#from there its only getting chosen for flight training

[caboosie]

I talked to a recruiter yesterday ❤️

[roosterforme]

In the Line of Duty | Rooster x Reader

Summary: During preparations for a dangerous mission, Bradley finds comfort in writing his thoughts down for his unborn child to eventually read. There's always a chance that he won't make it back, and his final plans involve safeguarding the most important item he brought on his deployment with him.

Warnings: Angst, deployment, pregnancy topics

Length: 2800 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.

Bradley was in the same tiny room with the same seven people for the nineteenth day in a row. He was sweating, too aware of his surroundings. He could hear Reuben breathing next to him. He could hear Admiral Turner's wristwatch counting off every second. He could hear the plans being laid out, but he could barely focus on them.

"The political climate is rapidly changing," the admiral said. "This bombing run is essential, however it will undoubtedly lead to a hostile environment for our allies. Getting the timing just right is essential to a successful mission."

He'd been telling the aviators the same things for days, and while Bradley knew somebody's best interest was at heart, he wasn't really sure it was his. Or Reuben's. Or anybody's in this fucking claustrophobic room. But what choice did he have but to sit here in his flight suit, reeking of jet fuel until he was released?

"Also," Admiral Turner said, his voice laced with exhaustion, "we'll be keeping a close watch on the weather. If you fly this mission, it's going to be a rough takeoff and an even rougher landing. And that's not even mentioning the elements you'll encounter in the air."

Bradley could feel it. The aircraft carrier was a massive vessel, nothing like a cruise ship or anything smaller. It was built to withstand typhoons and hurricanes, but he could still feel it. The movement was getting worse by the hour now. There were deckhands and petty officers walking around with seasickness bags. People were running from the mess hall left and right. The only thing that could be said of this small group of aviators in this tiny ass room was that professional fighter pilots had all traces of motion sickness eliminated from their bodies during flight training, never to be heard from again. He wasn't uncomfortable, but he could still feel it.

"And with that final precaution, I've made my selection for the three pilots who will fly when I say it's time to go." Bradley knew it in his bones even before he heard the admiral say, "Vandal. Patches. Rooster. Everyone else will remain on standby. You're all dismissed."

As he stood, Reuben stuck his fist out. "Congrats, man," he said, and Bradley reached out as well to bump fists. Being chosen was an accomplishment; Bradley always wanted to be chosen. He always wanted to perform to the best of his ability. But his thoughts were so heavy now, filled with new hopes and fears. 

"Thanks, Payback," he replied, following his friend from the room and into the noisy reprieve of the cool hallway. There were people rushing around as the two of them made their way to the mess hall. "But if I have to sit in that room for another day, I'm going to lose my mind."

Reuben laughed as he started to load a tray with food. "I love how the weather is too bad for us to do any training runs, but in the same sentence, we're told to be ready to fly a mission in this. It's like they're steering us right into the worst of the storm."

They were. Bradley could tell they were. There was something strategic about the open water location, but they were absolutely heading into the worst of it. He just hoped it would clear up before he was called out on deck to fly. 

"It's a good thing I haven't barfed in a Super Hornet since that very first time," he said, also piling food that he knew would taste like cardboard onto a plate.

"This shit sucks," Reuben muttered, biting into a roll once they reached an empty table. "We got any more of your wife's cookies back in the bunk?"

Bradley smiled as he looked at the questionable meal in front of him. "A few." He bit into the steak and grimaced. Everything you cooked at home was better than this. He'd trade his whole plate of food right now for half of a grilled cheese sandwich made by your hands. Just thinking about it had his stomach growling louder. "You already ate most of them."

Reuben popped another roll into his mouth and chewed it up before saying, "Rooster, you've got a hot lieutenant commander who can cook for a wife. And a baby on the way. Come on, man. The least you can do is spare some more of those cookies."

Once he let his thoughts drift, Bradley knew it would take hours to get focused on his job again, but he couldn't help it. When he left home, you looked the same as you always did. You'd been complaining about your weight gain and bloating for weeks, but you looked just perfect to him. He wanted to get back home to see if you had a bump yet. He wanted to get home and talk to the Nugget. But he'd already been gone for three weeks, and he hadn't been given a single chance to call or FaceTime with you. 

He hated having no idea how your most recent doctor's appointment went. There were probably new ultrasound photos sitting right on the kitchen counter, but it could be weeks before he got to see how much the Nugget grew since last time. He should be a home, catering to your every whim and building the massive jungle gym for the backyard.

"Are you excited?" Reuben asked, breaking through his thoughts. "You've got what, like five more months to go before you're a dad?"

"One hundred and eighty-six days until the due date," Bradley replied with a grin. "And yeah, I'm pretty fucking excited. It's all I can think about." He tried to finish all of the food, but he set his plate aside and said, "Let's go eat some of those cookies."

An hour later, Bradley was sitting in his bunk, nibbling on the rationed baked goods while Reuben snored across the room. He took this opportunity to get out the pink and blue striped notebook which he affectionately referred to as the Nugget notebook. He'd filled half of it with his musings, and he figured it would be full by your due date. It was silly, just his random thoughts and some sporadic story telling, but he liked the idea of his kid having all of this to look at later. He uncapped his pen, jotted down the date, and started writing what was on his mind. 

You'll never guess where I am right now. No really. It would be impossible, because even I don't really know where I am! But it's somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, I know that for sure. And while I'm really, really far away from you and your mom right now, the two of you are all I can think about....

-------------------------

The weather was so bad a few days later that the gym was closed. Bradley and Reuben stood in front of the locked door in their gym clothes looking at each other. 

"This is fucking wild," Bradley muttered, deprived of the only activity he could think of to keep himself busy. The hallways were pretty empty at this time of night, but everything still felt more deserted than usual. The dining menus had been pared down, presumably because half of the kitchen staff was too seasick to make everything. He was starting to feel anxious. "Let's go workout in the bunk and then finish the cookies."

"Sounds good," Reuben replied. They took turns churning out sets of fifty push ups while the other ate a cookie. They did this until they were both sweating and all of the cookies were officially gone.

"Now what the fuck are we supposed to do?" Bradley asked, but any response was cut off by a knocking on the door. He jumped up, glanced at Reuben, and then opened the door for a petty officer. 

"Bradshaw?"

"Yeah?"

"You requested a FaceTime call? Report to the lounge in thirty minutes."

"Thanks," he said, heart beating wildly as he closed the door. He rushed around the room, grinning and grabbing everything he'd need to take a quick shower.

Reuben just laughed and said, "Please thank her again for the cookies."

"Will do," Bradley replied, making a mad dash for the showers. If he did the math correctly, he figured it was between four and five o'clock in the morning back home in San Diego. He hated calling you in the middle of the night, especially when you were pregnant and exhausted, but he knew you'd forgive him. And he desperately needed to see your face and hear your voice.

His hair was still damp when he jogged along the quiet corridors toward the lounge and took a seat in front of one of the computers. He quickly entered his credentials followed by your phone number, and then he waited and waited. "Shit," he muttered, gripping the edge of the table, afraid the call was going to ring through and then cut off. But then he heard you screech his name and saw you as you reached for your glasses while the light from the lamp on your nightstand illuminated your face. 

"Bradley!" you practically screamed again, your voice scratchy from sleep. "Roo! Are you okay?"

"Hey, Baby Girl," he said, feeling calmer than he had in weeks as you juggled your phone around and tried to sit up fully in bed. "I'm fine. Sorry it's so late."

"No, no, no, this is perfect!" you insisted, rubbing your eye behind your glasses as you tried to stifle a yawn. "This is great."

Bradley laughed and said, "I miss you so fucking much. Wish I was in bed right there with you."

"Me too," you insisted, and he could see the sincerity on your face. "It got chilly here tonight, and Tramp isn't as snuggly as you are."

He wanted to kiss you. He wished he could somehow dive through the screen and end up next to you where you'd pull him right into your arms. His voice was just a whisper as he said, "Tell me about the Nugget."

Your smile was soft, and you bit your lip. "Dr. Morris said the Nugget looked great when I was there two weeks ago."

"Two weeks ago," he groaned, rubbing his rough hands along his face. "Sweetheart... I already missed so much." When he looked at the screen again, you were out of bed and on the move. "Where are you going?"

You flipped on the hallway light and said, "To get the ultrasounds to show you. I left them on the kitchen counter."

The fact that he knew that's where they would be made him smile. When you propped your phone up next to the stove and turned on the light, he felt tears stinging his eyes. You held up one of the photos so he could see the baby, and he had to blink past his blurry vision. "There's my Nugget," he said, voice thick with emotion as you held up a second image. "Fucking cutest baby I've ever seen."

Your laughter sounded beautiful as you showed him a third one. "I liked this one the best. I think it looks like the baby is waving hello."

"Shit," he gasped. "You're right. I can't wait to wallpaper our bedroom with copies of these."

You pulled the baby picture away, and he could see your face again as you said, "You're probably not even joking."

"I'm definitely not even joking."

You leaned on the counter and got a little closer to your phone as you said, "Another week or so, and I can go in for an anatomy scan."

Now Bradley felt like crying for a totally different reason. "You get to find out if the Nugget is a boy or a girl."

"Yeah," you said with a nod. "But I don't really want to do that without you there too."

Bradley looked at your beautiful face and the perfect curve of your cheek. He imagined a little baby in your arms with the same flawless features. "I wish I could get home in time to hold your hand and find out in person. But you know I don't care one way or the other. The only nice thing is that we can start narrowing down baby names soon. I actually wrote down a few that I kind of like in the Nugget notebook earlier."

Your smile was brilliant as you told him, "I can't wait to read all of your notebook entries. And if you're not home for my next appointment, I'll be practically vibrating with anticipation until I get to tell you if it's a boy Nugget or a girl Nugget."

Bradley opened his mouth to say he couldn't wait to come home and spend a full day curled up with both of you. He was about to ask you to pull his UVA shirt up and let him see what your belly looked like now. But the lounge door swung open so hard, it sounded like it was going to fall off the hinges.

"Bradshaw!" barked Admiral Turner. "It's time. Get into your flight suit."

"Yes, Sir," he said before glancing back down to see your face as you started to cry.

"You have to go," you sobbed.

"I do," he said quickly. "Right now. Listen, I love you. More than anything. You and the baby both, okay? I love you."

"I love you, too," you sobbed as your lips trembled. "So much."

"I'll be home soon," he promised, even though he knew he couldn't guarantee anything of the sort. "I love you."

After he ended the call, he ran back to the bunk where Reuben was already in his flight suit and pulling on his boots. It was late enough now that it had to be dark outside, so he was either about to fly another mission without the use of one of his senses, or they were sending him out at first light. Either way, he knew what he had to do, so he pulled his own flight suit on with shaky hands.

The call with you had calmed his nerves right up until the point when he had to abruptly end it. What he wouldn't give to be back home within a week. He'd drive you to the appointment in his Bronco and hold your hand the whole time. Dr. Morris would let you know if he was going to be the dad to a daughter or a son. His little Nugget.

"You ready?" Reuben asked as Bradley finished lacing up his boots. 

He looked up at his friend as he stood. "Actually, no," he said, pulling his duffle out from under his bed. He started rooting through it as he said, "I need you to potentially do me a favor."

"Sure," Reuben replied, "but we gotta get to the meeting room now, Rooster."

"I know," he mumbled in response as his hands connected with the most important thing he had with him. He held up the pink and blue notebook, his voice calm in spite of his nerves as he said, "Just real quick, you see this? I need you to take this back to my wife if anything happens to me."

His friend was silent for a beat before he said, "Alright. I can do that."

Bradley's fingers tightened around the spiral binding holding together all of his thoughts about fatherhood and how much he loved his unborn child. And now his voice shook a bit as he said, "This is very important to me."

Reuben nodded and said, "Understood. I promise I'll take care of it if the need arises."

"Thank you." Bradley kissed the striped cover and propped the notebook up against his pillow, giving it one last look before he followed Reuben from the bunk.

At first light, Bradley made his way out onto the carrier deck through the rain and whistling wind. The mission was on. The weather was miserable, but the plethora of Naval officers deemed this the best opportunity they were going to get to help their allies. 

It was time. Time for Bradley to trust himself. And if he failed, he trusted Reuben to take the notebook back to San Diego and get it into the hands of his wife. Then you'd take care of the notebook for the Nugget. Because if there was one person who was never going to let him down, it was you.

-------------------------

I can't deal with how much I've been hurting my own feelings with these two. Should we start a new series? Would that be okay? A tragic, new series? Thank you for reading about and loving them! Please stay tuned. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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[adhd-coyote]

Shiver was terrified.

There was a sleeping tubie in his arms, a too-small cadet clinging to his pants, and a pair of teenagers wracked with growing pains scurrying behind him. He was praying to the little gods his ori’vode had told him about that the tubie would stay asleep, because if any of them made too much noise, it was going to be over. Shiver could not let that happen.

He’d memorized schedules, camera positions, and multiple routes to their destination, and stuffed bags full of supplies in preparation. Honestly, for how hurried this plan had been, it was a good one, or at least he hoped it was. It had to be.

Step one: Pack everything he could carry into a bag stolen from one of the trainers.

Step two: Figure out and memorize a route, make sure to have back ups.

Step three: Go oldest to youngest- grab Cabu and Mirda, then Circuit, then CT-7814.

Step four: Get the hell off of Kamino.

And somehow do all of that without getting caught.

He’d managed the first three steps. Step four would likely be the most difficult. Shiver wasn’t even going to think about what they were gonna do once they were actually off planet. Right now, his only goal was to get them to the hangar, grab a ship, and leave. He could worry about after that later.

He’d already picked out a ship and slipped a carefully-measured sedative to its owner. Combined with Trainer Stilgor’s drinking habits, they’d have at least six hours before he woke up, and even longer before he realized his ship was gone. Plenty of time for Shiver and his hangers-on to steal it and be well on their way, so long as they reached the hangar without issue. Everything had gone smoothly so far, but Shiver wasn’t optimistic enough to think things would keep going that way.

He hated that halfway there, he was proven right.

Labored breathing drew his attention to Circuit, whose steps were getting more unsteady as he struggled to keep up. Circuit had always been weaker than the others - the result of some sort of genetic defect - and that day’s training had been hard on him. Shiver wished he could have given Circuit more time to rest, but they needed to leave as soon as possible.

Without speaking a word, Shiver handed the tubie over to Cabu, made sure the cadet was holding him right, and then pulled Circuit up into his arms. Circuit wrapped around him, legs around his waist and arms around his neck, and held tight. They kept going.

Miraculously, there weren’t any more issues. They made it to the hangar, which was blessedly empty, and Shiver used the stolen remote to unlock the ship and lower the ramp so they could hurry onboard. Shiver set Circuit down in one of the back seats of the cockpit, while Cabu handed the tubie off to Mirda and took the copilot’s seat to help prep for takeoff.

Shiver let instinct take over, grateful that medics received flight training and that their chosen ship was one he could fly. They were ready in no time, and after making sure all of the cadets were buckled and Mirda was holding 14 tight, Shiver grabbed hold of the yoke, took a deep breath, and took off.

[overtrred28]

Stargirl | matildas x original character fic [part twenty two]

Words; 1.5k

Pairings; matildas team x astrid taylor (OC), kyra cooney cross x astrid taylor (OC)

Warnings; swearing

masterlist

After 2 days off in Melbourne and a quick flight to Sydney, the team were officially heading into training camp for the 2023 Fifa Women’s World Cup. The first game of the entire tournament being theirs meant alot to the girls, kicking it off on home soil and starting their journey to hopefully take the trophy in front of a home crowd.

Astrid could never have imagined she would be standing here amongst some of the best players in the world, and the people who had become her family. 

The training ahead of the game was tough and tiring but all while sticking their heads down and focusing, they still knew how to have fun and enjoy this tournament as best they could. The girls made Tiktoks and other content for social media to show the fans everything that went on behind the games and get them hyped up for the opening match. 

The morning of the Ireland game Astrid became very quiet, unusually silent and disengaged from the group. The night before she had woken up many times from nightmares that vocalised all her deep down fears about the upcoming games; That she wasn’t worthy enough for the team, she couldn’t score a single goal and the team hated her for it, that she really was just a young naive girl who didn’t have the skills to solidify her place on the squad. The worst one being her parents looking down on her in disappointment for mess ups and missed shots in every game. 

Astrid was thankful that for the tournament they got their own rooms, meaning she didn’t wake someone else up everytime she shot up in bed, gasping for air between her sobs. She wouldn’t dare tell anyone what happened and explain why she was so quiet any more than saying she was focused on the match that night. A lot of those who asked simply dropped their questions after that, but Charli and Kyra were still hung up on her behaviour even hours after greeting her that morning. 

They eventually arrived at the stadium and the team's energy shifted. Everyone was switched onto the game and the tournament ahead of them. Astrid was feeling very nervous and uneasy heading into the game, but still tried her best to push past those feelings and get into the zone. 

She hadn’t been chosen for the starting eleven but was promised minutes in the second half by Tony which was all she could ask for as a young and less experienced player on the squad. Astrid noted the energy in the stadium as she walked out with the other subs, it was the most amount of support she had felt yet and the game hadn’t even started. 

It was a very tough first half, both teams fighting hard and slightly dirty but it proved how much the game meant to every single person out on the pitch. A 0-0 scoreline at half time only pushed the girls to work even harder and stronger in the second half and get some points for a lead in the group stages. 

Tony had listed when the subs were going to be made for the second half and Astrid was marked for the 75 minute mark to bring out fresh legs and her super-sub reputation once again.

The roar from the crowd when Steph made that penalty shot as captain on home soil was something Astrid had never heard before. The girls on the side jumped up and down in joy as they watched the girls on the pitch celebrate Steph with the crowd. 

