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neonponders · 3 years ago

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I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself @hoegrove your Bond!au is just too strong.

Based on their post here ~

I hope you like it 🥺 🌹 it’s on ao3, if that’s easier for anyone to read 🌹

• • • • • • •

013.

Fucking 013. Not 00.

Which meant he’d have to wait for whoever got the 00 status he deserved to either die or become incompetent.

“Congratulations, Hargrove. Report to HQ for briefing.”

He’d rather be headed for the private plane that would take him to some tropical location, where capitalist monsters waited for his bullet.

Hargrove stepped out of the elevator onto the spacious floor. He really wished HQ would renovate. The concrete floors, glass walls, and metal beams were urban but not chic.

He found the corresponding desk of his... “partner” of sorts. Every number had a letter. The computer and the muscle. As Hargrove removed his outer garment, though, only the computer desk was present, while the person -

“Could you not dump your nasty jacket on my work station?”

Hargrove sighed and found the loon - on a bicycle. He frowned. “What the hell are you doing on a bike inside?”

“It helps me think,” Q said, riding slow laps in between the cubicles. Granted, there weren’t many of them, and Hargrove was pretty sure he’d only ever seen Q and maybe three other people on this entire floor, unless there was a crisis.

Maybe that’s why he had yet to be promoted to 00. Too much peace.

“Take your jacket off my seat!”

“Jesus Christ,” Billy cursed. He balled up the ruined jacket and threw at the bastard’s head. To his credit, he didn’t crash into anything. “Clean freak.”

“That’s Q to you,” he barked, dumping the raggedy garment into the nearest bin.

“Sure, Steve,” he purred, knowing his partner loathed the fact that he had figured out his real name. Hargrove wouldn’t work for just anybody, after all. And he was a detective first. Hired gun second.

He didn’t actually need Q. So he told himself. But Steve sure came in handy.

“So help me god, Billy. Did you at least keep my pen intact?”

“Your what?” He landed in Steve’s spinning chair, forcing the guy to lean his bike against his cubicle and stand with his hands on his hips.

“My pen, dip shit. You know, the one that’s basically a Swiss army knife. The one sanctioned by HQ to one Asshole Hargrove - ”

“Oh, that,” he said distantly, gazing out at the city around them. “It broke.”

Not surprised, nor impressed, Steve remarked, “You realize that if some nerd civilian reverse-engineers half the shit you lose, we might be genuinely compromised, right?”

“Then make better stuff.”

“Stop losing it, and you might actually be 00 one day.”

Billy glared with all the menace a man could while having his chair rolled out of the way. Steve shoved him aside with his foot and entered his computer password before navigating to the corresponding case briefs. Billy let his head recline on the seat while Steve went through the list.

“Target?”

“Deceased.”

“Car?”

“Totaled, but returned.”

“Pen: lost in action. Suspect?”

“Null. Excellent in bed, though.”

“You’re a cliche.” Steve glared from behind his glasses.

“Stop giving me cases with attractive people, then,” Billy smirked. “Who’s my next target? Tell me they live somewhere expensive and sunny.”

“Like a desert?”

“No, like Marseilles.”

“Oh, Marseilles is nice,” Steve chirped distractedly. “If you like French people.”

Billy snorted, but it evolved into laughter. “What’s wrong with French people?”

“They’re French.”

“Wow. Picky.”

Steve giggled under his breath and said, “I’m sorry I don’t have a gig for you in France.”

“I’m sure I’ll managed,” Billy sighed. “What do you have?”

“Something more domestic.”

Billy exhaled through his nose, warranting a curious peek from Steve. “Yeah, that’s what I’m stuck with. One zero and domestic jobs.”

“You’ll get there,” Steve reassured. Softly. Which was...odd.

Billy’s head rolled over the back of the chair to stare at him. Steve quickly added, “If you stop breaking the shit I loan you.”

Billy looked toward the ceiling, pressing his lips into an impertinent line...

“Q.”

“Hm?” he asked while typing away.

“There’s a bird in here.”

Steve looked at him. “What?” and followed his gaze up to the metal rafters. A grey bird gazed right back at them. “Oh shit - ”

Billy already had his pistol out. One shot knocked the bird off its perch. It landed with a loud, metallic clatter.

Steve's body doubled over when Billy wrenched his arm in the direction away from the device, and not a second too soon. The force of the explosion knocked them both over one cubicle and roughly onto the concrete floor.

"Q," Billy growled when the guy scrambled to his feet and back to his desk. He reached underneath it, uncovering a baseball bat of all things, and swung right over his hard drive. Metal and plastic debris rained over the floor, and then he ran to the router standing on a low piece of furniture along the wall. He wrenched its cables out and smashed the thing too.

Then he looked up at Agent Hargrove. "We're compromised."

Billy was already moving toward the scattered carcass of the spy bird. They didn't have a lot of time. Already, another explosive rumble sounded beneath their feet, on another floor. Billy quickly found the piece he was looking for, and pocketed it before yanking Steve in the direction of the stairs.

"I need a car."

"You know where the garage is."

"You're coming with me. That thing heard both of our names."

Steve defended, "We both lost our original identities when we signed up for this bullshit."

"We don't know what we're dealing with yet," Billy reasoned. "Until then, you're safest with me."

"Well that's pathetic." His words might've landed better if they didn't rattle out of him while they did their best to sprint down several dozen flights of stairs.

"You're really sassing me right now? What are you gonna do with that bat?"

Steve ignored that to proclaim, "We need to get to my place. I have a backup computer connected to the system."

"And how do we know it's not compromised too?"

"Because it's mine. Not the system's."

Billy could only frown at him ever so briefly, but he pocketed that information away for another time. For now, they descended into the belly of their organization, where the garage of vehicles rested beneath the city. There, another argument awaited him.

"You're not taking the goddamn Camaro."

"I'm taking the goddamn Camaro," Billy retorted, already ripping the keys out of the cabinet Steve unlocked for him.

"It's loud as all hell!"

"So are you. Get in the car."

Another explosion shook the concrete columns of the garage. Steve ducked his head and coughed on the dust while he threw himself into the car a millisecond before Billy left tire tracks on the floor. "What are you doing?"

Steve was pressing buttons on the dash. Somewhere behind them, a mechanical part was moving in the car. "We don't know how many birds infiltrated the building. I'm rotating the license plates - egh!"

He collapsed against his seat when the car angled up to speed onto the city streets. Billy mused, "And what can you do for speed trap cameras?" and held up a middle finger to the camera angled over the four-way intersection.

"Nothing yet. We'll have to trade cars eventually."

"Not soon enough."

"What?" Steve all but screeched, and turned around to see behind them. "At least you're not the only stereotype in this business."

