turkey breast with sage and onion stuffing, bread sauce, roast potatoes, roasted parsnips and sprouts.

The car went to the garage as it had been recalled. I waited the 45 minutes and everything was fine. That was really good news as at the moment I am out in the car every day.

With all the rain and frost we have been having the cyclamen were getting waterlogged and I really don’t want to lose them. I moved them under the laurel bush, thinking it may be a bit drier there for them. The chrysanthemums now have brown heads on the flowers but I have left them where they are.

The other afternoon I came out of the house and running up my driveway was something brown, aaargh I thought a rat then realised it was a hedgehog, what on earth was it doing out in the daylight and should it not have been curled up sleeping for the winter? I managed to get quite close to get a photo (but not close enough to see fleas etc). The next day, about lunchtime, I was going out in the car and saw the young hedgehog again walking along the grass verge, I decided if it was still out and about when I got back I would put it into a box. Well yes it was still pootling around, did I go and get a box, no I didn’t, he looked happy enough “grubbing along the verge” then he decided to cross the road, so standing downwind of him I was the “lollipop lady” I would have jumped in front of a car if it had approached (well maybe). He limboed under a neighbours gate and proceeded down his driveway. Now I had seen this neighbour walking home from the shop so I waited to tell him he had a hedgehog in his garden, he spoke to me as if to a child who had seen it’s first hedgehog 😂😂. My next door neighbour was telling me that they had had a rat in the garden (shiver) and it had come right up to their French doors and stood on its hind legs and looked inside the window (was he winding me up?). Anyway the next he knew there was a BIG hedgehog in the garden seeing off the rat (not into my garden thank goodness) was he “pulling my leg?”

I read “online” (so it must be true) that from 1 January 2024, here in France, food waste is not to be put in your dustbin, it must be composted. Well I will put my fruit and vegetable waste into my own composter but any other waste, bread, skin off meat and fish won’t be going anywhere near my own composter, I hope they have bins in town as, if that’s what they want, I will put it in there. I have been putting the sunflower heads (minus seeds) dead flowers and my vegetable peelings into the composter, not that I expect any grubs, snails etc to be in there to turn them into compost but I can just hope.

Last Sunday I went to the Marche de Noel in Bayel. What a surprise I got when I went into the Salle there were about 30 exhibitors selling all kinds of items, artists with their paintings, authors with their books, of course the association of which the knitting workshop is part, but there were stained glass items, woodworked items and the knitted, crocheted and sewn items. Although not a lot of sales on the knitted, crocheted items a lot of the stained glass items were sold. I found out afterwards that Marlene had been there but we never saw each other. What a shame, it would have been nice to catch up.

On Monday, I got a bit of a shock, according to the newspaper there was a fire at “La Pomme d’Or”hotel/bar, a woman and her daughter were taken to hospital. The fire broke out in the early hours of Sunday morning! On Friday I read that a man in his 50’s had been charged with attempted assassination and destruction of property by dangerous means. Then yesterday I read that the towns Mayor has filed a complaint for alleged theft against his deputy. Blimey it all happens in this town!

Anie is preparing for her trip to Indonesia, I have wrapped her presents and will deliver them when she returns. Monique tested positive for Covid so has not been to see me and she messages that she hopes to visit as soon as she can.

On Friday evening I met Pauline, we went to the travelling exhibition from the Centre Pompidou in Paris which had rolled up in town. I had seen it advertised weeks before and sent the piece from the journal to inform Pauline. What an exhibition! I am not big on art and to wander around a huge place looking at works is overload for me, so this grand camion with the display was perfect, a bite sized chunk not too much to overload the senses. I wanted to take photos of the lights in the street so I drove us back to town, parked by the river and we walked to opposite her grandmas house. I got one photo then we stood talking for goodness knows how long, my feet felt rooted to the spot! I had such a lovely evening that when I got home my mind was just so active and I was on a bit of a “high”.