Astrid had a fire burning in her belly to push further ahead and safely secure the win in the group stage as she stood on the sidelines, waiting for Cortnee to swap out with her. She ran on and high-fived the girls as she passed them, taking her spot on the left corner as Mary shifted into the middle.

Astrid hadn’t had the chance to get much of a touch onto the ball for the first 10 minutes, but it eventually made its way to the left side of the pitch and onto the feet of Steph. Astrid didn’t have a plan of how she wanted to score but she subconsciously made her way to where she knew she could catch it, somewhere her and Steph had made a connection many times in training this week. 

Her mind went quiet as she saw the ball rolling over to her feet, taking off running with it and trusting her team to keep the opposition away from her as she attempted a risky shot. Although Astrid was known for tapping it in from close distance, there was the odd time she had been able to make it from further out. This was one of those times. 

Her left foot planted itself in the ground, angling towards the goal as her right foot swung hard and booted the ball up into the air. The crowd went silent as they watched it spin in the air, everyone including Astrid hoping she had planned it well enough to catch the inside corner of the net and not pass over it. 

It felt like slow motion for Astrid as she watched it pass by Brosnan’s outstretched fingertips and landing in the white net behind her. The Australian crowd erupted once again with cheers and screams as Astrid began running down the length of the pitch towards Steph. Her smile was wide and her arms reached up to the sky, hands forming a heart shape as she looked up towards the sky. 

She looked back down and saw Steph waiting for her with open arms, Astrid jumping into them and holding onto Steph tight. The rest of the girls had followed behind, cheering for their shooting star before dogpiling her and Steph. She was encased with love and pride by her family as their supporters celebrated in the stands with them. 

They released and placed plenty of head pats onto Astrid, Steph placing a kiss to her hair before leaving her with just Kyra lingering to walk back to their places together. 

“That was fucking insane.” Kyra whispered into her ear, pulling the forward closer as they walked. “I love you.” Astrid whipped her head up with speed, staring at Kyra before she jogged off to her place in the midfield leaving Astrid to quickly run back to her place with a slightly dropped jaw.  

The rest of the game played out resulting in a 2-0 win to the Matildas thanks to Steph and Astrid, the crowd once again cheering when the whistle blew and the rest of the squad making their way out to the field, congratulating the Irish team before celebrating with their own. 

“I’m so proud of you!” Astrid felt a body jump onto her back, wrapping her legs around her waist out of instinct before turning her head to see Charli’s smiley face like suspected. 

“Thanks, Cha Cha.” Astrid smiled awkwardly up at her before she began walking to find Courtney and Kyra on the other side of the pitch, Charli still high up on her back. 

“There she is, star of the show.” Courtney began clapping as Astrid and Charli began falling into view of herself and Kyra. Charli jumped down and they all embraced in a group hug.

“Hey Stargirl.” Astrid lifted her head from the closed circle of giggles and turned to find Caitlin walking over to her with someone in a green jersey. “This is Katie.” 

“Holy shit.” Astrid cursed softly as she realised Katie McCabe, one of her idols, was standing one metre in front of her. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” She held her hand out awkwardly for a handshake but Katie surprised her by bringing Astrid in for a hug instead. Safe to say she was kind of freaking out but trying to keep her cool. 

“That goal was impressive, nice to see you’ve got a long range shot in ya too.” Katie remarked as they stepped away from each other. Astrid smiled and nodded her head in acknowledgement. 

“Thanks, means a lot.” Astrid spoke again towards Katie, but she could feel her friends behind her snickering with Caitlin not so silently. 

“Of course. I hear you’re a big Arsenal fan.” Katie comments and Astrid nods her head silently. “Well, let’s just say I hope to play with you and not against you one day.” Katie smiles before saying goodbye to the group and walking off. 

“Okay fangirl.” Charli teases after making sure Katie was far enough away. 

“Shut the fuck up.” Astrid rolls her eyes and begins to walk to where the team and staff had begun gathering for post match talks. 

“Watch your mouth young lady.” Caitlin calls out from behind her with the other girls. Astrid contemplates flipping them the bird but too many cameras and eyes looking at her so she reminds herself to do it later. 

to be continued...

[deepseaorcapt]

Hi, saw you mention missing writing for Revali. Was curious how would you envision (HCs) a Revali that survived Calamity (AoC) but a time skip passes and the events of Totk begin?

Hello! Thanks for your suggestion, I honestly have been thinking and debating on this for quite some time. It seems like it's time that I finally put my ideas out in the world! My first time doing HCs but I hope you enjoy it!

Revali surviving the Calamity and his life with his spouse:

I like to think Revali gained some sort of scar from the fight with Windblight Ganon.

A long scar in the form of a beam that goes across his chest and the side of his neck when he got hit.

From an outsider’s perspective, it didn’t seem that deep, but the medics concluded it was much of an injury to tell him he shouldn’t exert much into physical activities.

Unfortunately, he still does overtrain from time-to-time to the dismay of his, now, spouse.

On top of that, he still leads the rito warriors, organizing the operations and their duties to protect Rito Village. Sometimes, he takes hours just training and planning with the village elder.

It takes a lot of convincing to get him to rest, but the moment he sees the desperation in your eyes, he sighs and heads home with your arm wrapped in his.

"Revali." 

"I know, I… I’m sorry"

Since the calamity, Revali has been trying to be better at depending on others, especially since he’s chosen to have you in his life, not wanting to hurt you more by shutting you out.

Still, bad habits die hard. At the very least, he tries.

Getting home, it became a habit to lightly caress the scar on his chest as you both lie in your shared hammock.

The sensation bothered him for the first couple of months, but eventually, he couldn't sleep without it.

It's like a comforting feeling that he's alive, lucky enough to survive and live with you. Fortunate enough to see Hyrule again in its glory; For that, he's extremely grateful to Goddess Hylia.

There are a lot of days where he wakes up in the middle of the night.

Throat dry and eyes wide, awakened by the nightmare that haunts him in the form of Windblight Ganon. 

It’s only when he feels your body lean towards him in the hammock when he relaxes.

On most days, you wake up feeling his panic, consoling and letting him find comfort in your embrace.

But in the rare instance you stay asleep, he takes a walk or a flight just around the village.

There is just this one time where you woke in the middle of the night, looking for his warm blanket of wings in your shared hammock. 

In a panic, you ran around the village. It was only when you noticed a string of smoke from the flight range that you finally let go of the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Still a bit sleepy, you make your way to him. Finding him, staring at his bow once more with paranoia in his eyes.

Your embrace wakes him up from the thoughts that plagued his mind, his tears made yours water in response.

Since then, he has been trying his best to wake you up on those nights; Trying to actually ask for help, knowing that he doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

[thescarehoe]

I read Green Lantern: Emerald Dawn a bit ago as a lead up to The Spectre, and I just have so many thoughts about this as an introduction how it all went down in the long run. Not gonna touch on my thoughts regarding knowing of Parallax and how in there's a certain level of me feeling him being doomed by the narrative (the military).

But the aspect of him not wanting the ring at all in this, and him being held to the whims of their constant beck and call to establish ‘order’ to the cosmos, as some highlighted form of I suppose manipulative use of validation. Being insisted that this means you are worthy and destined for great things, after everything in his life has gone so wrong, as a use to turn him into a pawn.  All the military and drafting metaphors and entire multiple plots of authority abusing it's power were so prominent, and really makes the modern adaptions even more depressing.

Vaguely, it kinda reminded of those anti-magical girl stories, which ironically makes the transformation in the First Flight movie more amusing to me. But just-

You're down on your luck, hanging onto your job by a thread.

An alien abducts you from your planet and tells you that it's magical device with powers beyond your comprehension has chosen you because it can sense you are worthy.  Insists it's a validation and that it means you're not a fuck up.  This should be a relief but despite your protests about not wanting it to begin with you are told you have no choice.  

Your boss is not happy that you disappeared with expensive machinery when you manage to make your way back, putting what you still have left of this job on an even thinner line.

Your best friend lands in the hospital because of you. And then dies because of your identity.

You are then introduced to this planet full of magical people who were chosen, like you,  to protect the universe.  They are all very nice and excited and proud to be helping people and very welcoming to you, but the creatures in charge are very demanding, and insist on strict obedience above all else.

So when the alien that killed your best friend comes knocking you beat the shit out of it and your magical item tells you that this is wrong because you're being emotional about it and not just doing this for the magical organization. You don't want to be a part of this organization.  The creature tells you its mission and why it's doing this.  you acknowledge you don't know anything about this organization so you're fighting him for your cause, not the corps.   The 'all-knowing' guardians don't even remember this creature at all.  

You miss your best friend's funeral.  

They have the best lantern they have train you because you ask too many questions.  He controls the section he patrols with an iron fist and demands perfect order above all else.  He will not allow you to visit your other friend who got stabbed for your sake.  In his absence the people he reigns over finally get a chance to rebel and free themselves.  Your mentor tells you that since he couldn't regain control over them he will be punished for his failure.  

After witnessing how their "best lantern" works you are forced to abandon your new friend you made when he's in the hospital to testify against your mentor in court. Something you don't want to be involved in at all. They simply banish him to the other side of the universe, out of their sight, and discard him as punishment.  He is screaming that he's only ever done what he's told and that they made him into this.  They apologize for his disruption.

Every other lantern is confused and appalled by his behavior. Explain that they've never held a court for a lantern before. That no one's ever done this. They go out of their way to make sure you're okay after being trapped with and working with him. 

You can't help but think how similar his actions were to the guardians’ rules and behaviors.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Alrighty, Peaches, lets get these two lovesick idiots back together 🍑❤️

Summary:

He’s no longer the clueless grad-student pretending to know himself, but a tenured college educator proclaiming his truth. The pageantry of normalcy is over. Reconciliation: more than wishful thinking. So with his children’s permission - and a go get him, tiger from Micol - he’s torn up the script. Followed the siren song of redemption to its source. Spanned oceans and continents for the man who’s got him glued to his mobile like a lovesick innamorato.

Chapter 1

Hope, it has been said, is a waking dream, but of the countless scenarios Oliver’s envisioned in his parallel life, this, first and foremost, exceeds even his wildest expectations. 

There were times he’d considered himself cursed. Chronically addicted to whimsy. He could never begrudge his traviamento. Not when it led to a family he adores. Success in his chosen field. A happiness his martyr complex once deemed inconsequential. Yet fulfilment, he’s learned, exists not in doing what he ought, but in having the autonomy to do what he needs, and as the northbound regionale hurtles through Lombardy’s rustic foothills, he can’t help marvelling that his decades long odyssey is almost at an end.

No more hypotheticals.

No more conjecture.

No more fearing the nuclear fallout. 

August is peak tourist season, as the packed Trenitalia carriage can attest. Floral perfumes vie with the sour musk of travel. Coal, oil, and the bitter hint of espresso combine under the burnt-tyre haze of Gauloises. He hasn’t smoked since the cows came home - as his beloved bubbe used to say - so Oliver relishes the guilty pleasure whilst scowling at his cryptic crossword; unable to recollect the third moon of Pluto even if you paid him.

Initially, Elio’d insisted on meeting his flight at Côte d'Azur, but numerous factors have seen Annella’s condition deteriorate in recent weeks. The progressively smudged line between son and caregiver has him reeling - loath as he is to admit it - yet Oliver’s qualms about an overnight road trip on top of yesterday’s hospital appointment were sufficient to swing the debate. Old habits die hard - his protector gene is dominant - only now he’s stuck willing the powerful engine to speed up as the relentless carping from the couple behind wreaks havoc on his budding migraine. 

He’d emptied his inbox en route to Genoa. Transferred trains at Milano Centrale, and exited his solitaire program not thirty minutes later. His snacks have dwindled. His research analysis is clear as mud. Even his audiobooks fell victim to his inability to focus, and Oliver balls a fist under his jaw as he ponders the poetic vagaries of opportunities lost and found.

Of the meteoric shift that set him on this tack.

Of a voice - breathless as his own - that interrupted his jog one overcast Sunday.

“Elio…” it said.

One word. 

Just one word. 

Three honeyed syllables that pulled him up short as every barricade, every coping strategy, everything he’d told himself to justify the silence came crashing down around him. In one fell swoop the arena had changed, yet middle-age and a teenage journal brought with them a unique perspective on the past, and together, they’ve dispensed of the sword of Damocles poised so ominously above.

He’s no longer the clueless grad-student pretending to know himself, but a tenured college educator proclaiming his truth. The pageantry of normalcy is over. Reconciliation: more than wishful thinking. So with his children’s permission - and a go get him, tiger from Micol - he’s torn up the script. Followed the siren song of redemption to its source. Spanned oceans and continents for the man who’s got him glued to his mobile like a lovesick innamorato.

Pining like the Britton Forest.

Even more doe-eyed than Bambi’s mother.

And yes, alright, he’s raised a pair of weisenheimers in Noah and Jesse, but they’re not wrong. He and Elio have been in regular contact since that pivotal weekend. Emails. Texts. Meandering conversations when the disparate time zones allow. He’ll ask after his day as he sips his pre-dawn coffee. Fight a ubiquitous yawn whilst tending to the household chores. It’s a work in progress - balancing the see-saw of little things that add up to the whole - yet they’re getting better at spilling their innermost secrets. Redefining their boundaries. Upending Pandora’s box.

As a result, they’ve gone over it all these past two months. 

Michel, Micol, his kids; their careers.

Their lives apart, versus the one they aim to build together. 

Elio’s mother, and her Sisyphean struggle to stay present.

Oliver’s, and her farcical ultimatums when she learned of his forthcoming divorce. 

Each discussion was inherently painful - though there’s no denying they’re richer for them - and it’s humbling, quite frankly, to be trusted with all Elio is. Moreso on account of his transgressions. All human beings have things they regret - things that aren’t often forgivable by those who’ve felt the effects - but avoidance and supposition have cost them enough already, and come what may they’ve mapped a course through their personal minefields; triggering just a few minor explosions in their wake.

That said, some wounds slice deep - for all that the mind strives to cover them over - and the character limit of their SMS history is a palliative cure at best. To make matters worse, jet lag in his forties is a total crapshoot - not at all remedied by the piecemeal catnaps he’d caught on the plane - and thwarted by the blurry letters, Oliver soon turns to his iPod instead; selecting the dynamic strains of Elio’s back catalogue to muffle the grizzly toddler four rows along.  

It was the winter of ‘88 he last had the privilege of seeing him play in person. Juilliard's lauded Christmas recital: a selfish, one-sided affair by which he’d skulked in the shadows of the Lincoln Center’s mezzanine. That Elio forgave his audacity is a mystery in itself. That he's kindly suggested a repeat performance is a testament to how far they’ve come. A number of mornings were spent in such Spartan luxury their halcyon summer, and drumming his fingers in idle counterpoint Oliver pictures the give of that leather easy-chair in the villa’s spacious living room. 

The dizzy dance of dust motes towards the vaulted ceiling.

Elio - brow furrowed in concentration - resplendent in the saffron sunlight that pools through the wide, unshuttered windows. 

It’s a slightly static announcement on the tannoy that stirs him from his stupor, yet Oliver has no issue discerning la stazione di Clusone amidst the liquid notes of Gershwin pouring through his headphones. 

The griping Brit’s are still going at it: running an asinine gamut from Bergamo’s high humidity to the dearth of sandy beaches surrounding Lake Como. Oliver snickers when they denounce the price of an Aperol Spritz, and maybe it's an omen - one of Mafalda’s legendary signs - because right on cue a droning rhythm vibrates the laminate tabletop; Elio’s name lighting up his phone screen as he hits the green accept button like his life depends upon it.

“Suppose I were to meet you at the station?” he hears in greeting, a verbal ambrosia for his pilgrim soul. “Suppose I’ve been on pins and needles since you landed in Nice, and if one more meddling kibitzer extols the virtues of patience, I’m going to tell them exactly where to stick their conseils d'ingérence! Self-restraint was never my forte, mon ami.”

Nor his suppressor, Oliver thinks, admiring the fragrant lavender that flourishes about the bay. “God bless Annella for passing on that stubborn streak.”

“Fingers crossed that’s all I inherit,” Elio mutters glumly, inured to the savagery of his mother’s disease in a way that occasionally knocks him for six. “But suppose I’m waiting here,” he forges onwards, easing the Gordian knot in Oliver’s midsection. “On the same rotting bench I sat on at seventeen. Trying not to worry that you’ve missed a connection. Or the signals at Albino failed like they did in the spring. Or your train arrived ahead of schedule, and I’ve just driven eighty kilometres in Miranda’s Cinquecento -”

“- for a head-full of what-ifs and an ass-full of splinters?”

“Esattamente.” A pause. “So, am I?” Elio asks, sounding as exhausted as Oliver feels. “Fretting over nothing? Or has the universe devised yet another way to -”  

A piercing whistle cuts him off mid-flow.

The pneumatic judder of brakes ensues straight after.

“I guess that answers my question,” he murmurs, and if Oliver weren’t sitting on shpilkes himself, perhaps he’d refrain. As it is though… 

“A wise man once argued the way up and the way down are one and the same,” he answers primly, and when Elio barks something resembling a laugh and a snort he prides himself on lifting the mood. “Do you have any idea?” he asks then, scooting over to lean his forehead against the dingy glass. “How glad I am you came?” 

Compliments are risky business. Especially coming from him. But nonetheless -

“How could I not?” Elio replies: a vast improvement on his obsolete I don’t know. “The pullman might be less extortionate than a cab, but that old bus takes forever, and I just…” His vulnerability is audible. “I’m sick of being on edge,” he continues with no small amount of chagrin. “I needed to see you. To be sure this is real.”

To be sure you want me, hangs unsaid, which is ironic, when it's Elio himself who carries all the cards. 

“Do you remember the crux of my next column?” Oliver asks then, blood pounding in his ears. “That it’s not happenstance that determines destiny? But individual choice?” 