He got the words out a moment before the large, black SUV rammed into the back of the Camaro. "Put your seatbelt on."

"IT IS ON!"

Steve provided his own chorus of swears and exclamations while Billy navigated through the city, tossing his partner left and right in his seat, avoiding another collision with the SUV that would spin them out of control. When Steve began digging through the glove box and lowering his window, Billy bellowed, "What are you doing?"

"A PEN!" he yelled before throwing something behind them. A second later, the SUV's front lifted off the road so the whole thing fell onto its side.

It was Billy's turn to exclaim, "Those things explode?"

"YES THEY EXPLODE!"

"YOU NEVER TOLD ME THEY EXPLODE!"

"WHY DO YOU THINK I TOLD YOU NOT TO TAP THE PEN THREE TIMES?"

"YOU ARE SO GODDAMN LUCKY MY DICK HASN'T BEEN BLOWN OFF."

Steve pointed out the front windshield. "BILLY!"

Another SUV narrowly rammed them from the side, but Billy pulled on the brake and swung the car into a 180. Some civilian took the brunt of that particular attack, but Billy officially needed to get them the hell out of here. Whoever wanted their heads for trophies didn't care about national news.

Which was possibly the most dangerous piece of this mess. Arguably the most powerful component of a country was its press, and these assholes didn't care if they earned the media's or internet's attention.

It was another aspect in itself that Billy had ridden in one too many black SUV's. That would also account for someone's ability to install too many explosive birds in the building.

"Billy?" Steve piped when he drove down the stairs leading to the boardwalk along the river. Billy focused on the new car behind them. He looked across the river at the opposite riverbank, where the walls sloped up. He needed to get over there.

The car rattled as he sped up a flight of stairs to the street once more, but did a hard left onto the bridge that crossed the river.

Down the stairs again, this time slaloming over the ramped wall, keeping an eye on his rearview to see how tunnel-visioned the SUV behaved.

A hand gripped the wide bell of his forearm. "Billy," Steve rasped. There wasn't a stairwell at the end of this riverbank. Just a concrete wall.

Billy went up the ramp, and braked with a hard turn on the steering wheel. The SUV tried to brake in time, but the Camaro clipped the back tire, and it spun right over the side into the river.

Billy k-turned back in the direction of the stairs. He drove seamlessly into the midday, traffic, turning on his windshield wipers against the heavy drizzle. He glanced at Steve, who had not let go of his arm. At a stoplight, Billy's other hand overlapped his, earning a pale, ghostly stare.

"We need to get to the subway. Then your place."

Despite his shock, Steve nodded and said, "Two blocks down."

Billy found the station, lodged their car in a back alley between a Polish restaurant and a laundromat, and circled the car to help Steve out. "I'm fine," he said even as his knees gave out and he hung between his arms on the car door and roof.

"I see that," Billy replied. He nestled in close to wrap an arm around Steve's softer waist. "Put your weight on me."

He did, and Billy kicked the door shut behind them. "Do you have a metro card?"

"Do I have a metro card?" Billy snorted on their way to the entrance.

"You can't jump the turnstiles."

"I'm not leaving a paper trail. I don't know if my cards are compromised too. That bird sat right over your desk, pretty boy. Someone wanted a real close eye on you. Maybe even kill you. We can try and figure out who else was under surveillance later."

They did not earn approving looks from vaulting the turnstiles, but they made it to the train, and then forty minutes or so later, Steve's apartment. By then, his color had returned to his face, and Billy couldn't help but tease, "Do you always bring colleagues home?"

Steve sighed and didn't grace that with a response. He unlocked his door, and Billy perused the living room and its bay window. The place was nice. White walls. Light wooded floors. Colorful dish ware. A bedroom off to the right with an unmade bed, and a dining room to the left with an array of folders and a laptop on it.

Billy placed the broken bird piece beside the laptop. "I don't know how much you can get out of this. But it's a start."

Steve maneuvered around him and sank into the chair. "Help yourself to the kitchen."

Billy did exactly that, and only found a few hints at the neurosis of a tech genius: Steve's pantry was entirely filled with bags of chips and hot sauce. His apartment also wielded the same characteristic Steve used at work: cleanliness. There wasn't so much as a lingering cereal dish in the sink.

Billy went about scrambling some eggs, frying up some bacon, and heating up a box of leftover diner hash browns. He poured a bottle of white and brought the dishes to the table. He set the glass of wine in view of the laptop. "For your nerves. Try to eat something."

"Thanks," Steve murmured. He didn't touch his food, but Billy sat opposite him and plunged his fork into his eggs.

After he cleaned his plate, he started tapping the back of the laptop screen, causing whatever Steve was reading to bounce. As if tossed out of a reverie, Steve inhaled sharply and took his glasses off to scrub his face. Naturally, Billy chuckled and plucked up the glasses to see how the other half lived...

"Steve."

"Hmm?" he mumbled from inside his hands.

"Explain to me why your glasses are asking for 004 authentication?"

His hands lowered so he could see Billy wearing his glasses and the nearly invisible screens layered inside the glass. The muscles of his jaw ticked as he reached across the table. Billy let him remove the glasses, but his stare did not waver until Steve relented, "I'm not 004 anymore."

Billy blinked, hard, as he absorbed that. "When were you an agent?"

Steve pushed his fork around his plate. "Right as you joined."

"Am I really going to have to pull your teeth for this? Because someone must know who you are, or were. Knows enough to keep an eye on you. How many other 00s are retired into office work?"

"My whole team," he heaved. Surrendered. "It all happened too fast. I was elevated to 00 status and just as quickly flunked out of it. Then they gave me you."

Steve exhaled as if there was a whole lot more there. Then he added, "Consider this a mentorship."

Billy huffed and relaxed against his chair. "So my guardian angel is the one keeping me from my promotion."

It took a second, but Steve processed that and lifted his head. "What?"

"You. I don't get to be a 00 until a 00 gives me the okay."

Something shy of a grimace flitted across Steve's features. "Maybe you'd be one, if you learned how to say thank you. You're not god. I've saved your ass at least twice without even being in the same country as you."

"You're a P.T.S.D. case with a laptop. That's all."

"And you're a gun with childhood trauma and abandonment issues. Welcome to the fucking club. We have special glasses."

He stabbed his hash browns and started eating. Billy crossed his arms and brooded in silence.

Abandonment issues, my ass, he mused, but could not help but watch the man opposite him eat. He'd never actually seen Steve eat. He'd certainly always been available whenever Hargrove called, regardless of timezone or courtesy of sleep.

It's hypocritical to call him an angel and treat him as disposable...after you hauled him around like precious luggage.

Billy didn't like that thought one bit.

This job wasn't actually a business. It was a lifestyle. One that didn't grant angels or precious items. And the same voice that called Steve, Angel, kept whispering in Billy's mind.