Music slot puts in an appearance and again it’s two different songs, same title and these two were from the same year, 1979. The title is “Angel Eyes” by ABBA and Roxy Music.

“The Trainee Solicitor” and “The Ex-Graduate” have both felt a little unwell this week, is it a cold, ‘flu or Covid??? “The Trainee Solicitor” waved goodbye to his motor vehicle it has gone to the car graveyard. Good news for “The Ex-Graduate” an interview is on the cards for this week for a “real” job, she is fed up of working this interim job now so fingers crossed.

“The Daddy” had one works Xmas “do” last night, at Sneaton Hall in Whitby. I asked what was on the menu and he had no idea! Blimey me shows where my thoughts lie all the time doesn’t it? Is it a mum thing or just the thoughts of someone who loves food 😂😂.

I had mentioned to Maud that in the New Year we will go to “La Belvedere” again and have already checked out the menu 😂😂.

The cinema in town posted their programme on social media, I noticed that Napoleon was on but not in VO so I emailed and asked if they would be showing it in the original version. They replied that they are showing the film through to 19 December hopefully with a few sessions in VO but they have to get approval for that from the films distributor. Fingers crossed folks!

Last night, I decided to stuff a few dates to put with some chocolates for my ladies at the knitting group on Friday. I also found a recipe for fudge made in the microwave, sounds easy, so I may give it a try this year.

Wow there has been a lot happening this week.

The photos are of the Chateau in Vendeuvre -sur-Barse and taken from the brochure, the painting that I found caught my eye at the exhibition.

Jusqu’à la semaine prochaine

[breath-of-eternity]

LAST: Chapter 13

Amaia went up and down the river, looking for a rock that would serve her purposes. Finally she came across one that was flat and she could lay across her lap, perfect. The next one was easier. She just needed to be able to hold it. She carried them back to the overhang and went through the herbs in the box, picking out the sharp smelling ones that would reduce the pain throbbing up her hand. She ground it up and dribbled in water, then smeared the paste across her skin. All she had to wrap it with was a long frond, not optimal, but it would do.

The pain didn’t cut so deep, she was certain, and the same went for all the other aches and scrapes all over her body. She shook out the skins out over the rock and lay down, even though it wasted daylight she could use for foraging. She had the mushrooms, and this morning she found a bush full of rose berries by the river. It was the best meal she had in a while.

She slept, she washed in the river, she pulled some of the grasses out of the cliffs to work on making snares. The next day, she went back to the woods for more snare material, and it was like Father was whispering in her ear as she set it up. Find a trail, he was saying. It will be near a water source. Scope out the area for burrows.

Her hand stopped throbbing. Her snares weren’t great, but she caught some animals and made a fire on top of the cliff to cook them over. She stuck the meat onto the splintered oar and roasted a squirrel over the flames.

“It’s too bad we never came this way,” she said, pulling charred meat off and shoving it into her mouth. “There’s some good food out here. I guess the river is too fast for people to deal with. We always used to head southeast. I never really thought about why. It’s just what we did. No one else came this way, did they? No. Not in my memory. I’m sure someone would have had a story about people who used to come through here and now no one’s seen them in years. All the stories seem to end that way.”

She was talking to herself too much. But… She had to get the thoughts out. Even if no one could hear her. She could pretend someone was with her, Father or Zara or Retta or even Mother. It was pathetic, but only if she ran into someone and they caught her doing it. And that wouldn’t really be bad, would it?

She let out a barking laugh, or maybe it was a scream.

Time to go out foraging, heading north to explore and stumbling into wet ground full of tubers. The wind rushed through the trees, and the birds sang, knowing little of the monsters because they could hide so deftly. At night, she wrapped herself in the skins and wished she could risk another fire in the enclosed space. When she was shivering hard enough that she couldn’t sleep, she knew she had to leave. The Solstice was still two months away, and that was only the beginning of the coldest part of winter. She had to get farther south.