Elio’s pensive hum rumbles through the handset. 

“Well, there’s a difference, by and large, in walking a path blindly, and opting to walk it with hindsight,” Oliver explains, the simple fact resonating like a call to arms. “We can’t let our track-record hinder who we’ll become, but my path, Elio Perlman, was always destined for your door. And mark my words. To find you? To keep you?” The anticipation is glorious. “I’ll walk it to the ends of the earth…”

[strsburn]

sngä'ikrr [begin] ━ ˓𓄹 ࣪˖  neteyam [02.]

pairing - neteyam x fem! na'vi reader

synopsis - moments in between where you are focused on your duties to the clan, and a certain sully is determined to redirect your attention

notes -

hello loves, thank you so much for being patient and i apologize for the wait. i am a sporadic writer and it takes me time to perfect a chapter the way i would like. hope you enjoy x

p.s. i deeply apologize for the unprompted hiatus, i slipped into my other hyperfixations and then writers block was at an all time high but i'm back !!

also, please be sure to comment i love to see them!! i made a playlist for this series which you can check out

here

taglist - @eywas-heir @ultimatebluff @bambisposts-blogs @anm3mi @velvtcherie @mashiromochi @northsoulss @koudnd @jkeluv @awriana @fanboyluvr @cherrybeomgyu @laylasbunbunny @violet-19999 @lovedbychoi

"Salew, hufwe! Salew!" You yipped as your ikran dipped, skimming his wings across the ponds of the forest, his lime green wings twinkling beneath the rays of the sun.

You closed your eyes, trusting in your ikran and his ability to guide you, and savored the chill of the winds, the excitement that came with flying. You could remember the very first time you had been chosen by your ikran, forming tsaheylu, and taking your first flight.

"You must not hesitate, it could mean life or death, you understand evi?" Ta'hlu bent down to meet your eyes, her hand coming up to rest on your shoulder in comfort. You nodded, lower lip trembling with nerves but you forced it back. Straightening up as you handed her your bow.

Your ears twitched as the ikrans eyed you, a few snarling but not making a move to meet you. Your tail flickered behind you in agitation as the ikrans continued to dance away, none finding interest.

Just as you felt your frustrations rise, the ground shook as a large ikran landed before you. You looked up with wide eyes as its scales shimmered underneath the sun, hues of lime green and jet black creating an intimidating but beautiful sight. It met your eyes with a glare, lips pulling back to reveal sharpened teeth as it roared, sending a shiver up your spine.

You felt a grin creep onto your lips as you bared your fangs in a hiss, ears pinned back and eyes narrowed as a growl built up in your chest.

The ikran met your challenge head on, scraping the ground with its wings as it crawled towards you, its shadow encasing your own.

You leapt for it, hands grasping at the rope between your fingers as you swung it towards the mouth of the beast.

You yipped in victory when the rope snagged around the ikrans mouth, snapping it closed as the ikran screeched in anger, trying to dislodge the offending item. You climbed the back of it, wrestling with the ikran as it did it's best to throw you off.

"Tsaheylu, evi! Tsaheylu!" You heard Ta'hlu shout, her tone edged in worry. You obliged, quickly grabbing your queue, and connecting with the beast who stilled as you felt one another through the bond.

"Mawey, mawey." You stroked the ikrans scales, breathing slowly. You did not hesitate to guide it towards the cliff edge as you heard the cheers of the Olo'ekytan, and the other warriors in training, including his sons.

With a sharp exhale, you closed your eyes, and let yourself fall, your body pushing against the wind of pandora, as you breathed in sync with your ikran, only one thought on your mind.

'Fly'

A sharp nudge brought you back from your reminiscing, and you opened your eyes as you looked down at hufwe who chirped indicating you'd reached hometree.

You smiled, stroking his scales in thanks as the two of you glided down back to hometree, a feeling of complete content, and trust exuberant through the bond.

Taking your ionar from above your eyes as you no longer needed it, you grinned as you detached from hufwe, nodding to the na'vi who greeted you with smiles, and praise. You were still getting used to the respect, and admiration of the clan that came with being the lead warrior of the tíhawnu sì. Especially after saving the Olo'ekytan's daughter awhile back, your name had become well known around the clan.

With a smile, you headed for your home, offering smiles and polite nods along the way.

"Y/n! You're back!" A cheer of your name caused your ears to perk up, as you looked up from where you were stringing leaves together, creating another top for yourself as you had outgrown your other one.

At the sight of the familiar sully, you grinned lying down your work in anticipation for the hug you were going to receive. Tuk had formed an attachment to you, seeing as you had saved her life, and the two of you had become quite fond of each other, spending as much time as you could when you weren't training or sent on missions.

"Tirey, it is good to see you." You greeted Tuk with a nickname she deemed only you could use. You tried not to grin at that. you failed .

"I missed you!" Tuk grinned lying across your lap. You opened your mouth to reply when you spotted another blue form who had been behind Tuk.

You rose a brow as the oldest son of the Olo'ekytan smiled sheepishly at you, his tail swishing happily as he gazed at you.

"Neteyam." You greeted with a polite nod. His tail swayed harder as his name left your lips, and you blinked. Seeming to know where your gaze had gone, Neteyam forcefully grabbed his tail, and scratched at his neck nervously.

"Y/n, uh, I was just coming to remind Tuk not to stay out past eclipse." He coughed, straightening his posture as he nodded in self assurance.

Tuk sat up at her eldest brother's words, and gave him an odd look, confusion marring her features.

"I thought you said you came along because you wanted to see y/n-"

Neteyam hissed with wide eyes, grabbing Tuk by the arm, firm but gentle as he waved at her words dismissively, giving you a faux apologetic smile.

"Ha, sorry about this one, she hasn't had her nap. I'll be seeing you later!" In a blink the two were gone, and you were left, blinking at the space where they previously stood.

It was the next day, and you found yourself sparring with Ta'hlu. You spun the spear between your hands gracefully as you blocked each hit sent your way, forcing down the grin that threatened to come up when you bested her.

Before you could offer her a hand, a branch snapped, and the two of you looked up for the source of sound.

You tilted your head as Neteyam sheepishly moved closer into the clearing, his tail swaying nervously.

"Neteyam?" You frowned.

"Uh, you, you fight good." He stated after a pregnant pause.

You looked to Ta'hlu in confusion, and found her giving you a knowing look, her lips curled in amusement.

"Thank you. Did you wish to train? Ta'hlu is a very good teacher, you will learn well." You nodded at him before taking your leave, not seeing the disappointed grimace on his face.

A week had passed, and you noticed the eldest Sully had made many more appearances in your general vicinity.

You were unsure as to the reason, as he seemed to clam up whenever you approached him.

So, you returned to your daily tasks, hoping this awkward phase of his would fade in time.

"Y/n?"

Eywa was definitely getting a kick out of this.

You held in a sigh, lifting your head, and meeting the familiar golden eyes with specks of green that gleamed at your attention.

"Neteyam." You greeted.

"I uh, I noticed your last top had torn during training. So, I asked my mother for help, and uh, I well, I made this for you." He thrusted something towards you, not recognizing his own strength, and consequently hitting you in the nose with said item.

You jerked back, holding your nose as you felt a sharp sting as crimson liquid slowly trickled out of your nose.

"Oh shit! Oh- fuck, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to." Neteyam hovered with wide eyes, dropping the object to lift your hands from your face. He winced as he surveyed the area, his ears and tails drooping.

You pat his hand standing up as you held your nose, waving away his apologies as you made for the Tsahík's tent.

As soon as you disappeared from view, Neteyam hit his forehead with his palms, his tail lashing in aggravation.

Later, would find a repentant Neteyam approaching his father who tended to his weapons, his tail swishing with interest as he polished his gun.

"Dad?"

"Hmm."

"How do you apologize for giving the girl you like a bloody nose?"

[disastertriowriting]

Disaster Lineage Appreciation Gift Exchange

Fanfics:

A shower a day keeps the self-loathing spirit away by egeria - Obi-Wan gets hurt on a mission and Anakin can't mentally handle it. Snuggles ensue.

A Talk Under the Veil of the Night by StarxRox - Fives was executed in front of his eyes. Anakin can't forget what happened. He has nightmares. He hopes that they are just nightmares. But they aren't. Also Obi-Wan is the inconspicuous casual disaster child everybody believes is perfect.

Acch-To Soul, Korriban Body by Sinvulkt (Wakare) - The hound - for it had no name but hound, beast, mutant - collapsed in the dark alley, its small paws folding underneath it. Its chest felt heavy, and its breath came ragged, pained. Blood sang loudly to its ears, as did the loud men that were after it. Its muzzle was still wet from the time they tried to drown it.

Acolyte by Courtesy Trefflin - The mission to Ringo Vinda spirals downward when Tup tries to kill Luminara and Ahsoka confronts, and is injured by, Dooku's unknown assassin, called the Acolyte. There is a conspiracy involving the clones, and Anakin will do anything to uncover it when it means protecting the only people he has had left since Obi-Wan's death many months ago. (Winter Soldier AU)

Crisis of Faith by Courtesy Trefflin (Tirana Sorki) - Qui-Gon's loss isn't the only thing Obi-Wan struggles with after the battle of Naboo. The entire Order worships him as the Sith killer now, but it means having standards he doesn't know he can reach. He can't forget his master. He used the Dark Side. And he has the Chosen One to train, a padawan who is nothing like what Jedi ought to be.

Do Not Stand at My Grave by ReadingBlueWolf - After saving Naboo, Obi-Wan, and Anakin are kidnapped in broad daylight by Dooku. Frustrated by the Council's lack of response (and the old coot insisting on being called "buir"), Obi-Wan pens a few letters to Qui-Gon about the situation.

Flight Path by Courtesy Trefflin (Amina Gila) - Sidious never let him fly, preferring to keep him chained, and even though Anakin was trapped as a dragon for decades, losing his humanity and memories for a time, he has not lost his love for flying. It’s taken months for him to recover, and now that he and his family are taking a trip to Alderaan, he has the perfect opportunity to test his wings again.

Freefall by InsertSthMeaningful - Rey’s Jedi training on Ahch-To entails many things, like swimming, running, lightsaber duelling – and scaling high cliffs. One day, however she falls, and Master Luke doesn’t catch her. Instead, the Force does.

I dream of water by IceyGemini - For a long time, Luke's dreams nightmares were about heat and fire. This one was different...

Mashaw Bros, Sunset Circus by DragonflyonBreak - Come to the circus and witness what you've never seen before.

Multiples - Leia in ANH by Courtesy Trefflin - On the bridge of the Death Star, moments before Alderaan's destruction, Darth Vader is caught off-guard when a shift in the Force causes four more versions of Leia Organa to appear. Leia, who is... his daughter, apparently, the daughter he never knew he had. And Vader will do anything for his family.

Multiples - Luke in TESB by Courtesy Trefflin (Tirana Sorki) - For months now, Vader has waited for the day when he can tell Luke that he's his father. If Luke will join him, they can make the galaxy a better place. That day has finally arrived, except moments before Vader can reveal the truth, the Force suddenly, and unexpectedly, drops four other versions of Luke in front of him as well.

Multiples - Obi-Wan in ROTS by Courtesy Trefflin - Anakin and Obi-Wan have just landed aboard the Invisible Hand to rescue Chancellor Palpatine when suddenly, four other versions of Obi-Wan appear with them. One Obi-Wan is hard enough sometimes, but five? That is a whole other story. It doesn't help that they're not terribly fond of each other... or that the eldest are hiding things about the future.

Of Lineages and Hope by MiaSirtnev - Obi-Wan Kenobi never had a daughter but did have a very special Grandpadawan in Ahsoka Tano. And in matters large and small, they will always be there for each other. Always.

Ready to Respond (Do Not React) by Kefalion - After the events on Cloud City, Luke has been working on his ability to meditate. In a dream, he reaches the right frame of mind and he speaks with Yoda who shares some wisdom.

Relief by hayam - In retrospect, Dooku probably should have gone to the healers the first time he felt that sore tickle in his throat. Or that slight bit of nausea. It would have saved a lot of trouble..

Skywalker Snared by Writer_Patriot - Verifying Dooku's live capture didn't go as planned. Anakin blames himself.

Successor by Courtesy Trefflin (Tirana Sorki) - Traveling into Wild Space in search of ancient Jedi Temples and holocrons to learn from, in the hopes of rebuilding the Jedi Order, Rey stumbles onto something else entirely: the ancient world of Mortis, except... it's now inhabited by Force ghosts?

Swimming Lessons by Kittona writes (kittona) - Ahsoka plots to get her master to take a vacation; they're going to go to the beach. Sun, sand, relaxation, and most importantly, swimming. There's only one problem, Anakin didn't tell her he never learned to swim

The Time Where Anakin Became Yoda's New Padawan by StarxRox - Basically just another time travel story.

With Me As I Go by Courtesy Trefflin - When Qui-Gon died, becoming one with the Force, he could only watch. Watch as everyone in the lineage mourned him, and as the galaxy fell. But he is not about to let his master die. Or, the five times Qui-Gon tried and failed to help his family, and the one time he succeeded.

Fanart:

Just a Little Family Nap by lulek(szalik)

[dgttwisted]

Birthday 2

the hat for the bloom birthday celebration were to big for her head she ended up having to hold onto it with her hands. Deuce picked her up to sit her on a comfy stool for the interviewee to do the interview.

"can't have boss getting tired before the interview!"

"hehe thank you Deuce"

there was a knock at the door before they let themselves in

"well if it isn't our most special birthday girl today Happy birthday Lilith~" the smile had clear intent behind it Azul was certainly going to try an use this chance to his advantage though not sure what he would hope to gain by questioning a little child.

"hehe thank Azul you're giving the interview this time?"

"you may not know sense you are new to this school but interviewer's are chosen in a raffle of sorts! an i was the very lucky winner!"

"awesome i hope i get chosen for the next birthday!"

"ah you are in the news paper club i can only imagine how many people you get your information from" everyone must let there guard down around her think of the juicy info she has!!

his intent is going right over Lilith's head "next birthday is Lilia right? i hope i can interview him Sebek always makes me tea when i visit there dorm!"

"isn't that nice? well now lets get this interview on the way shall we!?"

"yes first question please I'm ready!"

"love the enthusiasm, now Lilith do you consider flight magic on of your strong or weak points?"

Lilith started to glow as she flew up into the air "strong!....though i guess not with a broom hehe"

"Azul a broom doesn't seem to be necessary in your case"

"nope in fact coach Vargas sets up a special obstacle course for me to fly threw there is a biiiig net that is underneath the hole thing so if i fall i won't get hurt"

"how thoughtful"

"Ortho can fly it with me because he flies very similar to how i do!"

"ah so your not flying all by yourself that must be nice"

"yea but Grim gets mad because he has to do the broom flying with everyone else hehehe"

"even though big mean crow man says were one half of the same student all the teachers give me different tests an grade us separately"

Azul simply smiled as a response to prevent himself from laughing knowing that the rest of the staff doesn't respect Crowley's decision on this matter.

---

"next question what's your best subject in school?"

Liliths eyes lit up as did her body she started to glow even brighter a clear indication to Azul as well as anyone near by that Azul asked a question she is more then happy to answer!

"i love all my classes!! History, Flying, Math, science!!!" she was zipping about pretty much orbiting Azul as she answered "gosh its hard to pick just one!!"

"well for the sake of the question lets change it to is there anything in class that you had fun learning about recently?"

"yes!! in Trains class we learned about the hyenas were the beast kings friends who helped him bring peace to there lands! Train is so nice he got me a desk right next to his podium for me to sit on an he gives me mints when i do a good job or ask questions!"

Azul is rather surprised most students find it hard to stay awake in his class yet Lilith seems excited to do so.

---

"alright last question before we get to the fun part!"

"i can't wait!!!" she is sitting back down to conserve her energy like everyone told her to

"how do you spend your days off?"

"so not club activities?"

"not club activities likes stuff you do at home or with friends"

"Tea parties! i invite my friends to tea parties when i can they're my favorite!"

"i have heard of them"

"have you not gone yet I'm positive i invited you i gave Floyd the invite"

"ah" he will have to talk to him about that

"Hornton loves them hehe he brings me presents even when its not my birthday!" she giggled thinking about it

'Hornton...wait who has that ridicules nickname?' he thinks to himself "well Lilith its about time are you ready?"

"Yes!!" she sees the broom that Azul brought "its so pretty you made the flowers Christmas colors!"

"fitting for your special day no?"

Lilith gave Azul a hug before floating holding her broom an going for her flight!

Lilith is flying up above her arms extended her broom in one hand an the big hat in the other there is snow below she has the biggest smile on her face.

[sonicasura]

Dart made good use of the alien device’s hacking ability to judge what the Autobots needed impromptu lessons in. Prowl reminded them of a mix of Arcee and Starscream, but only in abilities alone. He veritably nimble and the only Earthbound Autobot (so far) who had anything resembling flight.

The loner type mentality was something they could relate too though it was more of “having my peace and quiet” than sheer avoidance.

—————————————

He found great appreciation in the simplicity of some organics—learning Earth culture was a gradual process even with young Sari’s help. (She reminded him of the protoforms he…) Prowl was a simple cybertronian at spark, in his opinion. The cyber-ninja unburdened himself of the peculiar worries most cybertronians held toward organic life. It was simply another form of life albeit far more fragile than theirs.

Curiously, there was something of a gurgling sound figuratively knocking him out of his musings. He did an initial scan for any sort of humans having stumbled upon his perching spot. Prowl had chosen this area because it was out of the way or most organics… Nothing came up yet he was one to take certain cautions. A hologram of himself mimicked adjusting his position while the real him stayed in place waiting.