Compromised.

Something moved in his periphery and he had his gun out before he even thought twice. "What the hell is that?"

Steve, to his credit, hadn't flinched. "The cartoons refer to it as a pussy cat. She wants your bacon."

The fluffy ginger that had jumped onto the table stared Billy down until he relinquished his last piece of bacon. "Why am I not surprised that you have a cat?"

"Considering your reaction, I'd say you were petrified."

"Shut up, Steve."

"No guns on the table."

Billy groaned and set the device on the console table behind him. "Yes, dear."

It was going to be a long case.

#they're married already #harringrove #007!au #hoegrove #neonponders #pondermoniums

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pies-writes-and-more · 4 years ago

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apotelesma

Word Count: 4,354

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of a gunshot wound but other than that I think it’s all good! Mostly fluffy this time :D

A/N: Instalment #3 in @wxstedhexrt‘s and my Falling collection, Series Masterlist HERE. As with the first part of this series, please read the poem first as it is the whole centrepiece of the fanfic :) If you need or would like a typed out version of the poem instead of the photo below, here’s the link to it on Destiny’s blog :)

apotelesma (Latin): the influence that stars have over human destiny

It was dinner time in the Avengers complex and like most nights after a hard mission, everyone’s stomachs were empty and they were eager to sink their teeth into some food. As Steve and Tony started laying out the different dishes on the counter top, the rest of the members came with their plates, numerous conversations taking place.

Bucky wondered why it didn’t seem to bother them that their newest teammate was in the hospital wing right now. Why did he seem to be the only one struck with anxiety and fear that she got hurt?

Sam reached for the food, his eyes gleaming with hunger when Bucky finally spoke up, “Shouldn’t we wait for Y/N?”

Conversations came to a halt and all eyes were suddenly on Bucky. He shifted uncomfortably as he stood, leaning against the island. He could feel everyone scanning his face, all of them clearly uneasy with how they should answer. But was he wrong? Why were they not feeling just as worried as he was? How could they even think to eat and smile when she was down there in pain?

“She’ll be up soon, Bucks,” Steve spoke up, clapping a hand on his shoulder in a sort of comforting way. “Besides, knowing Y/N, if we waited for her, she’d be angry at us for not taking care of ourself first.”

Bucky hesitated but a small bit of guilt ate him up. He forced a small smile, giving the approval everyone needed to dive into the food. Sam piled some food onto another plate, sliding it over to Bucky, “She’s alright, you know.”

Bucky looked up at him, his brow furrowing in frustration. She wasn’t alright, that’s why she was downstairs with Dr. Cho. If she had been alright, maybe his chest could stop feeling so heavy, maybe his stomach would stop twisting and turning. “She shouldn’t have gotten hurt in the first place,” Bucky stated, not bothering to touch the plate.

Steve and Sam shared a looked and Bucky couldn’t help but wish he had just stayed silent. He didn’t need these two poking into the feelings he hadn’t even recognized in himself yet.

“Y/N’s a smart girl. Real quick too. I dunno if I would’ve been able get out of there the way she did,” Sam commented between bites of his mashed potatoes.

Bucky nodded in agreement, though all he had known of the situation was what Steve told him pieced together with what he had heard over the comms. Y/N had run off from the group and Steve had let her, knowing that her curiosity would’ve enticed her to go off anyways, and deciding it was better that she told him first anyways. She mentioned she thought she saw some movement in one of the offices and just wanted to check it out and Steve didn’t think it was a bad idea. He had let her go on her own, which Steve would later regret.

Y/N had walked right into the trap laid out for the Avengers tonight by the HYDRA operatives. They had been lying in wait and Y/N walked in with no backup nearby. She had taken two shots to her right arm before she dove behind some cover. Her yelling through the comms were all Bucky could hear in the back of his mind, even now here in the kitchen. He had been so worried about her, he had tried to run across the whole building trying to find her. But by the time he was there, Steve had come to her aid and they had taken out a small army of about 40 men by themselves.

Steve commented later on the plane that Y/N was a quick learner for a new agent. He was rather proud of her with how she acted but Bucky couldn’t help but feel angry. How could she be so reckless? It didn’t help that the most reckless out of the team, his idiotic best friend, was commending her for her careless attributes, saying it was brave and smart thinking.

“Y’alright there, Bucks?” Steve asked, nudging the man out of his thoughts. Sam and Steve’s eyes were still trained on Bucky as he rethought about tonight’s events for the thousandth time.

“You shouldn’t praise her for acting stupid,” Bucky spoke up with a small glare. Steve blinked in surprise, hearing the sharp tone in his friend’s voice. “If you hadn’t been close by, she could’ve died, Steve.”

“Nah, you can’t get rid of me that easily, Sergeant,” came a voice from the doorway.

All eyes wheeled over to see Y/N standing there, bandages wrapped around her whole upper arm. Everyone immediately cheered for her, grins all around but Y/N’s eyes were fixated on Bucky. She gave him a playful wink before rolling her eyes at some comment Clint was making about her very first injury.

“Really, I’m being serious!” Clint laughed, offering her a plate. “It’s like a badge of honour. You survived your first Avengers mission!”

“Yeah well, Dr. Cho said the wound was clean so I’m all good. Ready to go back into battle!” Y/N said with a grin and Bucky’s eyes immediately widened as he heard her. He had to take a moment to realize she was joking and not just immediately willing to hop right into another mission with an injured arm.

She walked over to the counter Bucky was seated at, giving him a smile as she noted the untouched food on his plate, “You not hungry?” She asked, tilting her head slightly as she watched him.

Bucky bit his lip and shrugged, slowly moving to start feeding himself. As Y/N piled food onto her own plate, he watched her. He noticed the little winces, the slight shifting in her body as her arm throbbed in pain with every movement, and yet her smile stayed on the whole time.

“You’ve got to take it easy you know,” Bucky commented as she sat back down with her food. “You don’t have super healing.”

“Yeah yeah I know,” she giggled, smiling at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll be as good as new soon! Then I can head back to the field.”

Bucky wasn’t sure why but the thought of Y/N joining a mission again made him nervous. He wanted to tell her to stay home more but he knew that the whole point of her joining the Avengers was to do the work the Avengers did.

Y/N gave him an amusing smile, nudging his leg with her own under the counter, “Aww were you worried about me, Barnes?” She teased gently, popping a piece of broccoli into her mouth.

Bucky’s cheeks were turning pink slowly as he quickly diverted his eyes from hers. “Just don’t want you getting hurt is all,” he mumbled but Y/N saw the shy smile on his lips and the sight of it made her heart skip a beat a little.