Carefully, she unpicked the string in the middle of the skins to create an opening for her head. She picked up her bag and one of the oars she was in the process of hewing into a spear, and gave a final glance to the boat she came down the river on, the waterlogged wood now splintered. Then she began her last climb up to the top of the cliffs. Before she left the river entirely, she carved a message into the bark of a tree, a lone figure, and an arrow pointing in the direction she was heading off in. She hadn’t seen another carving since the lake, but it was possible that someone out there would find it someday, right?

Right.

It was early morning when she set out, through brushes that she had to tear a path through and then grass that was twice as tall as her head. The tan puffs at the end had no nutritional value, which was a shame since it seemed to go on forever. Her foot came down on squelchy ground, but when she listened, she did not pick up the song of any river. She shook her waterskins to reassure herself she had plenty, but one was almost empty. She’d need more before she set out tomorrow.

But one thing at a time. First was a place to hide for the night. Underneath a rotten tree—no, she could not put herself through that again. A burrow looked just big enough for her to wiggle in, however she wouldn’t be able to move her arms, turn around or, you know, extract herself. She still had the rope, maybe if she climbed up a tree really high, then tied herself to the trunk…

That had to be the stupidest idea she had yet.

She went along the swampy forest, scooping up globs of mud to smear over her body. After the ground dried out, the grass was low enough for some flowers to pop up, a vibrant purple that she knew were safe to eat, even if she felt like a squirrel munching on one. She skidded down a hill and her foot struck hard rock that made her ankle buckle and sent her falling. New pains scratched her elbows and she pushed over onto her back to poke the rock she tripped on, light gray with a sharp edge sticking out. She kicked it and it shifted, revealing a long, straight line nature could never form on its own.

Not a rock, but a log with its branches removed and the knobs smoothed down, stuck into the hill. She clawed out the dirt and found more logs implanted in the earth, long ago that grass now covered them, and they surrounded a hole she would have dismissed as a shadow if she hadn’t been on top of it. She pulled away long, drooping branches and found the entrance to a dugout.

Someone—many someones, most likely—dug out the hill and put in the logs to shore up the dirt ceiling. She tapped the sides with her spear, and no dirt showered down. It was well made, and long abandoned.

At each step, she paused to listen and tap the walls. It wasn’t much wider than her shoulders were broad, and the top of her head brushed against the ceiling. Not large enough for a monster to easily squeeze through. Though it seemed secure, she couldn’t help but imagine stumbling into a nest of monsters, and finding their wriggling bodies pressed against each other while they slept away the day. She paused to listen and the cavern was quiet except for a faint hissing, the rush of air against the exit.

“This could work,” she said. “They can’t see me. The mud should mask my scent. It’s not great, but…”

Her words did not echo, and if she had a torch, she might be able to tell where the dugout ended. She set down her bag and sat, musing over the reasons the builders had for making such a hole. A place to hide from the monsters seemed the most reasonable explanation. Except if it was abandoned, it obviously didn’t work.

“Diggers, is that a group anyone heard of? I don’t think so. That would make this place generations old, and that doesn’t seem right. I guess it could have been a failed experiment, but who would have the time for this? Everyone always had to keep moving.” She took a swig from her water skin. “Unless it’s old. Older than Father. Maybe it was dug by someone the grandparents knew.”

At the very least, it was a good place to leave her things while she went out to forage her dinner. There were a few edible plants and grasses, and farther east a trickle of water that might lead to a river or might peter out into nothing. She scooped up a handful to dampen her withering tongue and immediately spit it out. It tasted like sucking on a rock. Perhaps if it joined a larger body of water, it would dilute enough for her to ingest.

The critical hour had arrived, when the sun was dipping behind the trees, and in the thick forest it was already dark enough for monsters to be out hunting. She made her way back to the dugout and though she slept long that night, she was shivering by the time she awoke.

She followed the trickle through the forest, crawling under bushes and hacking branches when she had to. It never grew wide enough that she couldn’t hop over to the other side, and the taste never improved, but she was down to the last drops in her skins. It was bad to drink hard water, Father taught her that, but she was out of options.