Sadly, his attempts were rendered inert when something tugged him out of the tree all of its own. Prowl bit back the barest exvent as he had to catch himself from falling. Rising up from the soil was something akin to the nanite-based creation the Autobots fought when they woke out of statis. An offshoot they missed?

He waited for the creature to attack, but it simply flowed in place in a vaguely bipedal shape. It seemed made of the soil itself and far less stable looking than the first one. Moments passed as he was willing to wait for it to act first… Only for his pede to get dragged down into the soil, as the creature revealed it had been leaking downward in order to catch him off guard. A cutting disk severed part of the connection—until the creature converted more soil into itself.

————————————

Prowl was arguably the best offensive combatant amongst his groups. And yet? The Omnitrix found themself with how well their Lenopan form pretty much nerfed him.

He kept resorting to those shuriken(?) like disks to cut them apart or punching through them. Didn’t even attempt to use the thruster from his jet pack to fry them out… By the time he even resorted to his jet pack, Dart already shut it down by stuffing the thruster full of mud. It would still work yet was severely limited…

The transformed teen kept splitting part of themself off to act as a decoy, attempting to teach Prowl to use his holograms better. He showed some improvement in layering it a moment before he moved to juke them. But otherwise? The “cyber-ninja” hadn’t learned much from his first fight on Earth.

Dart shook their head at him before slinking down into the soil. Leaving the Autobot confused and wary over if they would attack again.

(Otherwise, they accidentally re-traumatize Prowl from the nanite incident. Sari’s key let out another burst of amusement upon seeing the mud-caked cybertronian slink into base.)

—ROB’d Anon.

Lol Impromptu training lessons it is. Prowl was definitely confused because he felt like the creature had been testing him. If it really meant harm then it would've immediately attacked the bot, possibly without even giving away their position.

Poor Prowl definitely has questions bouncing around in his head while the Key is laughing.

[globalspaceandrocketgroup]

April 22nd, 2055 - Henad 2 Post-Mission Cumulative Report (SOME INFO NOT FOR PUBLIC RELEASE)

The GSRG's first ever crewed suborbital flight, Henad 2, took place earlier this evening, launching at 08:02:51 Putiyana local time and splashing down only 18 minutes and 49 seconds later. The astronaut piloting the vessel, Grisgia Striseo, enjoyed a comfortable flight onboard the newly developed Salt 3 rocket.

The Salt 3 rocket, designed by our partner laboratories, is the first step in our plan to develop an internationally linked space effort. As of now, the reach of the GSRG is small, but negotiations with multiple governments for cooperation on future missions have already begun.

Henad 2 followed the Henad 1's unmanned test flight as the first crewed flight of the GSRG to escape Ulina's atmosphere. Grisgia Yaoi Striseo was the lucky astronaut who took the first step into space for our organization. Striseo has flown over 2,000 hours in the Royal Vau'senaan Air Force and is one of the first 3 astronauts we have recruited into our crewed programs. They are a 39-year-old non-binary Caticani native, who excelled over our 2 other astronauts in training to be chosen as this mission's pilot.

Henad 2 postcard souvenir Pulari variant that depicts Striseo

Launch day in Pulunadu was clear with few clouds, relieving worries from the day prior of storms. As the Salt 3 rocket blasted through the atmosphere, flight controllers at our facilities on the ground prepared for the next portion of staging.

Stage 1 separation separates the Service and Command modules from the Salt 3 launch vehicle after it has depleted all of its fuel, halfway through its journey out of the atmosphere. For this mission, the Service module only held small fuel cells and oxygen/ RCS fuel reserves, however in an orbital flight would perform the final burn to establish an orbit. So, the module was detached shortly after reaching its highest altitude, and the command module began using its own life support system reserves.

Following this, the command module's atmospheric reentry began, its flat end reinforced with heat-resistant materials to take the brunt of the extreme heat forces. Then, once it had reached a suitable point in altitude, the drogue parachutes deployed, quickly slowing the capsule down before main parachute deployment.

Due to pre-flight calculation errors the craft performed an unplanned water landing, when originally meant to land in Rilhan. However, recovery was unencumbered. Striseo left the capsule in good spirits and in nominal condition.

Part of a report on the mission in a local newspaper:

Grisgia Striseo was all smiles for the cameras that awaited their safe recovery aboard the large trawler that acts as the GSRG's apparent recovery boat. Seeming chipper as ever, a quick interview with (a suspiciously-soaked) Striseo in the aftermath of their feat revealed that they are "Interested, but not certain" on the possibilities of returning as pilot on future GSRG missions. Head of Operations at GSRG, Maksyi Kozymazhets, expressed jovial congratulations to Striseo and extensive optimism for the organization's future. "Everyone on our team is so proud of what we have accomplished here today, and even more so for Grisgia's resolve and stability throughout the challenging mission we have just completed. This, surely, is the sign that more success is inevitable, and that amazing feats are due for our subsequent programs! The team that- We have built- is one I trust to drive the WHOLE of Ulina towards an incredible realization of our potential in space and the industry around it."

An unofficial statement from a recovery team member about the water landing:

'It was from my point of view that I saw the command module, as soon as it touched down in the Strait of Celany, tipping over on its side. Which is, if you can't tell, really not supposed to happen. This meant water pretty much filled the capsule instantly as it opened up so Striseo could get out. The capsule was unrecoverable. I'd say it probably needs a redesign.'

Flight Path

Flight Stages

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken, Chapter Six: New York

An evening movie. A strange surprise. A terrifying offer.

AO3 | Playlist | Masterpost

-----

CHAPTER SIX: NEW YORK

Arthur Lester—private eye, home to a renegade piece of the King in Yellow, and maker of truly unwise deals—steps off the train into Grand Central Station and almost immediately falls down.

He’s more banged up getting off the train than he was getting on. But he survived.

Survived the Dreamlands.

Survived the King in Yellow.

Survived the mines, the Butcher, and the monster Larson made from his own daughter.

Arthur always survives.

He is going to do whatever he has to do to keep John safe, and if all the beings who claim to know him so well really understood him, then they wouldn’t always be so surprised when he goes too far.

Though maybe it’s fair. Sometimes, Arthur is surprised, too. He’s never chosen someone else over himself so consistently before.

“Excuse me, so sorry,” he says brightly to people he can’t see, smiling in the bland way they expect a soft-spoken Brit to sound.

He smiles to distract from the fact that he looks half-starved, that part of one ear is gone, that his throat has been raggedly cut and isn’t fully healed.

It works, of course. Presentation is half the battle.

Careful, says John in his head. The platform is crowded.

John’s voice is the King’s, but his tone is not. Arthur could never confuse the two—never mix them up. He’d know the difference if they were set side by side and only allowed to speak three words. “Yes, I can tell,” he murmurs. “We should, at least, blend in better because of it.”

Lots of people here talking to themselves? says John with more than a little amusement.

“You’d be surprised,” Arthur says, pushing forward.

Keep to your left. The people in line to get on are on the right.

Arthur runs into someone again. “Oh, goodness, I am terribly sorry.”

Your other left, Arthur.

It feels like throngs of people, all wooly heat and sweat and cologne. Thick winter clothes scratch at his hand, and broad-brimmed hats hit his face too near his blinded eyes.

Arthur doesn’t like how this triggers his “fight” instinct (“flight” having broken its neck like a distraught rabbit long ago). He knows these people are just living their lives. He knows they’re not after him.

It still takes effort not to punch and bite his way through. Panic edged with “fight” is a volatile combination.

It’s so crowded, Arthur.

“It’ll get better once we’ve left the station,” says Arthur.

Straight ahead, there’s a door out. Finally.

“Yes, finally,” murmurs Arthur, and steps out of the station and into the cold.

The city is noisy. Car horns, so many voices, buskers playing not too far away.

Oh, Arthur! says John the moment he gets a glimpse of Manhattan.

Arthur understands.

Remembers what he used to see. Will never see again.

The pull of bitterness is strong today, probably because he’s so tired; but the fact is that when Arthur had crawled, broken and bleeding, through the snow after John was taken away, he had not gotten his sight back.

His sight is gone. Whatever happened when John took his eyes, it was never returning.

Has he processed that? Absolutely not.

Arthur doesn’t know how he’s going to resume life after this, or if there will even be an after. Blind private investigators aren’t in much demand.

And like hell is he ever going back to music.

But that’s all in the future, when they’re not facing down cults and gods. When they’re not on the run from police and existential assassins.

Right now, he can focus on John’s joy. “Like it?” he says.

Arthur, it’s like no city I’ve ever seen!

Arthur smiles. “Tell me.”

It’s… amazing. The buildings tower over us, Arthur. We’re all like ants, scurrying around beneath giants who barely see us underfoot. Everything is dirty, and everything is alive; the snow lies in soot-stained piles against the curb, and people move quickly, like they have the most important place in the world to be. Their faces, Arthur… they’re all vibrant, focused. Not all happy, but so determined. I feel like we’re in a place where anything can happen.

Arthur loves this joy. Loves that he can show John a slice of life so different from the Dark World, so bright and good. “That’s how I remember it,” he says, keeping his voice low, though he suspects he doesn’t really need to. “Though there are a lot more garbage smells than I recall. Anyone looking at us?”

Not even a little.

Arthur laughs. “You were right—we should have come here sooner. A city full of madmen, and we fit right in.”

He’s walking, blind, because he trusts John to tell him of any danger.

He trusts John, even though everything.

I am feeling bitter today, he thinks, and corrects his earlier thought: John hadn’t been taken from him. He’d left.

Arthur has no tools to deal with that betrayal. He understands, he does, that John did it to save him, because the King was breaking Arthur’s bones, because the King was hurting him so badly that all he could do was scream.

But Arthur had promised to protect John, to keep him safe. Arthur had gone through far worse than pain to do just that.

When John chose to leave, no matter the reason, it invalidated everything. The pain, the torture. The murder, the cannibalism. Everything.

What had been the point if John was going to roll over the moment it got bad?

That isn’t fair of Arthur, and he knows that, too, but he doesn’t know what to do about any of it.

He is a modern man of 1934. His only hope is that these things can and will be stuffed away forever, never surfacing, never felt. That’s what being a man meant: you did what you had to do.

Especially for your family. Especially for the one you love.

That one is John.

I can’t believe how beautiful it all is, John continues, child-like wonder softening his frankly terrifying basso profundo.

Arthur smiles. “It’s quite marvelous, I know. I considered moving here, when I was getting everything figured out."

Why didn’t you? I’m sure there’s plenty of work for someone with your skills.

“There was. But when I lived here before, I was studying music, composing. And… I spent a lot of time with Bella here. So, no, I don’t particularly care to live here again.”

Oh.

And just like that, the conversation stops because there are no safe stepping stones left in the water.

Because Bella meant Faroe. And music meant Faroe. Composing, especially, meant Faroe.

There would be no talking about Faroe.

Arthur ignores the little burnt part of his heart that responds to thoughts of his dead daughter, that still wants to murder Larson, that still wants to go back to that town and stab any presumed cultists in the head, that still wants to just hit and hit until there’s no one left to come after them.

It’s not good. He knows that. So he tries to push it away.

“Besides, it’s nicer in Arkham,” says Arthur, moving on. “It’s smaller, but there’s plenty of intrigue, and you don’t have to constantly watch for pickpockets.”

Pickpockets? John repeats, sounding absolutely offended.

“It’s why I tucked our money in such a safe place, John. Don’t worry.”

Disgusting.

“Desperate, honestly,” says Arthur. “Most of them would rather be doing anything else, but the Depression left them little opportunity. I’m lucky that neither of my career choices depended on things so easily ruined by a world at war.”

John sounds thoughtful. Stop here.

Arthur stops. Hears cars pass by. Waits, because John will tell him when it’s safe to go.

It seems like these are hard years for humans in general.

“They are. I’ve gotten to see the best of us, through it all; the kindest, most generous, the most clever and creative. I’ve also gotten to see the worst. The most hate-filled, the greediest, the cruelest imaginable.”

Another beat of silence while John thinks whatever he thinks about human affairs. You can go now. Step down for the curb.

Arthur walks, and John is silent until it’s time for the next curb. Step up. So that’s where you were when my book came to you.

“Where I was?”

Mentally. Emotionally. I’d wondered how you got to be where you were. After everything. After Parker helped you.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Mailbox. Two steps right.

Arthur adjusts accordingly.

I mean… Your hope. The way you don’t give up on people.

Arthur can’t help but feel that’s pointed. “Except in the last few days, you mean.”

No, that’s not the same. That’s personal. I get it, Arthur. You think I don’t know killing Larson represents killing the part of yourself you blame?

Arthur stops.

Puts his hand out, finds a wall. Leans.

His heart hurts. Aches. Like it’s expanding, squeezing out his lungs.

Walk it off, he thinks.

Arthur?

“Let’s change the subject.” Arthur tilts his head back against the crisp winter sun, relishing the feel of daylight on his face, the sound of people, the cold and biting breeze.

Trying to climb out of the place John just tripped him into.

Your throat scar shows that way, Arthur.

“Well, then they’ll just know I’m someone not to be fucked with,” says Arthur.

Also, I can’t see the sidewalk.

“Fine, fine. Sorry.” Arthur turns his face forward again.

And just like that, it’s over. Arthur certainly won’t be bringing it up again, and John is smart enough to let it go.

This is a popular area. I see signs for hotels, says John.

“Try to find a nice one. We’re not taking some mold-infested closet. We’ve earned a break.”

Do we have enough money left for that?

“I’ll have to supplement it soon, but… my hope is I can get some help from Bella’s family.”

So we are going to find your father-in-law?

Arthur sighs. “Not my father-in-law, technically. But, soon. Unfortunately, I doubt it will be a pleasant reunion.”

Watch out—there’s a pile of garbage bags on the sidewalk in front of you. It’s narrowed the walkway to one person at a time. Two steps left, then forward four.

Arthur navigates, then—when the smell is past—right again, out of the way. “First, however, I want to see what we can find in the city for information.”

About what?

“Anything we can learn about the Order of the Falling Star. About the King in Yellow. About whatever it is Larson is serving—because I’m certain it’s going to come up again.”

Stop and wait for the traffic to pass. How do you plan to do that?

Arthur waits at the curb, hands in his pockets, breathing deeply. “In a city this large, there has to be a wealth of occult knowledge somewhere. The challenge will be finding it without knocking down too many wasps’ nests.”

Cross now. I doubt we can look up Occult Organizations in the Yellow Pages.

Arthur walks right into the road because he trusts John. “We’ll figure it out. We’re in the Big Apple, John. It’s like you said—anything is possible.”

Curb.

Arthur steps up. “Would you look at this place? Can’t you feel it? It’s like there’s energy thrumming through the sidewalk beneath our feet.”

I’ll agree it feels different from anywhere we’ve been. But we are on the run for murder. And while I doubt Arkham police have any reason to be canvasing this city, that has to be part of our consideration.

Arthur refuses to let that sink him further. “We’ll survive. We survived everything, from the Dreamlands to the Butcher. We will mange.”

Heh. Well. I suppose it’s nice to hear that. You’ve been so dark since the mine and Larson’s estate.

Arthur has no desire to talk about the mine and Larson's estate.

They happened after John left him.

After he made a deal with Kayne to get him back, which Arthur would rather not think about at all. “Let’s find that hotel.”

John directs him through a heavy door, and—awash in the scent of a clean place, of food, of out-of-season flowers—he puts on his people-pleasing smile.

#

Getting a room isn’t hard. Ordering room service takes some coordination of menu and phone, but then he has a hot bath, and then he has a hot meal, and he will have a soft bed, and he feels better than he has in ages.

He takes a bite of his last buttered roll and moans.

You sound like you’re enjoying yourself, says John, just a touch petulantly.

“It’s good, John. It’s so good.” Arthur wipes his eyes a little. He’s still in awe at how incredible bread can be, after so long without it.

After a moment, John says, There’s a theater right down the block from us.

“Oh, not this again.”

You promised, Arthur.

“I didn't say now. We just got here. I want to go to bed.”

Arthur, Larson or something worse will catch up to us sooner or later, not to mention whatever we shake loose by investigating here. If we’re going to see a film, this is the best time.

Arthur sighs.

You promised.

He had. Maybe it’s the bread talking, but he decides to concede. “You know, you’re right. This likely will be our best chance.”

There’s an evening showing of something called “Forsaking All Others.”

Arthur laughs. “You really paid attention, didn’t you?”

Arthur!

“All right, but let this be the end of it. Only for you, my friend.” Arthur puts his suit back on.

It turns out this is one of the theaters selling popcorn—a newish addition, and something Arthur has never had—and munching it keeps him quite happy through John’s running commentary.

It’s a romantic comedy, filled with miscommunication, sexual entendre, and a finale that makes Arthur smile, in spite of not being able to see.

The way John reacts, it’s like he’s living through it all. He has opinions by the end on human ideas of love and romance, and how stupid all these characters were for not just forming one big love commune.

“You can’t dothat,” says Arthur, but when John asks why, he has no good answer.

John also, for some reason, thinks Clark Gable looks punchable.

That alone is worth the price of admission.

Arthur lets John rant about everybody’s choices the whole way back to the hotel. It wasn’t so bad, sitting there in the theater with him. Maybe, if they survived, they’d do this again.

#

Arthur washes his shirt. He washes his only pair of underwear and his socks. Then he places them all on the radiator, and goes to bed.

He sleeps like the dead. Or so John informs him when he wakes, well after ten the next morning.

He hums a little as he bathes and dresses, shaving in the mirror so John can tell him if he bleeds.

Hums as he dons his suit.

John is impatient. We’re looking for Freemasons now, right?

“Soon.”

We’re checking with your father-in-law, right?

“Not yet.”

Arthur. Talk to me.

Arthur faces the mirror he can’t see. “How do I look?”

Blasted.

“Well, I feel blasted. Too bad, I suppose. How do I look more respectable? Should I change the hair?”

Change the face, probably.