Like most nights after dinner, the team moved to the living room to watch some movies or play some games. It was a nice way to relax after a stressful mission and Y/N really liked learning to bond with the team. She found herself squished in between Tony and Rhodey as they played Mario Kart with Nat and Clint, giggling at the numerous amounts of profanities and screaming emerged.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh as Clint screeched whilst his character got blown up by a blue shell (“I swear to god, Nat, I will kill you for that!”) but her attention was quickly diverted as her phone buzzed. Lighting up her phone screen was her news app, with big capital letters that read: METEOR SHOWER TONIGHT!

A grin grew on her lips so quickly, Steve laughed as he noticed from the other couch, “Got a secret boyfriend texting you, Y/N?”

Y/N rolled her eyes in response and shook her head, scooting off the couch (“You’re in my way, Y/N, I can’t see!” Rhodey screamed, his character on screen quickly fell off the map, “Goddammit!”). She plopped down next to Steve, eagerly showing him the screen.

“There’s gonna be a meteor shower!” She exclaimed excitedly, scrolling through the feed to try and find what time it was coming. “I wonder if I could find a dark enough place to go see it…”

“You sound like Bucky,�� Steve chuckled and Y/N blinked looking up at him with a surprised look on her face. “Bucks always loved looking at the stars. Every now and then, when I can’t find him in his room, he’ll be up at the top of the complex trying to spot some constellations. But with how bright the complex can get, it’s a little hard.”

Y/N nodded slowly, her gaze moving over to Bucky who was playing pool nearby with Sam, the two of them bickering (as usual) about the rules. Steve watched a soft smile grow on her lips as she watched his best friend. It’s funny, he thought, how the two of them looked the exact same when looking at the other and yet neither of them noticed.

Bucky was never all that great with sleeping in general, but lately any night that he was having trouble, he could find Y/N on the living room couch watching late night TV. It was so much easier to sleep with her next to him, the presence of someone safe. Anytime he would wake up in fear, she was the reminder that there was still good in the world.

But tonight, Bucky felt too guilty to go and find her. He didn’t want her to feel like she had to be out and helping him, she got shot tonight after all. She could’ve died tonight. She should rest and heal.

But as Bucky sat in bed, trying to fall asleep by himself, a nagging anxious feeling in his mind just wouldn’t go away, especially not after his conversation with Sam.

“She’s a real pretty girl, ain’t she?” Sam had mumbled lowly while the two of them played pool earlier.

Bucky looked at him confused. They had just been talking about whether or not Sam was allowed to shoot again if he fumbled his shot the first time and… now he was talking about a girl? “Sorry?” Bucky frowned tightly.

“Y/N.” Sam stated simply, grinning as his shot executed exactly the way he wanted to. “She’s real pretty,” he repeated.

Bucky felt something tighten in him, a sort of boiling up in his stomach as he shot a glare over at Sam, “I hadn’t noticed.” He grumbled, his grasp on the pool stick tightening.

“Oh yeah? In that case I guess I’ll ask her out myself then,” Sam smirked and let out a laugh when Bucky gave him another death glare. “God, you’ve got it bad haven’t you?”

Bucky tried to calm down his expression, his cheeks feeling warm the more Sam laughed at him. “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” he insisted with a huff.

“Tell that to your face, you look like you would murder anyone who even looked at her!” Sam’s laugh and wide smile were annoying Bucky more than usual. He stared back at the pool table, avoiding the man’s gaze.

“So what?”

“So, I’m just saying that she’s really pretty and clearly interested in you. And you, as evidenced by this angry jealous face you’ve got on right now, are clearly interested in her. It’d be a shame if you kept ignoring how you felt about her.”

Bucky wanted to storm off right then and there but he knew making a scene would only make things worse. His chest tightened as his eyes flickered over to Y/N, who had suddenly moved over to sit next to Steve. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of anger in his stomach (or… was it jealousy?), watching as she talked with Steve, a smile on her face, sparkles in her eyes. “Drop it, Bird Brain.”

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned against the pool table, “Do I need Nat to come over and whack you in the head? Stop denying it, it’s really no use. How many other people you get that anxious over when they get hurt? She wasn’t anywhere near to being seriously injured compared to what could’ve happened today, but you looked like you were already mourning her.”

Bucky thought about what Sam was saying, annoyed that some of his points were valid. How could this idiot notice something that he didn’t?

Almost immediately, Bucky felt guilty for thinking about Y/N in that way, sitting up in his bed and shaking his head quickly as if that would shake the thoughts out. She was a great girl, always so nice when he was freaking out. She never once made him feel like a problem. A burden. A monster.

The words that left Bucky’s lips to end the conversation with Sam echoed in his mind even now. “I’m no good for her.”

It was true, Bucky reminded himself. He was a pile of anxiety and pain. How could he love a girl like that in the way she deserved to be loved with blood and innocent lives on his hands? How could anyone as pure as that even consider to be with him?

A knock on the door startled Bucky, his eyes staring to focus on the door. Was he hearing things?

“Are you awake?” a small voice at the door made Bucky finally move out of bed. He opened the door slowly to find Y/N with a smile on her face in front of him.

“What’re you doing up?” Bucky frowned, nodding towards her arm. “You should really sleep, you need to rest-”

“Aw you sound just like Steve,” Y/N groaned, rolling her eyes with a giggle. “You weren’t sleeping huh?” Bucky shook his head in response and she grinned wider. “Great! Get dressed and meet me in the garage!”

Bucky wondered if his mind had moved from thinking about Y/N all the time to actually fantasizing about her. Had her coming to his door been a vision? Was he seeing things? He frowned tightly as the thoughts piled up in his brain but he tugged a sweatshirt on and some track pants and headed down to the garage.

Y/N was waiting in a car, smiling excitedly from the passenger seat. “Come on!” She giggled, bouncing up and down as Bucky climbed into the drivers seat. “We gotta hurry!”

“Where are we going?” Bucky asked curiously but Y/N just shook her head.

“You just drive, it’s a surprise!”

As Bucky drove down country roads far away from the complex, he wondered if Steve had told her that Bucky quite liked driving at night. He found it calming to not hear the loudness of the daytime, especially in the city. Y/N stayed quiet for most of the ride but the smile on her face was as wide as ever, only talking when she gave him directions on where to turn.

When Y/N told him finally to park at a dead end, Bucky thought she was going crazy. Then she wriggled out of the car excitedly, shutting the door behind her before giving Bucky any sort of explanation, and Bucky knew she had to be insane.

“Where are you going?” Bucky yelled at her figure climbing up the grassy hill nearby.

“Hurry! We’ll miss it!” Y/N screamed back, jumping up and down and waving her arms to draw his attention more.

It didn’t take too long to reach the top of the hill and Y/N plopped down on it, staring at the sky. She could feel the excitement building in her stomach, making her wriggle on the patch of grass she was sitting in.