That night, she slept in a cavern of light gray stone, covered in crusted bat droppings. However the bats themselves never made an appearance, perhaps also heading south in search of warmer environments. It smelled as bad as the water tasted, but it would cover her own odor, and she was hidden enough that no monster could catch a glimpse of her with its sharp eyes.

Safe. It had taken on such a flexible meaning.

More walking. She spent the night buried under dirt and leaves, barely sleeping for the snapping of any twig could be a monster approaching. Walking again, and finally, the trickle led to a creek that went up to her knees when she crossed it. Still metallic tasting, but she could actually drink it without wanting to scrape her tongue afterwards. Another night buried under dirt and moss, with insects crawling all over her. She passed out, and nothing disturbed her enough to wake her.

The next morning, she returned to the creek and scraped off all the mud and dirt, so her skin could breathe for a little while. But it couldn’t last long. There was always the chance a monster could pick up her trail at night and hunt her down. They always seemed to know where to find their prey…

She took handfuls of dirt to the creek and wetted it, slathering herself in mud again.

“I’m doing good, right?” she asked, her voice quietly broken.

The trees were skinny and spread apart, not the best for concealment, and none bore anything she could eat. The creek was thinning out again, only up to her ankles now, the water languid in is movement. As the sun arced towards descent, she filled up her water skins and went hunting for a place to hide, and found a tree, branches hanging with red berries, picked over by animals but not bare. She had to be careful to spit out the seeds. They were poisonous coming from this fruit.

There were a few burrows too small for her to fit in. The ground was flat and dry, absent of any caves. She took out the spear and used the flat end, the former oar, to widen one of the burrows, and the hole caved in on itself. Amaia blinked and scooped out the soft earth, and nestled herself inside of it, barely able to move as she swore she wouldn’t do days ago. Only her face peered out, staring at the shimmering stars above. Somewhere out there, the Absconders lived with the technology they purged from the planet, all to inflict misery on the descendants of their enemies.

You hate us that much?

Of course they did. It was why they’d periodically return and rile up the monsters.

“Why did they leave?” she asked Mother once, long ago, sitting around a fire with Dash and Zara and so many others who disappeared over the years.

“My grandmother told me the Earth was too sick to support life anymore,” Mother said. “It wasn’t until after the Absconders left that the planet began to heal.”

“But what about the war?” Dash asked.

“I’m not sure if it was before or after. To tell the truth, it’s been so long, no one’s sure what happened, especially not those who say they’re sure. When I was your age, I believed the Absconders left, things got better, and so they returned to try and take the planet back. Then came the war. But like I said, this is just my story. The real story was over hundreds of generations ago.”

Mother stood and pain twitched over her face. Her hand went to the small of her back and her steps were rigid as she went over to the stack of logs to add a fresh one to the fire. Dash jumped up to grab the log for her, though now that she was moving, some of the stiffness melted away.

“All we have left is stories,” Amaia muttered. Her eyelids, weighted down, finally shut.

She was staring out a tent flap. Dash was curled into a ball next to her, thin, his skin sallow. That winter, they returned to their foraging spots only to find a fire burned away most of the forest. For most of the season, all they had to eat were the grubs they could pick out of the dirt.

Mother and Father argued outside, and Amaia lifted her head to peer out the tent flap. His back was to her, but he was shaking his head over and over.

“It has to be me,” Mother said. “I’m not ill. And I… it just hurts so much. I can’t lay down, I can’t walk, I can’t even sit without pain stabbing into my back.”

“Please, no. Not you. Anyone but you.”

“I won’t make you do it, but it’s happening now. Before the children starve.”

Amaia’s eyes flew open. She wasn’t sure what prompted that memory to float through her dreams. It had been the worst starving time in her existence. If the hunters hadn’t caught that bobcat, a lot more people would have died. The stew tasted awful, and it was no surprise no one caught a bobcat again. She got to her feet, brushing the dirt off of herself. Bag in hand, she started walking.