Arthur laughs. “Jackass.”

Bastard.

“Prick.”

But John stops playing. So, talk to me.

“All right. Well. I’ve been thinking of calling Miskatonic University and seeing if Armitage can recommend a sister organization here. It seems that if anyone would know a legitimate place to research the occult, he would.”

John chuckles.

“What?”

You’re clever. I’m going to enjoy being PIs with you when this is over.

Arthur can’t help a small smile.

If John sees it in the mirror, he says nothing. He directs Arthur out, through the hotel’s front door, and at last, to a pay phone.

Neither of them say it feels a little like being PIs, now.

Neither of them want to admit how good it feels, just in case that jinxes it.

 #

It’s called the Dunwich Repository, and apparently, it got its start through books donated to Miskatonic—books the University already had, and so saw no reason to stock locally.

“Yes, thank you so much, Mister Armitage,” says Arthur, pinching the phone between his ear and shoulder as he writes what are hopefully legible notes. “Ephraim Waite? Thank you. No, that isn’t necessary. I’ll introduce myself. Thank you very much. Yes. Have a good day.”

This address isn’t far. We could probably walk easily. Arthur, why aren’t all human cities on a grid like this?

“I honestly don’t know.”

They should be on a grid like this. I’d make them all do that, if I could.

“Yes, well, for whatever reason, we failed to build cities to your exacting standards. So, what do you think? Do we go now? Or try to wait until nighttime and break in?”

Let’s at least go check it out before jumping straight to larceny.

“I just want to be cautious. The last thing we need to do is leap into some situation that could be unfriendly to us.”

What makes you think it might be unfriendly?

“It’s more that I have no reason to assume it would be otherwise. We’re in the middle of a mess with cultists and monsters and the bloody King in Yellow and whatever the fuck Larson worships, and we’re specifically looking into books that touch on all of this. It’s not much of a leap.”

Fair enough. All right. Let me look at the address again.

At John’s prompting, Arthur walks south four blocks and west two. It’s apparently a nice area, from what John says—pretty trees, well-maintained brownstones, and a distinct lack of garbage or fecal matter on the sidewalks.

“They must have a lot of money to look like this,” Arthur murmurs.

I haven’t been impressed by how humans use their wealth, Arthur. That’s another thing I’d change, if it were up to me.

Arthur laughs. “You’ve got a lot of opinions on humans today, my friend. Though I have to confess I wouldn’t mind being a bit more flush myself.”

Yes, but you wouldn’t hoard it. Stop here. It’s the next door over.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” Arthur feels for a wall, and leans against it, and fumbles in his pockets as though having a valid reason to loiter. “What do you see?”

It’s just another brownstone, but this one has a small, discreet sign beside the door. It says, DUNWICH REPOSITORY OF ESCHATOLOGY AND EPHEMEROLOGY.

“Is there another way in?”

Not that I can see.

“Damn. All right. So there won’t be any easy exits, once we go inside.”

Arthur, are you sure we should do this?

“As sure as I’ve been about anything. Why?”

Something feels strange. I can’t put my finger on it; it isn’t familiar to me. It’s like a faint odor of some beast I’ve never smelled before.

“That’s… upsetting. Do we quit?”

John pauses. No.

“If you’re sure. I trust you. Where’s the stairs?”

To your right.

Arthur walks.

First try. Not bad.

“Oh, shut up. How many?”

Six steps. Be careful, Arthur. I’m still not sure about this.

“Careful as I can be. Is there a bell?”

Both a bell and a knocker.

Arthur feels for the bell and rings it.

#

There’s a woman opening the door, maybe about ten years younger than you. She’s pale, Arthur. Blonde. Her dress is very fine, so many diaphanous layers that it feels like looking into great depths, and she’s wearing pearls, emerald rings, and a choker with some sort of brooch.

“Hello, sir,” she says.

“Ah, hello,” says Arthur, going full charm. “I’m so sorry to bother you. I was referred by Mister Armitage.”

“Oh? I know Mister Armitage,” she says, and then her voice goes syrupy. “He’s a delight—but how can I help you, sir?”

She’s smiling, tilting her head, sort of looking at you through her lashes. I… I think she’s trying to flirt with you, Arthur.

Arthur manages to hide any reaction to that. “He told me there were some resources here for an article I’m working on. Is Mister Waite in?”

“Let me see if he’s available. You’re welcome to rest in the sitting room, if you’d like.”

“I would dearly appreciate that. Thank you.”

She’s moving forward. It’s a hall; the floor is bare wood, but the walls have a silky wallpaper on them with a complicated pattern, all in deep red. There are numerous paintings, too, but not of people. Arthur, these are…

“Whom shall I say is calling?” says the young woman.

“Oh, my apologies. Will Henley.”

Will you stop doing that?

“Here you are, Mister Henley.”

It’s a sitting room. If you turn left and take three steps, you’ll reach a seat.

“Thank you,” says Arthur. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name?”

“Asenath Waite. I’m Ephraim’s daughter.”

She’s smiling, tilting her head, angling her hips—definitely flirting.

“It’s a pleasure, Miss Waite.”

She's leaving, and glancing over her shoulder at you. All eyelashes. Fucking eyelashes.

Arthur chuckles softly.

What? She’s gone. Keep it quiet, and we can talk. What’s so funny?

Arthur employs one of his latest tricks: a notepad and pen, which he pretends to use while muttering to himself—a habit many people possess, giving him an excuse to talk in public.

“Nothing,” Arthur murmurs. “I suspect you’re wrong, is all. Unless she has a penchant for skeletons, it’s ridiculous.”

John sounds huffy. I’ll have you know this is a perfectly fine body.

“It may have at least been average once, but I assure you, it is no longer. What was wrong with the portraits?”

Hey! I’m the one who has to watch you in the mirror and bathing and doing all the rest of your biological processes.

“Lovely image, John,” Arthur says.

I get the final say on what you look like.

Arthur sighs. “I look ‘blasted,’ remember? This doesn’t matter. Tell me about the paintings.”

Ugh. Fine. They’re vistas. Landscapes that don’t exist on Earth. I recognize them. They’re not even the Dreamlands. This Waite has paintings of worlds very few on Earth have ever seen.

So that’s staggering. “You’re certain?”

Completely. They’re as iconic as your Eiffel tower, or Egyptian pyramids.

“Both of those were man-made, though,” Arthur murmurs, pretending to scribble.

These vistas were shaped by minds and powers greater than you can possibly imagine.

“Well, that’s an odd sign,” Arthur murmurs. “But given that we are in a repository of the occult, whether it’s positive or negative—”

“Hello. Mister Henley, was it?” says an older gentleman.

Arthur stands and smiles toward the voice.

He looks to be in his late fifties; a slight man, tall, just a little too thin for his height. He has mutton chops and a mustache, and he looks polite, but bored.

“Yes,” says Arthur, holding out his hand.

Waite grips and shakes it.

Waite’s is an odd hand. It feels hard, almost wooden, and the skin feels… loose.

Arthur is unnerved, but keeps his neutral smile in place. “Thank you for seeing me, Mister Waite,”

“Of course. What can I do for you?” says Waite.

Arthur came prepared. “I’m a reporter from Boston with Unworldly Weekly, and I’ve been assigned to write an exposé on the rise of exclusive societies since the Depression—focusing, specifically, on the effects of economic deprivation on cults. I’ve already been to the Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, and Mister Armitage told me to come here next.”

Oh, Arthur, that’s good, says John, drawing the word into a pleased and pleasing rumble.

Funny, how praise from John makes Arthur feel good.

“Is that so?” says Waite. “Ah—can the Repository be cited in your article?”

“Of course. I can be as thorough as you wish regarding sources and quotes.”

Oh, he liked that. He looks interested in you, finally.

“That sounds lovely. Well, whatever we have here is yours to peruse. Can we perhaps go over what you’ve already learned? I’d hate to waste your time with ground previously covered.”

“Of course. I really appreciate this, Mister Waite.”

“Please—call me Ephraim.”

“Will, then.”

“Follow me. My daughter will help you once you’re settled in the stacks, of course.”

“Oh? How wonderful to be able to work so closely with family.”

He’s out the door and turning left. Follow just a pinch faster.

“Yes, she’s a blessing. I think you’ll come to appreciate her… talents very quickly.”

That was an odd delivery.

It was, but Arthur is in no position to say anything. So he draws a little face with its tongue sticking out on the paper, for John’s eyes only.

Hahaha!

“I have to say, Ephraim, the Repository is significantly larger than I expected.”

“Oh, yes—I own the whole block, or rather, the Repository does. Now, are you talking about human cults or supernatural ones?”

“That depends on your definition, I’d think.”

Stairs. Spiral. Be careful. There’s no railing. Step now.

Fuck. Arthur keeps his head down, making sure John can see the stairs.

You’re all right. Turn a little more right as you climb. There you go. You’re doing fine.

“I’d say human cults focus on people acknowledged by all to be human, even if, perhaps, touched by the divine. Supernatural, on the other hand, focus on beings that were never human, and—according to any kind of ordinary metric—not even real.”

“There’s quite a lot of room for crossover there, isn’t there?” says Arthur.

Last step. You made it.

Arthur’s heart races a little. He can’t help a tiny sigh of relief.

Fuck, he heard that. He’s looking at you.

“Why, Will… are you all right?”

“Yes, fine. Don’t mind me—I’ve never been a fan of heights.” It’s an easy lie. Heights aren’t the problem. Arthur gives his best smile.

He’s peering at you sharply, like he’s trying to see something you’re not saying. I don’t think I like that look.

“So sorry, Will, you should have said something.”

“No, no. It’s obviously something I have to deal with all the time in any kind of city.” Arthur chuckles. “Please, pay it no mind.”

“Well, I can’t say the flush is a bad thing for your complexion,” says Ephraim.

Arthur has no idea how to respond to that.

The fuck? says John.

“This way, please,” says Ephraim.

Right. Now straight. We’re in the proper library now. There are doorways in this hall, but the doors are removed, and beyond them, it looks like all the bedrooms have had their walls knocked down. There are shelves and shelves of books, all gently lit by uncurtained windows, silent with dark red carpet and floating dust motes.

Arthur can picture it, and wishes he could see it.

He’ll never see it.

His heart hurts.

“You didn’t answer my question, Will.”

“Oh, ah—my apologies. Honestly, my focus would be on the supernatural, to use your terminology. So far, my research indicates there has been a distinct rise in that kind of gathering and belief—possibly, so goes my working theory, out of desperation, driven by the more obvious failures of humans in recent years.”

“Mm, yes. Not to disappoint, but the nature of the more supernatural cults means the research available will be limited. They tend to be more secretive.”

“So I’ve observed.”

“I would actually suggest you begin here.”

He’s heading into the stacks. Straight. To your right.

“Here we go,” says Ephraim. “As you noted, there is a lot of crossover. To be thorough, this section is for the human cults, and if you continue from this shelf on, you’ll have records from the past ten years.”

“Excellent,” says Arthur.

“Over here for the supernatural studies.”

Careful—this side of the shelves is so close to the wall you’ll have to go through sideways.

Sideways? But Arthur turns as bid, and finds he is indeed squeezed between a bookshelf and wall. Why had they not walked back around? What was this?

“Not afraid of small spaces, then?” says Ephraim.

What the actual fuck?

“Not usually, no,” Arthur lies, pushing away remembered panic at getting stuck in caves and tunnels, keeping his tone calm because… well, John had said it right: what the actual fuck?

“What about other common fears? I can’t help but wonder, given your topic of study.”

“I… I don’t know. A second world war, I suppose?”

“No, no. Fire? Darkness? Predators? There are quite a few, you know. Are you familiar with the work of Robert Smirke?”

Waite is fucking weird, Arthur.

He sure is, but Arthur smiles and keeps up the game.

“I can’t say that I am.”

“Then I will be happy to send Asenath to you with that,” says Waite. “I think you’ll find a lot of these cults relied on his research to get themselves started. Here we go.”

He’s patting a shelf.

“What little there is on supernatural societies, dated from the past ten years.”

“Ephraim, thank you. This is far more than I could have hoped for.”

“Of course. I’ll send Asenath with Smirke’s work. Good luck, Will.”

He’s gone. Good. Because what the fuck?

Arthur can’t be sure he’s not being spied on here, so he pretends to scribble and mutters. “Unnerving man. Unnerving daughter. Neither of them were quite right, but I can’t put my finger on why.”

All I know is I’m not thrilled with someone we don’t know trying to find out what scares you. Let’s do this as quickly as possible and get out of here.

“Read off titles for me. Let’s get started.”

There aren’t many books in the supernatural section, and Arthur grabs them all. John finds him a table with a small reading lamp and a comfortable chair, and Arthur sets up for the long haul.

Moments after he sits, Asenath shows up with a book. “Mister Henley? My father said to bring you this.”

She’s holding it out about your shoulder-height. Left . Higher. Good.

Arthur grips the book. “Thank you, Miss Waite.” He tugs.

She doesn’t let go for a moment. “Please call me Asenath.”

Ugh. She’s doing it again—head tilted, all eyelashes, smiling down at you.

Arthur manages not to laugh at John. “Asenath, then. You may call me Will.”

Well, you did it. She’s lit up like the sun. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, the whole nine yards. For fuck’s sake.

Has being flirted with always felt so… off-putting?

Maybe she has a thing for tough guys, and assumes he must be one because of the scars, though that wouldn’t explain why it feels strange.

Maybe.

“Please ask me if you need anything, Will,” she says, breathy, and leaves.

Ugh!

“Calm down,” Arthur murmurs. “She works in a stuffy old library with her father. She probably hasn’t had much company apart from him in a while.”

John huffs. No excuses.

Arthur chuckles and begins turning pages.

#

Six hours in, Arthur’s back hurts more than usual, John is grumpy, and they have little more than they started with.

The disappointment is ugly. The Cult of the Pallid Mask and the Order of the Falling Star are mentioned, but both dismissed as frauds. Freemasons and Illuminati are host to dozens of theories, but those theories contradict each other.

“Everyone just references each other in an unending circle of guesses,” he mutters.

This is human research?

“Not good research.” Arthur sighs. “Which book is next?”

We might as well take a look at the one they brought up. Smirke.

Arthur had forgotten. “Yes, we might as well.”

Left. There.

Arthur quietly turns those pages for a while, letting John read in silence. It goes faster that way.

It’s also very boring. He sighs dramatically.

Oh, hush.

“The cinema was better,” he quips.

Of course it was better. We will be doing that again. Now shut up. I’m trying to read. This is a weird one, Arthur.

“How so?”

No reply.

Arthur sighs again and zones out a little.

Then he hears footsteps.

He can already tell it’s Asenath. She’s come to visit regularly, chatting about absolutely nothing, asking if he wanted tea, if he would like to stay for dinner.

He’s been too cautious to agree to anything.

Something about the Waites bothers him.

A lot.

It’s not just how weird Ephraim Waite’s hand was. It’s not just how odd they both act toward him—vaguely flirtatious, weirdly hungry. None of it is overt, nothing he could put a pin in, or write down.

Arthur’s unease has grown the longer they’ve been here—partially because he can’t put his finger on exactly what is wrong.

He can feel the book is nearly finished, so he keeps turning pages.

“Will?” she says from just in front of him.

“Hello, Asenath. Could you give me a moment? I’m nearly done.”

Done with her, John grouses.

“You read so fast,” she breathes. “It’s wonderful to see a man so intelligent.”

Arthur clenches his jaw. He’s never minded anyone being sexually forward—the music scene would have been impossible if he had—but she’s doing it wrong, somehow. He just can’t work out why. “Thank you. Did you need something?” he says.

“Dinner will be in half an hour, if you’d like to join us. You’re more than welcome.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have the time. I honestly need to go back to my hotel and collate my research.”

Aww, she looks so sad, John says with ridiculous exaggeration. Pouty lower lip and all.

“Of course, I understand,” she says. “Will you be coming back? My father and I really want to see you again.”

It just feels wrong.

Forced? No; just off, somehow, like a parody of humanity.

That’s what it is, he thinks, relieved to finally find the words. It’s like someone mimicking what humans do. Keeping his expression neutral, Arthur finishes the last page and closes the book. “Possibly.”

“I would love that, Will.”

Arthur decides to try a misdirection. “Maybe I could even bring my wife next time. She’d love this Repository. This kind of spooky stuff is right up her alley.”

Arthur knows he delivered that perfectly. He’s a damn good liar.

That makes her response even weirder.

Arthur, she’s smiling really wide now. You just… I don’t know. You just made her really happy, and it’s a strange look. Hungry. Like you’re ready to take out of the oven.

“That’s a wonderful idea. What’s her name?” says Asenath.

“Bella.” That part was easy.

Asenath laughs.

There was nothing to laugh at.

Arthur.

“We look forward to tomorrow’s visit, William,” she practically purrs, and just walks away.

Arthur.

“That was so odd, wasn’t it? I—”

Arthur! We need to go.

“Are you all right?” Arthur mumbles.

Now. We go now.

Something’s wrong, and Arthur pauses.

Please.

It finally hits Arthur that John sounds afraid.

That doesn’t happen often. Outraged, sure; fascinated, yes. Curious, annoyed, bossy—all those things, often tinged with temper. Like a baby king, fascinated and willful.

But afraid? Rare. Very rare.

Half of Arthur wants to just leave the books in a pile, but that would draw attention, and it seems wiser to keep copacetic until they can get out of—

Something creaks in the far side of the library.

There is no reason, absolutely none, for that single sound to fill Arthur with the sour thrill of adrenaline and the fist-clenching certainty he is about to fight for his life.

But it does.

We need to go!

And the feeling slots into a familiar place: they are being hunted.

Arthur turns and walks for the stairs.

Careful! There’s no railing!