“Y/N, what the hell are we doing here?” Bucky asked, reaching the top not too long after her, standing behind her with his arms folded.

“Shh! Just come sit! It’ll happen any minute now!” Y/N’s eyes were focused on the sky above them but the smile on her face was still as vibrant as ever. Bucky hesitated and Y/N looked over finally, her twinkling eyes finding his, “Come on! Just trust me!” She patted the spot of grass next to her and Bucky finally gave in to those heart melting eyes, sighing as he let the load off of his feet.

“What’re we-” Bucky began to ask again but Y/N gripped his arm so quickly, he felt the heat in his body shoot up to his face.

“LOOK!” She squealed, gasps leaving her lips as her eyes followed streaks of light falling along the sky.

It was a beautiful sight, like a rainfall of stars, sparkling into the dark sky. Y/N felt Bucky’s body relax next to hers and as she glanced over, his mouth was slightly open in complete awe of the sight in front of them.

“Do you like it?” Y/N asked with a grin. She wasn’t exactly sure why but even in the midst of these falling stars, she couldn’t quite bring herself to look away at the man in front of her.

Bucky paused for a moment and Y/N could see the meteor shower in his eyes, “How did you find this place?” He asked so quietly, his voice seeming so far away.

Y/N smiled and leaned into his arm slightly, looking back up at the sky, craning her neck so she could see more, “Wanda told me there’s a little trail around here that she goes running on sometimes. She told me she only comes in the mornings cause it’s way too dark otherwise, no city lights, so street lamps. That’s why we can see them so clearly,” Y/N explained with a grin. Bucky let out a small sound in response and Y/N could feel how encapsulated he was with the whole sight.

There was silence for a while as the two of them stared at the sky. They eventually laid down in the grass behind them, because looking up at the sky was so much easier when you weren’t tilting your head back and there was so much more sky to see this way anyways.

Y/N wondered what Bucky would wish for, if he believed in that sort of thing. She wondered what got him interested in stars in the first place, because she loved the stories that came with them. She wondered if he took other girls from the 40’s out to look at stars, it was probably easier back then without as many city lights. Questions piled in her brain as she thought about it but she didn’t want to interrupt his silence. She knew he liked silence.

As soon as Y/N decided to just let him be, Bucky’s voice snapped the silence in half as he said, “Sometimes it feels like stars are the only things that stayed the same.”

It was a mournful sad tone. It wasn’t that Y/N had never heard him sad before but this sounded… different. Rather than feeling sad about what HYDRA had made the Winter Soldier do, this sounded like he was mourning his past life. Y/N looked over at him and for a moment, she had to command her lungs to breathe because as soon as she looked over, it was like seeing a whole new Bucky. Here, under the moonlight and the shimmers of the falling stars, Bucky looked… different. He didn’t look as tired, he looked… almost happy, which was a sort of beautiful contrast to his tone.

“I used to bring my sister out to look at stars. My mother brought us at first, we’d go sit on a hillside somewhere and we would stare at the stars until we fell asleep,” Bucky told her, his voice gentler this time. Less mournful. “I’d drag Steve out a couple of times too,” he chuckled, glancing over to look at her.

Y/N wanted him to keep talking forever. She wanted to know everything there was to know about him without seeming creepy. She gave him a smile, hoping it would entice him to talk more, finding him far more intriguing than a meteor shower.

“You must miss it,” Y/N commented softly and she watched as Bucky’s eyes grew sad again. He nodded but stayed quiet, glancing back at the sky again. “Is it sort of selfish for me to say that I’m glad you’re here?”

The comment must’ve come at a surprise to Bucky before his eyes snapped back to hers, confusion riddled all of them, “Sorry?”

“I know… I know you must miss the old days. I know you must miss not knowing about HYDRA and the days before you were violated by them but…” Y/N hesitated for a moment before looking back at him, “I’m glad you’re here. Sometimes it feels like Fate drew me to the Avengers, like it was my destiny to help people with you all but… sometimes it feels like Fate brought me to these kinds of moments too you know?”

Bucky’s cheeks were turning pink and Y/N bit down on her lip realizing she practically just admitted she thought Fate brought her to him, or that Fate had this moment in their lives planned.

Bucky smiled at her even while she squirmed in her awkwardness, a soft voice responding to her with, “Me too.”

Y/N’s cheeks burned as his short but sweet reply repeated in her mind over and over again. Bucky cleared his throat, the air of awkwardness falling on the two of them,“How did you know, by the way?”

“Hm?”

“How did you know… about me and the stars?” Bucky’s eyes narrowed as Y/N’s lips formed into an all-too-innocent sort of smile.

“What do you mean? Doesn’t everyone like stars?” She asked with a giggle and he nudged her arm with his gently.

“Don’t lie, doll. What, did Steve tell you?” He asked curiously and he groaned softly as she nodded with another laugh. “God that man just spills every detail about me doesn’t he?”

The nickname made Y/N’s heart skip a beat and she blushed as she realized what an odd effect a word could have on her. “Aw don’t blame him! I had just told him about the news of the meteor shower tonight and he mentioned that you liked to look at stars too!” Y/N smiled brightly as she squirmed some more under Bucky’s eyes. He seemed so much lighter today, happier. “I’m just happy I have someone who is happy to look at them with me.”

“You remind me of him, you know,” Bucky mentioned after a beat, his eyes scanning her face. “Steve, that is. All that reckless behaviour today… going off on your own, you could’ve been killed, Y/N.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow at his sudden scolding tone, realizing she had never seen this side of him before, “Do you normally scold Steve too?” she teased, smiling at him. “I’m fine, Bucky, really. This job doesn’t exactly entail safe environments all the time, I’m going to get hurt sometimes.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that, you could’ve stayed with the group. If someone had just gone with you maybe you wouldn’t have been hurt,” Bucky insisted, propping himself on his elbows to look at her better. He stopped, seeing the sort of embarrassed look in her eyes. “Sorry… you just… you scared me. You got me all worried when you yelled over comms, doll.”

Y/N hadn’t ever thought about how it would sound to a man going through all sorts of anxiety and PTSD. She suddenly felt very guilty, yelling into the comms asking for help when she could’ve just asked someone to come with her. That must be why he was chastising her right? She had scared him and that wasn’t really fair of her to do.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered softly, giving him an apologetic smile. “Everyone’s okay though. And I promise I’ll try to be less reckless next time.”

Bucky nodded slowly as if deciding this was an acceptable response and then laid back down next to her.

Silence hung in the open air again as the two of them continued to watch the pouring of stars in the sky. Y/N stared back at the sky and smiled at the sight, still finding it a breathtaking scene. She shifted after a moment, turning to her side as her eyelids became heavy with sleep. Her sleepy mind doesn’t note that the warmth beside her, the one she slowly curled up against is Bucky’s arm, brushing her hand against his.