[kiseiakhun]

I don't know much about poinsettias, but this article on davesgarden has some care tips! There's more than one article on the site, just search "poinsettia" in the search bar. Davesgarden is a pretty good resource for plant care for any plant tbh, because if an article gets something wrong there WILL be people in the comments arguing about it lmao, and often comments on articles or on plant pages offer more insight. It's where I learned to first care for succulents.

Anyway, from the little research I just did, the most likely reason for your poinsettias "dying" is that they're actually deciduous plants and enter a period of dormancy right after Christmas, so they'll drop their leaves and flowers and look like they're dying but it's just like any deciduous tree shedding their leaves for winter. Also, in the wild they actually grow as small trees.

If you already know about dormancy and you're talking about your plants actually dying-dying, then another reason could be 1. they don't have enough drainage, 2. they're in the wrong soil. I'm grouping them together because they're both related to the potting medium. MOST LIKELY, the reason is drainage. Just repot them in a pot with drainage holes. I'm guessing if you just take off the fancy wrapper they're sold in, the pot that they came in probably will have drainage holes, they were just trapped by fancy wrapping paper. Poinsettias don't like too much water, and, much like orchids, they need adequate drainage. Too much sitting water in their pots = bad. They will rot.

And in terms of soil... I've mentioned before that most potting soil is actually peat, but their natural environment is in dry tropical forests in mexico, clinging to sheer cliff faces. Think the walls of the Grand Canyon. Because I always go Too Deep with these things, I found the original paper that used genetic sequencing to trace cultivated poinsettias to a specific population in Northern Guerrero, Mexico. Which, btw, is actually an outlier in terms of wild poinsettia populations, because that region is much further inland. Most wild poinsettias grow on the coast. Anyway. I'm getting sidetracked. What I mean to say is: their wild environment is not in wetlands, which peat is great at mimicking, because peat is made in wetlands. Normal potting soil might be too dense + hold too much water, especially if you live in a humid environment. They like being consistently moist, but they hate being wet.

Luckily, this is easy to fix. Just get a bag of perlite (look up gardening centres/greenhouses near you if you don't know where to get perlite) and mix some in with your soil. You can mix in compost and sand if you want to get fancy but that's for the people who like making their own dirt. If you're like "that is way too complicated", congrats on being normal, and also, just get the perlite. The rest is unnecessary.

Though, tbh, with adequate drainage I doubt you'll even need to add perlite? Peat is pretty good at "moist, but not soggy" as long as it's not waterlogged. If you water your plants with a saucer under the pot, dump out the extra water after 10 minutes, or water from the bottom. But, again, the most likely reason is that your plant is just going dormant. Leave them alone until mid spring and give them less water than usual and they should perk back up :) April is when leaves start coming back I think? But don't quote me on this. I know April and August are the best months to prune them, and spring pruning is usually timed when trees and shrubs first start budding, so.

I started with succulents like everyone else but tbh orchids are rapidly becoming my plant blorbos. Everyone takes care of them wrong and it's not your FAULT because the care instructions that come with them are!! Incorrect!!! If you do what they say then your orchid will die!!!! If you give them the right environment they're SO easy. They're such easy plants to grow. They have been UNFAIRLY SLANDERED by a MISINFORMATION campaign. They don't deserve this.

[unzipcraft]

How to save rubber Plants leaves drooping?

How to fix drooping rubber plant leaves

With their large, glossy leaves and smooth satin-like sheen rubber plants (Ficus elastica) add style to homes as well offices and the average family can take care of them. But even the toughest plants have their own set of challenges, one such challenge being drooping leaves. Understanding why your rubber plant has droopy leaves so that you can correctly diagnose and treat the issue is paramount. This guide will cover everything you need to know in order to prevent your rubber plant from drooping leaves.