They’ve fallen before, and it’s been really bad before, and they can’t afford some kind of broken bone right now, so even though Arthur’s pounding heart warns with every beat that it is going to catch them, he forces himself to go carefully on this horrible, unsafe staircase.

Left, just an inch. You’re centered now. That’s it. Arthur, if you can go faster, do.

Arthur goes as fast as he dares, half sure with every step that he’s going to slip over the side.

Instead, he reaches the bottom unmolested, and it doesn’t matter that he hears nothing descending after him. He knows something is.

Hunted. He knows.

Straight. The door is at the end of the—oh!

“What?” mutters Arthur.

I… I can’t see. Arthur! It’s gone pitch black. I can’t see!

John’s rising panic nudges Arthur, but he’s lived too long in the dark to find it scary now. “Straight?”

Yes, but there could be anything—

“If there is, it’s going to wish it hadn’t fucked with us,” Arthur snarls in a jagged tone that could not be more removed from charm, and takes off at a trot, hands loosely fisted, ready to tear through whatever makes the next move.

There is a low, wet chuckle from the side, an inhuman laugh, a monstrous sound.

Arthur wheels right and punches that sound in the face.

His fist crunches something too soft to be bone, too hard to be empty flesh, and whatever it is goes down with a squeal like a pig.

Arthur resumes his run.

What was what? What happened?

Arthur doesn’t waste breath. He slams into the door hard and fumbles for the lock.

Something breathes hot on the back of his neck.

This time, when he pivots to punch, he aims low, just in case this thing saw him hit the other one higher up.

Whatever it is bends in half with his punch and snarls.

“Fuck you!” Arthur snarls right back, then gives it the hardest kick he can to get it away from him.

Something flails past his ear as he does—a long, acidic something, like tentacles dripping acid.

Drops sizzle on his shoulders, already burning.

Arthur will deal with that later. He spins back, gets the door open, and hurls himself through.

Watch the steps!

Arthur leaps out into space and falls, landing on the sidewalk hard enough to jar him from knees to jaw, but has no plans to recover within reach of whatever that was.

I can see! Run! Run!

Arthur does, trusting John to guide him.

Mailbox! Left!

Arthur ricochets off it, but keeps going.

Right! Now!

Arthur turns, catching his arm on the brick corner, and speeds up.

Arthur hears neither cars nor voices, and that is concerning, but at least he doesn’t have to slow down.

They take a random path, crossing streets and making turns without any particular plan, and when Arthur has to stop because he’s breathing like a broken bagpipe, John finally looks to see if they are being followed.

If they are, it’s in no way John can detect.

“What the fuck was that?” Arthur gasps, ragged. “The King? Something else?”

Else, says John, who sounds breathless, too. What happened back there?

“I sure as hell hit something hard enough to leave a mark. We’ll be damned lucky if it doesn’t turn out to be Waite and his daughter,” pants Arthur. “We need to check out of the hotel and move, just in case police come after us.”

How would they even know where we are?

Arthur pants, wiping his face. “Can’t you feel it? We’re still being hunted. It’s like we’ve been marked.”

John’s silence is heavy.

“John?”

They gave us Smirke’s book on purpose, he says slowly. And it only took so long to go so bad because they wanted us to read it and know what was happening. They wanted us afraid.

Arthur scowls. “Tell me which direction to walk, then explain that.”

Turn left. We need to go east and north back toward the hotel.

“Thank fuck for a grid system,” Arthur mutters.

Arthur, I… I don’t know if I should tell you about this book.

“Don’t you dare hold out on me, John.”

I thought it was nonsense! it was just more interesting than the bullshit we’d been reading. But it’s real. It was about fear, and it’s real.

Okay, that was a hell of a thing to say. “What are you talking about? It’s damned monsters again. This isn’t new.”

But it is new, if that book is anything to go by. I’ve never encountered anything like this. Curb.

Arthur steps down. “Where the hell is everyone? There should be people.”

I haven’t seen any.

“No cars, either. Keep talking.”

We are being hunted, and it’s affecting everything. It’s affecting the world we’re in. The more you know about this, the worse it’s going to get. If that book is correct, your fear will directly feed what’s after us.

“Did yours?” quips Arthur.

Actually, I’m… pretty sure my fear made it worse. The daughter was looking at you like you were fully cooked, but she was feeling me. Because I….

“Because you what? John, I can’t fucking defend us if I don’t know what we’re facing.”

Mailbox.

Arthur corrects enough this time and doesn’t hit it.

John sighs. How he does that without lungs, Arthur will never know. Fine. One of the things I read about in that book was the Dark, and that’s why it was waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs.

“What? The dark? What are you talking about?”

An actual entity. The Dark isn’t just a lack of light. It’s a thing unto itself, and it’s filled with monsters you can’t see. Under the bed, in the closet, on the stairs, always just out of sight, hungry, but hidden. Monsters you never see coming. That one scared me, Arthur.

It was true that John had reacted pretty badly the few times he’d lost sight through Arthur’s eyes.

It’s hard not to find that absurd.

Arthur had reacted badly at first, too—but he’d had to work through it. There’d been no choice. It’s difficult to empathize with this the way he knows he should. “You were scared of the description of the dark, and so we had monsters in the dark? What, it manifested?”

What were you afraid of from the Waites? Specifically. Fuck, curb.

Arthur nearly twists his ankle, but corrects. “Pay attention.”

I’m trying. Answer the question.

“That they were something other than what they seemed. They were… I don’t know, John. Uncanny. Like they were playing at being human.”

That’s a fear entity Smirk called the Stranger—fear of things almost human, a creeping sense that something isn’t right. Masks. Wrong faces. Stolen identities.

“Well, I hadn’t read your book and I still felt all that.”

But I did read it. The Waites were weird, but they didn’t get really weird until I read about the Stranger.  It happened while reading that book. Turn left here. Ah, Arthur—

“Other left, I know, I know. Keep talking.”

Curb.

Arthur manages this one without wobbling. “You’re trying to tell me that these fears became manifest when you specifically understood them.”

That’s what I’m saying.

“Can that even happen? This isn’t the Dreamlands.”

John gives the impression of shuddering. I can’t imagine how dangerous these things would be in the Dreamlands.

“Why?”

Resonance. That place isn’t just made of dreams; it amplifies them. If these things ended up there, I don’t know what would happen.

“Well… did the book have any solutions? Anything useful?”

No! Arthur, listen to me. Smirke was trying to talk about balance, and using architecture to control them, which is just fucking stupid.

Arthur still isn’t quite buying this. “Next, you’ll say if you hadn’t read the book, we’d be fine, and nothing would be chasing us.”

No, says John. I think they’d just have attacked you and tried to take your skin.

Arthur stumbles. “Fuck. What?”

That’s probably what happened to the Waites. Keep going, Arthur. I see cars—that’s a good sign. Traffic. Don’t ask me how, but it seems to be letting us go. Back to where people are.

Arthur hears cars, too. “I don’t think so. If what you say is true, then we’re still being chased, and it’s just going to try to lull us. We need to be armed.”

It won’t help. Not against creatures of the mind.

“Those ‘creatures of the mind’ had hands to shake and body odor to give off and audible footsteps because they weighed something. Also, I punched them.”

You… you did punch them. A pause. The Dark doesn’t scare you.

“If it fucking scared me by this point, John, what the fuck good would I be?”

There’s a pause.

I’m sorry, says John, which is even more rare than his fear. I never considered how bad it must have been for you all the time.

And it just slips out. “Or how fucking dim my future looks.”

Arthur—

“We’re not talking about it.” Arthur slows. He hears the cars near.

Arthur, we have to talk about it.

“Not now. Which way?”

John stays sullenly silent for a moment, but Arthur knows how to get him past that—he just keeps walking.

Fuck, stop! Fine. Turn right. The hotel is on this street, three blocks up.

Arthur tries to be reasonable. “So you’re saying they’d have attacked us anyway, but knowing about them… what, made them chase us instead?”

Understanding added to our fear. My fear. It was supposed to be your fear. That makes it better for them.

“Better? Why? And does it have to be such specific fear? Strangers, and all that?”

They feed on your fear. On all fear. Smirke thought they could be categorized into fourteen entities. Arthur, most people don’t catch their attention. It has to be really good fear to do that.

“Oh, good. So our fear is special, you’re saying,” says Arthur.

Your fear is. They only tasted mine because they were after yours.

 Arthur sighs. “John, I think this is bullshit.”

John says nothing.

Arthur keeps walking. He hears people now, voices; it’s a relief to be in the world again. He keeps to the side, walking slowly. “Come on, John. We’ve been chased by invisible demons, sadistic gods, trees that drink blood, weird ghost voices, some guy that saw us through time and sent a giant black goat demon into the hospital… Look. This isn’t new. Whatever this book said, I just think it’s just got you worked up.”

I think we’re on a collision course.

Arthur stops walking.

No, not like that.

Arthur resumes.

Four more steps. Door’s on your right, says John, and falls silent.

Fine, Arthur thinks. He can handle this, like he does everything else.

He meant what he’d said. He checks out.

Apart from directions, John is silent until they’re back on the street.

Arthur doesn’t like that. John scared is a bad scared, but Arthur has no power to fix it.

Though there is one way to shock him out of it, and that is to piss him off.

It’s dark now.

“Don’t be stupid. Of course it is. It has to be near eight o'clock at night, and it’s winter,” Arthur says, dismissively.

Stupid! John snarls, but his anger immediately subsides. Where do we go?

“It’s too cold to sleep in a park, and shantytowns are too dangerous—we look like we have something to steal. So I suppose we find a new hotel. Which might have been unnecessary, apparently, if you hadn’t read a scary book.”

John sighs. They’re going to find us, anyway.

“Well, then, I guess our next stop is to buy a knife,” says Arthur as if bored.

Not a gun?

“If we’re being actively hunted, I don’t want a weapon that makes noise.”

But we can only use it when they’re right on top of us!

“Maybe we should go get a book of bedtime stories to counteract them.”

Arthur, you aren’t taking this seriously!

“If they respond to fear, then isn’t that the worst possible thing I could do?”

And finally, finally, John gets mad. Arthur! You listen to me, you cocksucker!

“There you are,” Arthur mutters.

This is serious! They’re after us now, and whatever you’re afraid of, they’re going to find it and use it against us!

“Unless they’re capable of carving you out of me, then good luck making anything stick.”

That was more honest than Arthur meant to be.

John sputters.  What? Arthur!

“Any sign of a place to buy weapons yet?”

No. Arthur!

“Let’s find a public phone.”

John growls. It’s a guttural, inhuman sound, and it’s been a while since Arthur made him do that. You’re not listening!

“And you’re panicking. Remember what you said to me in the mine? When we got stuck, wriggling through that hole? We’d done this before, you said. We’ve been through this and worse, you said. It helped me. Well, John, we’ve done this before. We’ve been through this and worse. We’ll make it. I don’t care if these monsters have a different name. They’re the same—and if they can be fucking kicked in the face, then we can fight them.”

There’s… there’s a phone booth ahead. About twenty steps. It will be on your left.

John is back to subdued, and now, it’s Arthur’s turn to be angry.

How dare those people upset John so much? “Why the hell would Armitage send me to them?” he snarls. “Maybe I need to go back to Arkham after all. Have a little talk.”

John sighs. If what I read is accurate, then he didn’t know. Like I said, I think the Waites have been replaced.

“By your Stranger?”

Not my Stranger! Damn it, Arthur!

“Did the book have anything to do with the Order of the Falling Star?”

No, but—

“Or with the Freemasons? Or with the King in Yellow? Or Kayne?”

No, but—

“Then they’re just another fucking thing to fight our way through. We’ll handle it, John.”

John seems stunned. Phone. Left. He sounds absolutely shaken.

Arthur is done trying to make John mad. It isn’t working, and it doesn’t feel good to kick him when he's down. He reaches for the phone book, and his tone gentles. “Right. Tell me when to stop turning.”

There. Hotels. Pick up the receiver. I’ll dial.

It takes three tries to find a room this late, but they manage.

Unfortunately, it’s on the West Side.

“Should’ve stayed for dinner,” Arthur mutters. “Would have at least been fed before getting skinned.”

Very funny. We could get a taxi.

“If you see one, hail it.”

John clearly does not see one. We should walk around the park, not through it.

“That’ll take hours, John. Besides—your fear-monsters already made New York City briefly empty. Do you think it’ll make any difference if we’re in the park?”

Thematically? Yes.

Arthur stops walking.

What?

“You’re not all right. I’ve never seen you so shaken. What’s going on? Why this? Why is this so awful?”

Because… because….

“I’ll wait you out,” Arthur warns.

John sighs. Because my personal fears are not onlymaking it worse. They’re being revealed. It’s awful, Arthur. It’s like being stripped naked, then stabbed.

Arthur has been stripped naked and stabbed. For John.

He wisely does not say that. “So you feel vulnerable.”

And you should, too.

“John, I’m… I’m here. We’re going to get through it. I promise. I know you’re shaken. I’ve been there how many times? Even the first moment we met in my office, when I woke up with no memory. So maybe now, it’s just my turn to be the strong one.”

The strong one! Arthur—

“I’ve got you. Okay?”

… okay.

“How do we fight them?”

Smirke didn’t know. His architectural balance thing was stupid as fuck, but he had some right ideas. They can be played against each other, I think. If you can control your fear, you can push through some of them. Others, it doesn’t matter if you’re unafraid; they’ll hurt you until you are afraid. But some, you can sort of stubborn your way through. One of the benefits of human free will.

“This is good. If there’s anything we’re good at doing, it’s being stubborn. And the ones that can’t be ignored, well… we’ll find another way.”

I see a gunsmith. Ten steps, on your right.

“Perfect. Guide me in.”

We’re going to need to supplement these funds sooner than we thought.

“Better armed and cold than disarmed and dead.”

I can’t argue that, John says, slightly pouty, as though he’d prefer to pick a fight, but just can’t bring himself to do it.

#

“I’d give my other pinky for an automat right about now,” Arthur says.

John’s been mostly silent for a while. Arthur has the impression he’s hyper-focused on trying to see around them, all the time. Arthur, please walk faster.

It’s difficult to stay removed from John’s fear, but Arthur is managing. Someone needs a level head. And, if John is right, the last thing he should do is fear whatever’s after them.

Because something is.

The hunted feel has not abated.

Arthur’s fine with it. It’s not the first time he’s been pursued. It won’t be the last. It’s honestly a little thrilling, because he’s pretty sure this stupid thing doesn’t know he’s hunting it right back.

Come closer, you fuck, he thinks.

There’s a corner store up ahead.

“Guide me in. We can at least get some bread, or something.”

You and your bread.

“It’s my magic fairy dust,” says Arthur.

What?

“Peter Pan. Book I read to… I read a few years ago. Never mind.”

Oh.

John does not ask to whom it was read.

Their pursuer is closer. Arthur is sure of it. “Gun’s in the left pocket. You can see. You can shoot. I’ll take the knife on the right.”

It sounds for all the world like John just gulped. I don’t see anything.

“You will.” Arthur can feel it.

Store. Right.

Arthur makes his way in.

They’re able to get a hot frankfurter on a roll for five cents. Arthur eats the whole thing before going back outside, ignoring the shopkeeper ominously clearing her throat.

He’s not risking losing food because he has to fight for his life. He’s learned.

They’re back on the street.

It’s so dark, Arthur.

“Like at the Repository?”

No.

“We keep moving.”

Arthur—

“Stay focused.”

Arthur feels focused. It’s an exhilarating fear, like he’s resonating with whatever is coming after them—hunting the hunter, trapping the trapper.

It’s even darker here, Arthur. We’re in the park proper now.

Arthur doesn’t answer. He grips the knife in his pocket. His shoulders are burning where whatever it was dripped on them in the Repository, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. As long as it doesn’t hamper movement, it doesn’t matter.

Arthur. Something is close.

“Mm.”

Arthur can’t explain how he knows it’s going to attack the moment before it does. He just does.

There is no flight. There is only fight.

Fuck! John shouts just as Arthur spins.

Something hard and wooden catches his arm, preventing the knife from landing.

“Oh, Arthur,” says Asenath, and squeezes hard enough to crunch something in his wrist. “I thought you liked m—”

Arthur twists and kicks her, and John shoots her in the head.

Her. It. That is not a human body, and Arthur feels like he just kicked a door. Whatever it is, between the gun to its face and his foot to its torso, it gets knocked off him.

Run!

The urge to leap after it and make sure it is dead is very strong, but John’s fear upsets him, so Arthur runs instead.

Curb!

Arthur leaps, running full-out. “It knew my name!” he gasps.

What part of ‘creatures of the mind’ was unclear to you?

A horrible, high cackle follows, not too close, lilting through the air as if to tease him into running faster.

Being played with, Arthur thinks, furious, and slows just a bit.

Arthur! What are you doing?

He still has the knife. His wrist… hurts. Badly. He’d probably only get one good stab in with the thing, and a knife isn’t going to work so well on wood. “Gun?”

Still good. Ready to try again.

“Get ready.” Arthur has an idea. “In the neck this time, you hear? We’re taking its fucking head off.”

Yes, Arthur!

Because he feels it behind him, and doesn’t need to see to know what to do.

Arthur slams his feet to a skidding halt and pushes off, twisting at waist-height into the thing pretending to be Asenath.

He surprised it, and they go down.

There’s no time to be careful about this.

Dropping the knife, he grips the thing’s weird, wooden jaw. “Now!”

John shoots. Splinters fly, and the head feels looser.

John’s hand joins him on the thing’s face, and together, they wrench it right off the body.

It starts laughing at him.

That’s about what he expected, so he throws it, feels for the knife, cuts himself, grabs the handle, and trusts John retrieved the gun before he takes off again.

Other way! Damn it, Arthur, we got turned around!

Arthur changes direction.

Something howls.