The sudden physical contact against his skin surprised Bucky, glancing over to find Y/N dozing off against him. He couldn’t help but smile, watching her for just a second as he wondered what it would be like to be that peaceful, that serene.

When Y/N woke up later that night, she almost panicked in confusion. She wasn’t on the grassy hillside anymore but rather, tucked into her own bed. A yawn forced its way to her lips as she tried to think about how she got here, then a blush was painted on her cheeks as she realized Bucky must’ve put her to bed.

Multiple thoughts swirled in her brain as her eyes flickered close again. On one hand, he had called her doll, the nickname made Y/N smile to herself as she thought about it But on the other hand, she had scared him over the comms by scaring herself because of her own reckless behaviour and she had caused him to worry.

These thoughts fought for dominance, her brain unsure of which to focus on - the fact that maybe he liked her too or the fact that she might be a bother to him. Y/N yawned again as she buried her face into a pillow, wriggling herself under the covers again. She wasn’t quite sure if she had dreamt it or maybe her sleepy mind had just made it up… but she could’ve sworn she had felt someone kiss her forehead as they tucked her in. The thought warmed her heart and soul as she drifted off to dreams of flying amongst the stars with Bucky’s hand in hers.

** ** ** ** ** ** **

Huge thanks to everyone who’s been reading along! I hope you guys are enjoying it because Destiny and I are very much so enjoying writing them :) We’d love to hear how you guys are enjoying it so please feel free to leave comments!

MASTERLIST // Destiny’s Blog! <3

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #sam wilsom #reader insert fic #marvel x reader #marvel x you #marvel x y/n #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x y/n #winter soldier x you #bucky barnes fics #poem inspired

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cbspams · 4 years ago

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ONF - New World (Performance MV)

The last one. Ahhh, when I first committed to watching RTK, I wasn't sure what to expect and I didn't know anything about the other groups. I'd seen TBZ's Reveal (Catching Fire) which lured me in and I'm grateful for it because I got to see all the other amazing performances everyone pulled off. Beyond just the performances, it was really heartwarming to get little glimpses of the hard work everyone puts into each stage and how they're always supporting each other, within their own teams and outside of it. I would definitely recommend watching RTK if you're interested in getting into any of the groups featured, and even if not I would still recommend watching the performances because they're all so unique in their arrangements and stages. It's the kind of thing that can only happen on a competition show.

Thanks for putting up with all my ranting and know that I love you if you've read all my different thought posts. I hope you all look forward to Kingdom: Legendary War as well, it's gonna be HYPE!

Alright dudes let's get down to it.

Admittedly I did not love ONF for a lot of RTK. They're a great group, but I felt like their stages didn't favor the same kind of theatricality other groups had. And when they were ranked highly for We Must Love + Moscow Moscow (2nd round, My Song) stage, I was frankly a little miffed.

I adored their stage for It's Raining though, and all throughout RTK even if I didn't love them I still thought they were wonderful. Their reactions were so entertaining to watch and their stages were all fun and well executed.

I struggled watching New World a bit because I couldn't get over the fact they went back to more simple performances when It's Raining had been so elaborate.

The performance MV for New World is amazing. I understand the live performance had to be filmed indoors and that because it's indoors and because the stage is black and the stairs are black and the bleachers are black, the impact is different. But I'm really sad about that because the open air film location they did for the performance MV fit the song's vibes so much better. The kind of controlled sunlight, the open air lattices of the building they were standing on, the contrast between the dark outfits the members had and the bright cream of the building's plaster. All of those contributed to such a different vibe for the song, which is so bright and fun.

The opening to the light performance is a short film, similar to ONEUS and Pentagon. I'm not too sure about this but it seems to start with fast cuts from their previous MVs? And then slows down marginally to give a bit of storyline that seems to be a combination of pre and post apocalypse/societal collapse in a fantasy/cyberpunk mix world? Yeah, I dunno I've watched it 4 times and that's the best I could come up with. Especially because the ending shot is several very large meteors crashing through the atmosphere and like, those are pretty deadly so...?

In the pre-performance bit with the ONF members, they had discussed a theme of Pandora's box. Most people know that Pandora's box is a symbol of curses and tragedy, often tied to themes of humanity's greed versus humanity's innocence in listening to the gods. On opening the box, all the diseases and negativity inside flooded out to torment humanity but Hope remains in the box to allow humanity to maintain light in the darkness, and only humanity can give up hope.

NGL I was really excited to see how they would execute that theme. But then?? They kind of treated the box as a time capsule? I could kind of see it like them put their hopes into the box, which is an interesting twist on the tale of Pandora's box but also Confusion because that's definitely not the theme of that story. I kind of let it go though, because maybe they were just borrowing inspiration from the story and not actually trying to represent it.

Moving onto the actual performance and song. The intro is so intense! It's a really interesting fit because the rest of the song is way more dance upbeat/electric. But as far as openings go, pretty impactful and very pleasing to watch the ripple effect with the backup dancers down the aisle.

Again with the colorful flashing lights. Cool? Yes. Contributing to the aesthetic? Not particularly. Productive to the storyline? No. Part of the performance? Yes. Shruggy on this one, I don't really have anything to add that I haven't mentioned in previous commentaries.

I do really like the song though. Just as a piece of music, it's so fun to listen to and has definitely joined the ranks of my usual kpop bops. The kind of light, fast electro beat is something to jam to. Wyatt's voice is just so good, especially as part of the pre-chorus. The contrast makes it delightful to go from verse one to chorus. The lyrics and message of the song are really well thought out and executed as well, talking about reaching a better world and turning away from hurting each other/the environment/generally being hurtful.

OKAY. So this part is actually something I really adored: the sort of robotic formation. Wherein the members stand in the center of several backup dancers who seem to place on pieces or armor or something onto the member's limbs. A very clean cut, fast paced dance sequence that really strongly reminded me of early iron man scenes in which the different parts of armor were installed on the body. Also lowkey reminiscent of magical girl transformation hahahaha. But it's done so cleanly and while the camera angles make it hard to focus, it's still such a treat to watch. AND THEN. The members come up to the shoulders of the backup dancers and for Wyatt's lines, they're just!! In control! If y'all have watched power rangers or Gundam or Aquarion or Neon Evangelion or like, any of those then you know what I'm talking about, in which the human character slides into some massive machine and controls them from the inside to fight monsters (kaiju) and stuff. And the next bit with J-US and the hands! Creative, interesting imagery, just a complete delight to watch. It's just sooooo fun and I love that for ONF, I really do.