Understanding the Causes

It is important to figure out why the leaves are drooping before you can take on this problem. This is due to some of the following factors

1. Watering: Frequent cause for drooping leaves, both overwatering and under watering can lead to sagging rubber plant leaves. Signs of roots rot in an overwatered plant could lead to drooping leaves. On the flip side, plants that are UNDER-watered may droop as they do not have enough moisture and nutrients.

2. Light: Bright, indirect light is best for Rubber plants. The plant may become spindly and its leaves will probably droop when it does not have enough light. Conversely, too much direct sunlight can scorch the leaves and wilt them.

3. Temp and Humidity: These plants love warm temperatures in moderate to high humidity. Any type of stress, such as extreme temperatures or sudden drafts can cause your fiddle leaf fig to droop.

4. Pests and Diseases: Spider mites or mealybugs infestations as well as fungal and bacterial diseases harm the plant by drooping its leaves. Look for Pests or Spots on Your Plant

5. Soil Nutrient Deficiencies: A deficiency in important nutrients that the soil is unable to provide could be another reason for your plant-leaves turning yellow and drooping. For the rubber plants to be healthy and vibrant, they will need a balanced fertilizer.

How to save a rubber plant with wilting leaves

1. Assess Watering Practices

· How Do You Know When To Water Orchids: Feel the Soil It can help to test how moist or dry that your orchid soil is. If dry to the touch: it is time to water. If muddy, wait a couple more days to water. Rubber plants do not appreciate constantly wet soil — they like to dry out slightly between waterings.

· Modify watering schedule: Make sure you do not give it too much water. RUBBER PLANT Overwatering a rubber plant causes no harm, but it does not like to have wet feet. If you believe it might be overwatering, only water when the top inch of soil is dry. You might have to re-pot in fresh well-draining soil, if the plant was waterlogged.

2. Optimize Light Conditions

· A rubber plant growth can be achieved by bright indirect light. If your plant is in a low light area, place it to an area that will receive better sunlight. If it has been placed in direct sunlight, relocate the plant to an area where light is diffused through curtains or blinds.

· Get a Grow Light: If you rubber plant is not getting available light in your home, think about adding grow lights.

3. Keep the temperature and humidity in check

· Keep an even temperature: Rubber plants like it to be between 60 and 75°F (15-24°C). Do not place the plant where it might experience drafts, like near heaters or air conditioning units, because sudden temperature changes can stress your string of pearls.

· Raise Humidity — Especially during the dry winter months in homes. You can put a humidifier, keep a tray of water around it or you may just spray the leaves.

4. Check for Pests and Diseases

· Control: Regularly check for pests such as spider mites, aphids or mealybuigs on the leaves and stems. Check for Yellow Spots, Webbing & Sticky Substance

· Feed It: If aphids are found, apply insecticidal soap or neem oil to the plant. With plants, you might have to prune off infected parts and use proper fungicides or bactericides for the disease.

5. Address Nutrient Deficiencies

· How to fertilize right: During the growth phases (spring and summer) you should feed your rubber plant with a liquid, water-soluble fertilizer every 4-6 weeks. Do NOT over-fertilize which can cause excessive salts in the soil.

· Repot if required: in case your plant has now not been repotted shortly it could get pleasure from new soil. Use well-draining potting mix and a lotted rubber kite.

Recovery and Prevention

After taking care of its immediate needs, watch your rubber plant to see if it gets better. Even if the foliage on the plant is drooping, it will not recover immediately but given proper care, new growth can be expected. To keep future issues from developing, have consistent care established:

· Take care of them wisely: Make a watering plan that fits your plants. Make sure that the pot is well draining (if too much water collects at the bottom then it could become soggy).

· Give It Lots of Light: put the plant in a room with lots and indirect light. Reposition it if need be.

· Maintain Regular Conditions: Do not place the plant in fluctuating temperatures or drafts.

· Maintenance: Keep an eye out for pests and diseases, regular fertilization.