Something—

The howl feels—

Oh, it sings in him, the lust of the chase frissoning right through his skin, and he gasps unsteadily, confused, drawn, turned on, terrified.

Then makes a face at himself. What the hell was that reaction?

“Fuck this park,” Arthur says in sum, running as fast as he can. He can’t catch his breath. He knows he’s coming to the end of what resources he has.

There is a yelp from behind him.

What was that?

“How should I know?

Let me see!

“You want me to slow down?” but Arthur is, because he can feel something’s changed. Daring, he turns his head.

What the… Arthur, go! Go! We have a chance. Go!

Arthur jogs, and breathes, and finds himself dearly hoping there is a bathtub at the new hotel.

#

Arthur strips.

Arthur bathes.

Arthur does what he can for the little burns on his shoulders (which isn’t much beyond ensuring they’re clean).

His hand isn’t cut too deeply, at least.

He can’t do much for his wrist; he thinks it’s not broken, but it really needs to be immobilized. He sighs.

With help from John's hand, Arthur washes his shirt, his underwear, and socks, and hangs them all on the radiator.

And he listens.

We got away for one reason, John is saying. They attacked each other.

“They?”

Some wolf-person looking thing and that Asenath mannequin.

The howl. Arthur shivers again. “Had she recovered her head?”

It was still on the ground. Laughing as her body was wrecked.

“Fucking monsters.” Arthur flops flat on the bed, face-first. His wrist hurts. His shoulders hurt. He’s hungry. “We’re not seeing a film tonight, by the way.”

Ha, no. No, we’re not. John sighs. I’m sorry. This is happening because of me, Arthur.

Arthur ignores the weird little feeling that says the howling thing wanted him, not John. “So now your fear is couture, and not mine, hm?”

I mean it.

“Why? You’re not even afraid, most of the time. Why would you have drawn them?”

Because, unlike Smirke, I understood what he was talking about.

“So help me understand, then.” Arthur spreads out. The cool sheets feel amazing on his skin; yet another luxury, like bread, he will never take for granted after the prison pits. “Why do you think this is so different from what we’ve faced before?”

This is not a kind of entity that should exist—it’s like a mutation, and it’s very dangerous.

“A mutation?”

Sentience derived from human fear? Think about it,  Arthur, think. Is there any way to actually stop them? Destroy them? Any way to even capture them? They’re made of fear. They’ll just keep coming, reforming, growing, as long as humans are afraid. It’s like a virus that mutates so rapidly that you can never get ahead of it. I feel like I just discovered the end of the world.

After a long moment, Arthur rolls onto his back. “Okay. That doesn’t sound like the monsters we’ve seen before.”

No.

“Where did they come from, then? If you’ve never heard of anything like them….”

John is silent for a moment. I don’t know, but if I had to guess, I’d say these things are somehow tied to population. The number of people on Earth has grown far faster than ever before. There are more people alive now than ever, and the number just keeps getting higher.

“And if these things are manifested from human fears….” Arthur sits up, finally getting it. “Shit. There’s nothing to do, is there? We can’t make people stop being afraid. It’s hard-wired into us.”

No. We can’t. That’s why I panicked. The nature of these things makes them impossible to destroy.

Arthur rubs his face. “We didn’t really need another challenge.”

This goes beyond ‘challenge,’ Arthur. I’m not joking around. Unless something I can’t even imagine happens, these things will be the end of the world someday.

Arthur never thought he’d see a threat that big.

He considers, for a moment, whether he could have continued in ignorance with this happening. If Faroe would have been safe. If she would have had to suffer a world ruled by sentient fear.

If maybe she’s better off—

No, he tells himself, and locks that pain away. “How soon? What do we do?”

I don’t know. But while you caught their attention first, I do think my reaction cinched it. I… I kind of….

“Lost your mind? What little there is?”

Ha ha.

“John.” Arthur gently holds his left hand—John’s hand. “You realize that means they tasted your fear as human fear.”

Or they can eat any fear.

“Maybe. But they responded to you. I’m proud of you. Strange as that sounds. It just goes to show how far you’ve come.”

John enters a brief and flustered silence. He grips Arthur’s right hand back.

Arthur sighs. “So why did they attack each other?”

I think we just got lucky. Two of them wanted us at the same time. The Hunt and the Stranger—it was like bears, fighting over a chicken. I guess between the two of us, we have some tasty fear. We draw them.

“Bully for us,” Arthur mutters.

We’re just lucky the Dark seemed satisfied with my… my terror on our way out of the Repository. I fed it, Arthur. I didn’t mean to, but I did.

Arthur sighs slowly. “So it’s safe to say we’ve used up our luck for the year already, eh?”

Heh. Something like that.

“At least it counted for something.” He lies back down on the bed.

They won’t stop. I don’t think they’re going to stop. Once you have these things’ attention, they don’t let go.

“Then we’ll learn how to defend ourselves, or turn them on each other, or whatever it takes. I’m really tired, John. Will you be okay?”

I will. We’ve made it this far. You… you kept us both safe.

“We did. That was a two-man job.”

I suppose it was. Sleep, Arthur. I’ll keep watch.

Of course he will. John doesn’t sleep.

Arthur yawns and rolls onto his side. “Goodnight, John.”

Goodnight.

#

Arthur’s dream is vivid.

He’s back in the Dunwich Repository, only now, he can see, and the Waites are horrifying clowns, grinning at him with painted-on faces.

But they let him leave, and he walks to the park.

The park is full of writhing shadows, glimpses of too many teeth and too many claws and bright red eyes. So he leaves the park, and they let him go.

New York is somehow filled with insubstantial horrors—maggots squirming out of storm drains, sounds of bones snapping from open doors, fire and screams floating down from open windows.

All those things ignore him. He walks through, alert, tense, but unafraid.

Above him is a gigantic fucking eye.

It covers the sky, never blinking, seeing, exposing, and Arthur feels naked, revealed in some horrible way that brings shame and a rich paranoia.

But it feels sort of… good, too.

It feels like this eye, in his dream, belongs to some kind of ultra private investigator—spotting everything, missing nothing, all clues found and all facts recorded.

He likes it—but this thing is unsure about him.

It doesn’t have fingers, but it quests through him; it isn’t molestation, but it is violation, and it feels both good and terrible.

It likes his mind, he can tell. Likes his mistrust, and his curiosity, and his drive. Likes his observational skills.

It does not like that he has no use of his eyes in the waking world.

In his dream, there is an unpleasant tug.

A tug behind his eyes, somehow, but whatever it’s pulling is hooked deep into his soul, and it cannot be simply removed.

The Watcher turns away.

Which is a shame. A lot of Arthur wants more of this big, weird eye.

To see everything.

To learn all the facts.

To find and ferret out every last detail.

To—

The howl floats over him from far away, and with it comes that exhilaration, that fear-tinged lust. Arthur turns to follow it.

He knows this call, the summoning to chase, to hunt, to follow blood-dripped trail after arrogant prey in relentless pursuit of that thing which deserves to be taken down.

It sings in his bones, and unlike that weird eye, it doesn’t care that he’s blind.

In his dream, Arthur jogs, trying to find it; but it’s too far away, and he loses track of where it is.

He’s losing track of where everything is. A fog has moved in, starting low and rising like realization.

It numbs as it comes, unpleasant. It’s just fog (is it?), but it’s draining, sucking on Arthur’s willpower like some kind of leech. Only when it reaches his face does he understand why.

He is alone.

Alone after his parents died, by their own hand, when he was just a child.

Alone after Bella died, because of him, and he had to try to raise his daughter without knowing how.

Alone after Faroe drowned, innocent victim of his own self-centeredness.

Alone after Parker died—and it didn’t really matter that John’s the one who killed him. Parker was his last and only friend, and then Parker, too, was gone.

Then he had John. For a while, he had John.

Memories of dragging himself through snow resurface, complete with nightmarish bleeding from compound fractures and a bloodied throat, but those physical wounds were nothing compared to the real misery of that moment: John was gone, and he had done it on purpose.

No, he came back, Arthur thinks, but the words don’t stick, sliding off his ice-slick mind and into mist, where they cease to be.

Alone again.

Of course, alone, says the most reasonable, the most personable, the most sweetly eviscerating voice Arthur has ever heard, and he can no more deny it than he can remove his own head.

He’s breathing hard. Fear flutters through his lungs, turning the air colder, turning the air sterile.

Everyone leaves you, Arthur. You already know it’s true.

He doesn’t want this. There’s nothing as bad as this, this specific fear, because if everybody leaves and he’s the only consistent factor, then it’s his fault they’re gone.

It is your fault. Better to stop trying.

John! he thinks, cries, whimpers as he finds himself on his knees in the mist, this choking fog, this sound-muffling wetness. John!

He’s gone. You could never keep him. Why would he choose to stay with you? You’re pathetic, stubborn, and unpleasant. You’re a murderer, Arthur. He left, and he didn’t even look back.

How could such a kind voice cut so deep?

Stop fighting what can’t be fought.

This voice wants him to lie down and just… give in. It wants him to despair.

Lie down. Stop fighting. Give in.

That’s not who Arthur is. Arthur is a contrary son of a bitch, and because it gave an order, he refuses to obey.

Let go. Give in.

No!

It won’t hurt if you do. It’ll all go away.

No!

The fog thickens. He can’t inhale anymore, though that might be because his heart aches so much. His parents, Bella, Faroe, Parker, John.

Everyone he loves goes away.

They leave.

They forsake, abandon, die—

Warm, strong arms wrap around him from behind and lift him from the fog.

And of course it’s John, who else would it be, because everyone else is dead and it has to be John because John wouldn’t leave him.

Not again. He wouldn’t.

Arthur clutches the strong arms. “Don’t leave me,” he says, voice cracking, and follows it with a sob.

A warm face nuzzles the back of his head, shocking after the cold of the mist. It seems to be taking in the scent of his hair—an intimate, beautiful sensation, and Arthur goes limp. Trusts himself to whatever John wants, hangs still, completely undone. “Please don’t leave me,” he whispers, breath hitching. “Not again. Please.”

And Kayne says, “I dunno, doll, as marriage proposals go, this one’s pretty bad.”

Shit.

“Oh, oh, oh, you have given me such—hey. You will stay still when I’m talking to you,” he says, because Arthur is thrashing, Arthur is twisting, Arthur is trying to bash in Kayne’s head with his skull.

Kayne suddenly has more arms, too many arms, and they’re all around Arthur, gripping him like steel, and he can’t move. One even has him by the face, keeping his head still.

“As I was saying, you rude little tomato,” says Kayne, “you’ve given me such an idea! But first, what a performance, eh? Hahaha! Arthur Lester, here to improv live, tonight in the West Side, all for—well, for me to see! I gotta say, I expected the Eye, and I expected the Lonely (though not quite how far you’d fall into it, goodness, boy, you need some milk), but the Hunt? The Hunt? Oh, we are going to play with that!”

He cackles.

Arthur grunts, straining uselessly.

Kayne’s teeth come down hard on his good ear. “Calm down, my darling,” he says with complete clarity as his tongue lathes the shell, “or I’m giving you a matching set.”

Arthur shudders and goes still. He knows Kayne will absolutely do it.

His strength hasn’t returned from that damned fog, anyway. This is not the place to make his stand.

“Good boy,” Kayne purrs, and tosses him.

Arthur doesn’t go far. Into darkness, out of his dream, into some other place, where he can faintly hear John shouting for him.

“John!” he cries.

“Mm, no good, can’t hear you. So! Let’s talk,” Kayne says.

“What do you want?” Arthur snarls in his direction, clutching his injured wrist to his chest. He’s barely feeling warm yet, still aching deep from that horrible, pervasive (true) fear.

“Oh, the usual,” says Kayne. “A second season of Firefly. Vivien Leigh with a knife and no qualms. The atomic bomb to finally arrive so we can get the fun started. But from you? A favor. A trade.”

Arthur understood only one of those references, but he damn well understood the finale. “Forget it! I don’t care what you want. I won’t give you anything!”

“Does John want a body?” says Kayne, conversational.

Arthur is staggered. “What?”

“A living body. Corpore sano, a home of his very own.”

Of course John does.

Kayne could do it. Kayne healed Arthur’s broken leg and sealed his ragged throat without any effort or delay of time.

Arthur has no idea how to answer safely.

“Of course, a body is just one idea. I’m offering you a favor, darling boy, open and unbounded. This is not a thing to take lightly.”

This has to be the most suspicious thing Arthur’s ever heard in his life. “What are you talking about? Why would you do this?”

“Because my favor is a big one, sweetheart. So, hey—if a body is what you two decide on as repayment, great. I mean, I can’t make a god’s body—that’s a bit beyond even me without some source material—but I can do any-and-up-to pretty well.”

Oh, thinks Arthur, this favor is going to be untenable.

“Untenable! Good word, good word! Do you know what that word means?”

“It is not to be borne,” Arthur snarls.

“Ooh, I liked that.” Kayne comes close enough that Arthur can feel his breath.

Arthur tries to pull away.

Kayne grabs him by the back of the neck and yanks him near. “Here it is. Listen real good, because you get it one time: I need a distraction.”

“From what? For whom?”

“You already know.”

Fear answers for him. “The King in Yellow,” Arthur wheezes.

“Such a smart little thing.”

“He’s here?” See, thinks Arthurs, rocketing into panic. This is fear. You new guys are amateurs.

“Don’t poke the bear, Arty. And no. I’m sending you to the Dreamlands.”

In spite of reason, Arthur is still trying to pull away. “No! We’re not going back there. We’d be trapped. We’d just get caught and thrown into the pits again, or worse!”

Kayne won’t let go. “Oh, those are gone. It doesn’t look like it did when you were there last, no it does not.”

“What?”

“It’s been remodeled, my love! Tell you what—I’m feeling generous today, so how about I give you a guaranteed out?”

Arthur stammers. “An out?”

“I want him distracted. I don’t actually want you two caught. You’re still entertaining for me, and that’s more rare than you think.”

“What, like that knife from last time?”

Kayne yanks him near again and murmurs into his torn ear. “No, Arthur. An actual exit. An escape. A fool-proof ripcord you can pull and bail—though if you do before my favor is complete, all bets are off.”

Arthur hyperventilates, trying to pull away.

Kayne lets go, and he falls back and onto his ass.

His wrist is healed.

With no warning, no banter, no trade, and that scares Arthur more than anything else Kayne has said.

Arthur knows now he’s being asked something far and above a mere distraction. “Why? Why do you need this?”

Kayne snorts at him.

Arthur steels himself. “If this is actually serious, something that matters—because that’s the impression I’m getting—then I’m more likely to hang on and not pull that ripcord too soon if you tell me what it is.”

“Aww, you think we should share diaries? Like we’re friends? Compadres, sharing foot-fungus and pornos together in the trench? No.”

“Then my answer is no. You want me to risk John to that level, just trusting that you’ll give us a way out, and you won’t tell me why? Fuck you.”

And Arthur can feel that for just one moment, Kayne considers destroying him.

It is a terrifying thing, a wave like heat, tingling under his skin, a warning of something far worse than death.

Then it passes, and Kayne sighs with grave drama. “Fiiiine. Look. It’s embarrassing. I don’t really want to talk about it twice, so we’re gonna make a pitstop. See you soon.”

Arthur suddenly falls.

Spinning, completely out of control, hurtling through the dark—

And wakes to find John slapping his face with his left hand.

Arthur! Wake up! Arthur! Arthur!

Arthur gasps, stopping his left hand with his newly recovered right, and sits up.

He’s tacky with sweat, sheets sticking to him, gasping as though he ran a marathon. “John, I…”

What happened to you? You wouldn’t wake up, and then you were sweating and moaning, and you said my name, but then we were here, just here. We’re not in New York!

Oh, Arthur knows they're not, because fresh breeze is kissing his sweat-damp skin, because distinctly organic scents are hitting him in the face, because he doesn’t hear traffic or the weird, muffling effect of curtain and carpet and cloth.

He’s breathing hard. “The Dreamlands. We’re in the Dreamlands.” That means the King must be coming for them. Arthur hadn’t agreed, and Kayne had thrown them here with nothing, no way out, no help of any kind, no means to protect John and keep him out of the King’s hands.

What? No, we—

“Fuck, fuck, we have to get out of here!” Arthur is scrambling back and forth on the bed like a terrified hamster.

Arthur, we need to—

“There’s no ripcord. There’s no, there’s no exit, there’s no… there’s no… He lied! He—”

His left hand smacks him again. Arthur! This is not the Dreamlands! Pull yourself together!

John’s angry snarl is a frightening thing. It carries echoes of the monster-god worshiped as he flew out of the sky, still remembers itself as the voice to control armies and command death.

But it’s just John. And John is angry, and that is better than John scared, and so Arthur clings to it, and curls around his left hand like a lifesaver and tries to breathe.

“I have… I have….” Arthur manages.

Focus, Arthur. The Dreamlands? What are you talking about?

Arthur focuses on breathing. “You… you’re sure it’s not the Dreamlands?”

Yes, Arthur. I’m sure.

“If…” Arthur swallows. He hates panic; it broadsides him, unhooks him from himself, leaves him adrift. “If the King were here, he’d have gotten us already.”

Yes.

“And if… and if cultists were standing around, ready to pounce, you would’ve said something.”

Yes!

Arthur swallows and uses the sheet to wipe sweat from his face. “The threat is waking in a new location without warning. And we can handle that. We can handle that.”

There you go. That’s it. Calm down. Now what the fuck is wrong with you?

“It was Kayne,” Arthur says, voice ragged.

What?

“John, he needs us for something. He said he was going to tell me, but then he did this instead. He said something about a pitstop. He said that he’d see us soon.”

But what did he want?

“He wants us to distract the King.” Even saying it makes Arthur’s throat tighten.

Arthur’s hands shake as he pulls the bedsheet loose.

John is stunned silent.