I genuinely think that their theme doesn't make much sense without the context of the lyrics and even then it still feels clunky and sort of inspired by rather than actually embodying the concept. So I'd dock point for them for that personally because I think that when themes are introduced and performed, they should show up as more than just a simple prop. But also I acknowledge that dance and musical performances like this (not musicals) aren't necessarily intended to be storytelling, especially in 4th gen kpop. I do like their theme with the keys and opening, I feel like the performance would have been enhanced if instead of using pandora's box, they choose to use the gateway to the new world. A bit on the nose but a lot more impactful with the key turning bit after the second chorus.

On the key turning bit with the weird holographic box: Dude. Those backup dancers? So clean. Nice stiff steps that feel very robotic which goes wonderfully with the costumes. The keys they each take actually read RTK ONF if you go clockwise from the left (MK). Just a neato little fact. Attention to detail is so good. And the timing of the key turns, of course it was gonna be to the beat but like still! Satisfying af.

Why Wyatt grabs the box and slams it to the ground I don't know. Maybe it has to do with the line dive into new world.

The high notes. Again. Literally just. What the fuck guys, they're so good. I'm gonna cry. The stability, the pitch, just. (sobbing)

The LED screen in the back is interesting? Is it supposed to be a door into the new world? Probably?

Dance break!! Guitar solo!! The door tradition into the weird stripey LED screens that just feels so chaotic and kinda like I'm going through a movie warp portal. Somehow when combined together it all works lmao??

I love the bridge. There's no reason for it, I just love Wyatt's fast paced lines and the kind of dun dun dun fast tempo beat tapping.

The ending of running away from the camera, towards the little cliffs and the LED screen was a good choice because the last lines refer to how they'll never stop as long as they're alive. Not the most impactful ending but definitely satisfying given the song's lyrics and meaning. Again, that lack of pandora's box kind of haunts me?

Overall if I consider this ONF performance compared to their others it doesn't feel quite as thought out and executed. Similar to their We Must Love + Moscow Moscow performance where I couldn't really see the marionette theme, I couldn't really understand the idea of Pandora's box in this performance and I really wish they had chosen perhaps a gateway to the new world or some other theme instead because it would fit much better. It's also a little lackluster compared to the performance MV that had a lot of contrast which created more focus and contributed more to the atmosphere of the performance.

Still, as a performance on it's own, it does pretty well and I'm really happy for ONF to have performed it. Thank you RTK for introducing me to this song and to ONF in general, I hope they continue to release some really good stuff.

#admin talk #rtk commentary #rtk performance comments

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your-worst-knightmare · 5 years ago

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I’ll Love You (As Misfortune Loves Orphans)

The Gotham wind howled at the rooftops. Away from the constant noise of traffic, it almost sounded like the cry of a mourning woman. Gotham was mourning, but for what? the loss of her innocence, or perhaps what her children had done to her. The wind was harsh on those autumn nights, and was cold and unforgiving. Gotham’s children knew that chill better than they had known full stomachs and warm bones. It was cold, it certainly was at the heights of those lonely rooftops, and yet– yet all Jason felt was heat.

It built inside of him like a a roaring furnace, fuelling him. Not to fight a crusade for Gotham. Jason lived and breathed Gotham, and he knew that her saviour was not one man fighting symptoms of a virus that had long since taken root. He wasn’t that man. God, no.

He was not as frivolous as that. He was the protector of those not able to protect themselves from the symptoms of Gotham’s disease. He was rage. It warmed him, burned him as he grappled from building to building. He was immune to Gotham’s icy howls, if only for tonight.

Tonight, he was taking down one of Gotham’s drug trafficking rings. Well, taking out. He wasn’t going to kill anyone– he had obliged to the Bat’s rules to play nice– but he had not consented to no explosions. That would thoroughly set back their progress and give the Red Hood some time to convince them to play by his rules.

Jason dropped to the ground silently, slipping pat perimeter guards. There weren’t as many as usual tonight, so he had less to worry about if things went south. The few guards that had noticed him were quieted with the butt of his gun to their heads. He made his way around the compound, planting explosives as he went. After planting the last one, he decided to make himself known to give the guards some chance of coming out of that compound alive. If they didn’t, well, collateral damage.

“Awful weather we’re having, am I right?” he called, swinging into the guards’ line of sight. The noticed him immediately, shouting at each other to call for backup. He let them chase him, let them get too close before he vaulted away again. It was almost a game, and hey, if he was saving these poor dolts while doing it, why couldn’t it be? His job was done, and he figured that toying with some goons once in a while wasn’t a crime. “I noticed you’ve got some heating in this place. How much does it cost at this end of the city?”

His response came in the form of a bullet grazing his shoulder. Jason growled. Fine. He’ll be serious and leave. They had more than enough time by now. “I hope you fools like the present I left ‘ya.” He pointed his grapple at the nearest rooftop and sailed away, gunfire peppering his departure.

Then, three things happened at once. Or rather, in such close proximity to each other that it seemed like it. One: Jason activated the detonator. Two: A bullet ripped through his abdomen– a lucky shot. Three: He fell. The ground raced to meet him, and he met it, with a sickening thud.

Now a different fire ran through him, alongside the rage that previously burned. This was blinding and invited dark spots to dance in his vision. It was consuming, and there was nothing other than its presence. It was agony, and it was deafening as it screamed at him. Jason cursed under his breath. The goons had gotten lucky. Thankfully, they didn’t seem to be following him. He grunted, pushing himself against the alley wall. That brought a whole new array of colours into is vision. He bit out more curses through the pain.

Once situated as comfortably as possible in his situation against the alley wall, he sucked in some air. He needed to assess his injuries and work from there. That’s what B always said to do. The most pressing matter was his side. His hands were sticky with blood from pressing the wound, but it didn’t help much. The liquid still spilled onto the floor of the alleyway, creating a growing puddle. That definitely was not good. His vision still was hazy, but he suspected it was from blood loss rather than a concussion. He tried moving his legs, only to let out a fresh string of curses. Ow, that was not happening. Yeah, not a good idea. His best guess was that his left leg was most likely broken.

He needed to get medical help. His bike– which was parked several blocks away– was out of the question. No way could he use a grappling hook with so much blood loss. He really wished he’d finished installing that comm unit in his helmet– he could maybe call someone for help. But that wasn’t an option. He was stuck in an alleyway, with a broken leg, alone and bleeding out. Just great.

His eyes flitted up to the sky. It was clear and cloudless, not that you would be able to make out any stars in Gotham’s polluted air. But the moon. The moon was bright against that dark drapery of night, and its slivery glow cast onto Jason’s injured body. It didn’t help his headache. He tried angling his face away from it only to hiss in pain.