“He said he’d give us a favor for doing it,” says Arthur, wrapping the sheet like a toga, over his shoulder and around his hips. “He said it could even be a new body for you, if you wanted.”

He what?

“That’s about how I took it, too.” Arthur forces himself to breathe, then feels for the pillows.

What did you say?

“Nothing yet. We don’t know enough. I don’t trust him. He also offered…” He sighs. “An out. A guaranteed exit, he said. Because he didn’t want us caught, just distracting.”

More silence.

Arthur completely understands John’s inability to immediately absorb this information. Arthur hasn’t absorbed it yet, either.

What are you doing with the pillow case?

“I don’t have shoes, do I?” Arthur begins ripping the case into strips. “I’m going to wrap my feet.”

Smart. Given where we are.

“Which you have yet to describe to me.”

We’re in a field. It’s filled with some kind of crop, close-hewn. It’s all dried and straw-colored. This field is low, and hills surround us. The horizon is entirely gentle, a faint blue-gray. I see no sign of habitation; no cities—wait. There’s smoke in the distance, to our left. Other than that, there’s nothing. I see no wheel tracks, and nothing seems to be recently growing.

“It feels cool, like autumn, but not cold—and New York was in winter. Do you see the sun? What direction are we facing?”

West. Assuming the sun follows the same pattern as it does on Earth. I don’t know what world we’re in.

“West. All right.” Arthur sighs. “Could’ve at least sent our clothes. We’re starting from scratch all over again, damn it.”

Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll all be there waiting for us when we get back.

“That’s optimistic. When we get back. I’m sure that’s going to happen.”

Arthur. You’re still panicking.

Arthur rubs his face. He doesn’t know how to admit that it’s not just Kayne doing it, not just the insane situation, but the fear that had gripped him, the terrible, gut-stabbing fear, like nothing he’d ever known.

But it seems John knows, anyway, and Arthur is comforted that someone still living knows him well. What? John’s tone is softer. Something else happened.

“I… there was….”

Arthur.

“You were right. All right? About the Fears. You were right.”

There’s a beat of silence. What happened?

“Kayne called it the Lonely.”

The Lonely? He sounds confused. Then he gasps. Arthur, you... I can see it. I see the mark on you, on your soul, your mind, your heart. It’s almost beautiful, spreading out like veins, deeply embedded—but how did this happen? You’re not alone! You’re with me!

And Arthur tries not to hesitate before answering, he really does, but it’s too fresh, and his lying skills aren’t up to par. “I know.”

John has no body to tense. He manages, somehow, anyway. Damn it, Arthur, I—

“We have to get moving.” Arthur slides out of the bed and winces.

Arthur, I won’t leave you ag—

“Pick a direction, or I’m just going to walk blind,” says Arthur, and backs that up by walking blind.

Whatever this crop was, the stubble is sharp; even with his mummy-wrapped feet, it hurts to walk on.

Ow, says John, who has his left foot.

“Pick a direction.”

John sighs. Arthur, maybe we shouldn’t. He said, ‘see you soon.’ Maybe we should let him find us.

And how can Arthur explain that he can’t sit still right now, that he can’t just wait around in his current emotional state? “No, I think it makes more sense for us to get moving.” He sounds reasonable. Logical. Completely calm. “We don’t know what’s out here, and I dislike that you can’t see far due to the layout of the land. We won’t even know if something is coming. Kayne can find us anywhere, if he actually wants to do so, but I refuse to remain in a place where we cannot see what else might be coming to chase us.”

I suppose. Go straight. It looks due west.

Arthur does, wincing. The short stalks of hay break under his feet, and he’s fairly sure his soles are bleeding.

Bleeding sole, bleeding soul, he thinks, drawn to the parallel in spite of himself.

This hurts, John complains.

Arthur snorts. “We’ll be out soon. You can hold on that long.”

John makes an unhappy grumbling sound.

“So this isn’t the Dreamlands.”

No.

“Then what is it?”

I don’t know, but it isn’t where we were. It doesn’t feel right for Earth, but at the same time, it almost does.

Arthur frowns. “What does that mean?”

I wish I knew. Arthur, I’m worried about this mark.

Arthur ignores that.

The hill seems to be flattening out, judging by how it feels, and he stops. “Are we at the top?”

Yes, and I see a road with—oh! Arthur, get down!

Arthur does at once, all but flattening himself, and winces as the stalks poke him.

It’s a man, whispers John. He’s… large. He looks strong. Could snap us like a twig.

“Is he coming this way?” Arthur whispers.

Sort of, but he’s not looking up. He walks like he’s exhausted—more than just physically. His head’s down, and his hands are limp. He’s wearing overalls and a red shirt and boots, and—oh! Oh!

“What?” Arthur hisses.

A cottage! It just appeared, out of nowhere! He’s going inside. It’s old, thatch-roofed, but well-maintained. I see one door and two windows in the front—it isn’t very large. There aren’t any power lines or anything like that, but there is light in the windows now, flickering. Maybe candles, I don’t know.

“It appeared?”

I don’t think he’s coming back out. If we’re quiet, we can back out and get away.

“Or we could ask for help.”

Maybe. I don’t know if—oh!

Something about that oh was different than the ones that came before, and Arthur is very still.

Fuck. It’s Kayne.

“Kayne?” Arthur whispers.

He’s looking right toward us, and gesturing. Pointing at the cottage. Pantomiming. I don’t… uh. He’s making an obscene gestures with his fingers.

Arthur’s fairly sure he can’t physically shoot question marks into the air, but he feels like that’s happening, anyway.

He’s pointing at the cottage and beckoning again. Now, he’s going in.

And faintly, they hear a man’s tenor voice: “Oh, what now?” The door slams, and the voice stops.

Well, shit. “Did that sound like he was surprised by Kayne’s little invasion?”

If so, only by the timing.

Arthur sighs. “I suspect this is our last chance to turn back.”

Turn back to where? We’re stuck here.

“We could make it work, wherever it is. We don’t have to do this. Play his game. Dance to his tune.”

Arthur, I want a body.

Something in Arthur’s chest tightens a little. “Of course you do, but is this really the way to go about it?”

I want to at least hear him out. Okay?

The something in Arthur’s chest hurts, pinching with every beat of his heart, like scar tissue grown tight. “If that’s what you want.”

It is.

Arthur stands, wincing at all the new little holes poked into him by the hay. “Direct me toward the door.”

(part seven)

NOTES

Asenath and her daddy dearest borrowed without shame from Lovecraft.

[khr-guilded-cage]

Begin Vongola Decimo is not good

Its a bad job: even without the whole 'Mafia' and blood/carnage things, you won't be free to travel, have little to no time for family or hobbies, just hours spend behind a desk doing papework, your will have to move to Namimori and after that Italy (another country away from everything you know, they will try to take your free time with your family too), your careers and plans for life are threw in the trash. Your future children will be trapped too. Ripples also gets it. Its a unwanted bad job, they know and just don't care. They want you for the rest of your life or until you have the Unidiecimo. They will make you accept they deals and offer nothing in turn.

Vongola wants to trap you, to keep you, to use you, they are after your freedom, time and future, to get their claws on you and never let you leave, and your (future?) children too, manipulative greedy bastards the lot of them. Chains, leashes and cages. Don't feed a leech, it always want another meal. Stay away from Vongola, don't aid or help them in any way, don't own them favors or ask anything really, they won't protect you without something in return. And Vongola do not appreciate being told no.

No counting Reborn's abusive training, your friends and family are chosen for you, and you are forbidden contact with everyone Vongola don't aprove, your clothes, hobbies and education are also chosen for you...

Tsuna is monitored to make sure he can't run, can't rebel, can't do nothing but bend to the Vongola like a obedient heir, they are aware of his refusal. He is a flight risk. The fight will leave the stubborn boy with time and the right motivations. They want to instal the boy in a role of puppet Decimo. 'The only thing he can do is the best with his situation and become a great boss'? Rebel. At least how you can: refuse to shower, to eat, to talk, to do anything, no matter what they said. They send Reborn because he don't understand the meaning of a no. He is a cold blooded hitman. Its always 'when' and 'will' with him, dictating Tsuna's life.

Reborn would threat and kill your friends and family to accomplish his mission, he never failed a job and won't be starting now, he will take hostages, use Nana's mental illness againt you, he is the World Greastest Hitman and he 'don't fail his tasks', he has a contract, whatever it takes (phrase taken from a crossover where Yuzu is a Vongola Sky and Reborn casually threats Ichigo's family when he refuses to let his sister being forced to be a Mafia Boss) Harribel is right, he is that kind of man, he is narcissist sociopath, a bitter and petty man that don't care about people's feelings and have no moral standards. Anything to get Tsuna to take over Vongola and become Decimo, its pride really, he has a reputation to uphold.

For the love of God, Naruto fandom is fucking wild on revenge crossovers, get your asses here and do something please.

[forthelorewick]

Blessed with Beauty and Rage

Chapter 3: “Our own grist down to its bony face..”

“All the Dead Dears” by Sylvia Plath

Series summary:

The very core of who you are is hypocritical. Every day is a reminder of what you've lost, of who you've allowed yourself to become. Your walls are built around your heart like the fortress of Jackson, until… a certain man tries to pry his way through. How long can you withstand such intrusion? Will your heart ever open, will your soul ever heal, the way you have helped so many others do? Will you ever learn that you're worth saving too?

< prev. chap | masterlist | next chapter >

Chapter warnings: violence. Loss of a child, loss of a spouse, grief, rage, PTSD, trauma, raiders.

WC: 1.8k

Flashback chapter - no Joel. He’s comin don’t worry !

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

April 2006:

Mary Cate was becoming remarkably observant for a ten-year-old, though she’d remind you at every opportunity that she’d be eleven soon. She knew when to be silent, following your instructions without a word, and she had a knack for identifying edible berries and plants from the books you’d given her. Quiet and resourceful, she was growing into someone you could rely on, even at such a young age.

You had a plan to get to the upper mountain’s cabins by summer. Down in the valley was fine for winter, but as the snow melted and the chances of people starting to venture back out in desperate need of supplies and provisions, you decided it would be best to move you where you doubt anyone would even know to go. It was too out of the way and not much was out there. It was only ski resort cabins, nothing in terms of provided supplies besides a first aid kit or two. On your first trip up there to scout things out you had scavenged what you could and chosen the cabin which would best suit you. It was by a small lake and was flat enough in its secluded valley that it would suit you two perfectly especially with the plans you had to start training her for the new reality of this world.

You brought the horses with your supplies on the second trip, four horses and three dogs were left on the ranch after the outbreak. Ever grateful for the fully stocked kitchen which had been left nearly untouched as only you and Mary Cate had stayed behind that fateful night. You had stayed away from the festivities which occurred down in the lower valley where there had been a big celebration marking the end of the tourist season. It was her fall break and she had begged her parents to let her come spend it at the ranch that you worked on. Her parents, your aunt and uncle, could hardly say no to her even as an eight year old. They had flown with her to Jackson Airport and promptly caught the next flight out… and you had planned to fly back with her afterwards. All the way across the country from where her family was. Where your family was.

Your intentions were as such, to be far away and build your own roots. You had gotten married young and were happy working on a ranch in the summer between your semesters of college at Stanford. That was your first summer you weren’t returning to college, you were about to begin the last phase to become a psychiatrist so you had taken a year off to work your final summer at the ranch.

However, with all of that obsolete, you are riddled with the guilt that if you had stayed closer and not ran so far away from your family, that Mary Cate may still have her parents and sister to be with. And maybe you’d still have your daughter and your husband who had been with you, choosing to enjoy the last few nights on the ranch instead of the social scene which wasn’t appropriate for children anyways.

September 26, 2003 was the last night of that old life. You and your family survived at the ranch together and waited out the first few months of the outbreak. Killing a few infected and adopting an “us or them” mindset. You couldn’t risk it with two young girls. You quickly lost count of how many lives, infected or not, had been taken by yours or your husband’s hands.

And now, April marked two months since your husband and daughter had gotten killed by raiders. In the middle of the night he had gone out to check the crunch of snow he had heard outside. Unbeknownst to him, your little Rosie had followed him. Only four years old, she was her daddy’s shadow. Following him everywhere, no questions asked. It had been too late when you had noticed their absence and found them just in time to watch the light drain from their eyes. Tears streamed down his face as they had forced him to watch as they stole every ounce of potential from your daughter. His eyes met yours as he mouthed I love you, I’m so sorry. Before his blood spilled on the snow beneath him and his body crumpled. The hideous laughs of maniacal men echoing through the now empty cavity from which your heart had just been ripped out of.

But you couldn’t follow your family into that eternal end, you couldn’t abandon Mary Cate and you sure as hell couldn’t let these bastards live another day. Waste any more oxygen or supplies on their worthless existences. Brutalize anyone else, not when you could do something about it.

It was as if every nerve of your body was on fire. You were morphing into something new, something terrifying.

You had instructed Mary Cate to hide in the storm cellar and barricade as best as she could. You had no fear that she was in any danger, but you wanted to protect her from what you were about to do.

You knew that Victor had only given himself up after careful consideration that it was Rosie’s only hope. That this would be the only potential way that they’d let Rosie go. It was never going to happen, but he was a good man and was willing to do whatever it took for even a chance that she might be spared. He would have done anything for any of you. He loved you and your family until his final breath.

That night you tracked down every last one of them. As soon as the sun had set you took your knife, your handgun, and your rifle to finish what they started.

Starting with those who had been sent out to scavenge and resupply, your best option to formulate a plan to infiltrate their camp.

You took your time that night. You became a night stalker, tracking the next kill. The scent of vengeance and rage were the only things you could remember as you tried to recall the events of that night. Blood lust coursing through you and nothing could satisfy it until every last one was dead.

The first man you found had told you how many of them there were. But not before tying him to a tree and filling him with false hope that if he cooperated he wouldn’t have to suffer. Only took a few short minutes to get the number you were after before breaking your promise that he wouldn’t suffer. It was a slow bleed out as you cut his arteries, standing clear from the arterial spray as best as you could. Although, it wasn’t as effective as you had hoped.

You preyed on them, feeding them lies and false promises, only to strip away every ounce of courage or sense of invincibility they had claimed through their own brutality. You crushed their hope, piece by piece, until nothing remained but their fear and regret.

You had become the angel of death as you stormed their camp, a force of retribution with no mercy. How many lives had you saved by ending their reign of terror? You knew your husband and Rosie hadn't been their first victims. The raiders' tents were strewn with trinkets and trophies—grim mementos of other innocent lives they had stolen. A human-sized cage sat on a nearby wagon, mercifully empty, but its presence only fueled the fury that consumed you. Your mind was flooded with haunting visions of what the past few years must have been like for those they had crossed paths with since the outbreak. These monsters had earned every ounce of hellfire you had unleashed upon them.

All you could see was red. Their own violence and ruthlessness had nothing on what you had made of them. Bodies dismembered and blood seeping into every footprint you left behind.

Your body was wrecked, every ounce of blood drained and replaced, transforming you into someone unrecognizable—someone you loathed. A version of yourself forged in agony, cold and twisted.

You scavenged their camp. Every weapon, every piece of clothing you could scavenge— you hauled back to the ranch. Feeling satisfied that these resources were finally being put to good use.

You left their bodies naked in the February snow storms. You piled them in the middle of their camp and left them there to rot. Twenty-three men all double your size, deciding to mess with the wrong fucking woman and killing the wrong fucking man and the wrong fucking kid. Sure, they had nearly made you bleed out yourself; a long gash down your side, a stab wound in your shoulder, your palm sliced as you stopped a swing from a dull machete which cut through your leather gloves. By miracle, your temple was only grazed by a stray bullet. However, you didn’t believe in miracles. It was merely a cruel trick of fate.

Their lanterns and torches flickered weakly against the abyss you’d become. You were no longer bound by light, no longer just a shadow—you were the night itself, born from its deepest depths. Cloaked in darkness, your every step was a promise of destruction, your rage a storm that swallowed their fire whole. You wish you could have known the terror they may have felt that night. Knowing everything they had done led them to this night. They couldn’t fight what they couldn’t see, and they had learned too late that the darkness didn’t just hide you—it empowered you. You had become the darkness.

Your body was a battleground—blood lost, pain searing through every fiber. When it was replenished, something darker took root. A version of you that was no longer weak, no longer human. Someone ruthless, unforgiving. Someone you never thought you'd become. But you didn’t care. You were done with mercy, done with weakness. This new you was raw, brutal, and unstoppable. And there was no turning back. You’d burn everything to the ground before you let go of the monster you’d become.

You took Victor and Rosie’s bodies far away from their camp, burying them next to their favorite tree where they used to sit and watch the sunset while overlooking the vast Rocky Mountains. You sat there for three days until Mary Cate finally had enough and came to find you. Finding you covered in blood and the stench of death.

Tear lines strewn down your face were the only bits that weren’t covered in blood.

She said nothing, only making a fire close by and heating up water in a pot from the Ranch kitchen. She took a washcloth and began cleaning your face little by little. You let her for a few moments before you met her eyes and saw the terror within them. You took the washcloth from her and never spoke about what had happened, but reassured her that nothing would ever happen to her. That she was safe. That Rosie and Uncle Vic were gone, but you would never let anything happen to her.

She insisted you call her M.C. from then on. The reminder of all those you had lost even in her name— too bitter on your tongue. The reminder of who you had once been and the ugly truth of who you had become.

Please feel free to leave comments and interact if you’d like! idk how it all works. I’m just here for fun and any suggestions are welcome!

I only really got into reading and writing fan fiction this past year. Usually I do more OC stuff, but I’ve been enjoying my deep deep rabbit hole of Joel Miller. God I love that man.

Also fair warning, this fic is me indulging in my “omg omg omg they touched hands!” Slow burn love. It’s going to be a long journey.

[digitalgla]

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