Jason groaned. Well, he couldn’t just sit here and go quietly. He steeled himself and gripped the wall in an attempt to stand up. It was dizzying and hurt like hell, but he grit his teeth and stood. Good, he thought. Now, one step at a time. One, two. One, two. One– he fell to the ground with a crashing thud.

Well, isn’t this a fun day, he grumbled. He regrettably (because ow) crawled back to the wall. He needed to get someone’s attention. Hell, he was desperate at this point. Superman would even do. Was he off-planet? It was worth a try. He tried speaking but was cut off by a bout of coughing. That did not make his side any happier. He opened the front of his helmet the let himself breathe. Sucking in all the breath his lungs could hold, he yelled. “Superman!”

Jason waited. Nothing. Wonderful. He pressed his head against the cold concrete of the alley wall, trying to clear his head. If only he weren’t so tired. Two minutes, he promised himself. Two minutes to rest before he tried again.

He closed his eyes. Of course, he knew that if he drifted off completely, he may not wake up. If that were to happen, Jason wondered who would be tasked with writing his second obituary. He’d better be getting a new headstone for what it’s worth as well.

His train of thought came crashing to a stop when he heard a familiar low rumble. An engine, he realized. Aw hell. Those goons might’ve finally tracked him down. He cracked an eyelid open to catch a glimpse of the new visitor. He didn’t see anyone. Wait, no– he craned his neck, finally sighting the vehicle.

The Batmobile. He never thought he’d be so happy to smell its nasty fumes. B must have used the rockets on the back. Speaking of which, where was the Dark Knight?

He opened his other eye to find Batman. Jason let out a breathy chuckle. “Hey, B-man.” God, talking hurt. Batman grunted.

“Let’s get you in the car, Jay-lad.”

With hissing and cursing thought would have cost him fifty bucks in Alfred’s swear jar, the two made it to the car. “‘M gonna bleed all over your seats, B,” Jason warned, if not a little weakly. Batman ignored him. He braced himself as the car pulled onto the main streets, rocketing towards the Cave.

_______________

Jason must have passed out at some point because he woke up in the damp air of the Cave. The cot he lay on was all too familiar from his Robin days, but he was secretly a little grateful that he didn’t have to take care of himself. Thankfully, his side had been cleaned and bandaged and his leg set while he was out. He figured that Bruce must have slipped some sedatives into the IV that stood beside him. That would explain why his head felt so light, and his eyes felt so heavy. He gave into its lulling numbness and slept.

Bruce was with him the next time he awoke. He looked like he’d been sitting there a long time, which was silly. Bruce clearly had better things to do. “How are you feeling, Jay?”

He shrugged or tried to, rather. Either way, Bruce got the message. “How’d you find me?” he croaked.

“I saw the explosion. Heard you a few minutes later.”

“How’d you know it was me?”Bruce stopped.

“Jason, I’d know your voice anywhere,” he said, carding his fingers through Jason’s hair.

Jason couldn’t find the incentive to berate him for the action. Silence filled the cave once again as Jason thought. Was the Cave always this gaping? “Why’d you come?” he finally asked. His voice was as quiet as the dark crevices of the Cave.

“What are you talking about?” Bruce countered, looking bewildered. “Why wouldn’t I come? You’re my son, Jay.”

“But the whole thing after… after I came back… and with Tim…” He studied the wrinkled fabric of the blanket that covered him, trying to hold back the tears that threatened his vision. “I tried to kill all of you, Bruce. How could… how could you want me back?” His final words came tumbling out.

“Oh, Jason…” Bruce murmured, enveloping the boy in his arms. They might have had their differences, but when all was said and done, at the end of the day, Jason was his son. “ You know, there’s this quote Dick likes to say,” he started. He cleared his throat dramatically and continued in his best impression of what had to be Stitch. “ ‘Ohana means family, and family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.’”

Jason groaned into Bruce’s shirt. “You’re the worst.”

Bruce chuckled, hugging Jason’s head closer. “I mean it, Jay. No matter what happens, I’m not going to stop loving or worrying over you.”

“It’s not me you should be worried about B,” Jason said, suddenly mischievous. “I think I might call Disney to sue you for copyright violations.”

“You wouldn’t do that, would you?” Bruce feigned a look of betrayal.”Because I can and will buy Disney if that’s the case.”

Jason flopped back onto the cot, a grin shining through the tears that still lingered. “Nah. On grounds of loving you and all that.”

“Get some rest, Jay,” Bruce said, patting his son’s shoulder. “You don’t have to, but I’d appreciate if you stayed here for a while, at least until you heal up.”

The boy considered it. Then he remembered: Alfred’s cooking his whole stay? Hell yes. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

Bruce smiled. Misfortune might love his children, but he loved them more.

#bruce wayne is a good dad #batman #ficlet #jason todd #red hood #batfam #hurt/comfort #dc comics #superman #dick grayson #lemony snicket #quote fic #quote #minor angst #oneshot #fanfic

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antiquechampagne · 5 years ago

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Antique Champagne - Chapter 35 - Reaction

The more time she spent in her new room, even with how small it was, the more comfortable and lived in it became. After a while, it started to feel like home.

“It’s still a waste of caps,” growled Fahr.

Payne had shown up for work, right in the middle of an argument between Hancock and Fahr.

“It doesn’t matter, I’ve already given the guy the go ahead.”

Fahrenheit gave a frustrated grunt while running her pointer finger roughly across her temple. Shifting her glare to Payne she pleaded, “Please talk some sense into this ghoul.”

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“You should appreciate this, Payne.” He turned to her with a look that landed somewhere between smug and cheeky. “I found a traveling engineer who says he can install a system that can supply hot water to the State House!” He gave a wide smile. “Then Diamond City won’t have the market cornered on hot showers anymore!”

Payne had a hard time hiding her surprise. Hot water on demand was incredibly rare. It had been such a long time since she even thought about a warm bath on demand or hot shower, she had forgotten how much she missed them.

“Well… if it works here, then maybe it would work at the Rexford too. It might bring some more business in.” Fahr fiery glared leveled itself full force at her. “What? You saying improving the average resident’s hygiene isn’t a good thing for the town?”

“This whole thing is a waste of time and caps!” Fahr nearly growled as she left the room, no doubt to go nurse her bruised ego.

Hancock gave Payne a playful jab on the shoulder. “I knew you’d have my back! Let’s celebrate!” Hancock grabbed a couple of bottles from the bar.

The evening progressed just as Payne had anticipated. She had ‘celebrated’ quite a few of Hancock and Fahr’s disagreements. She found it easier to curb his benders when he stayed in; thankfully, that appeared to be his intention for the night. As the moon was well overhead, Hancock had settled on the couch. Payne had leaned lazily against the bar. He had been talking about his plans for upgrading the neon signs just outside the walls when he circled back around to the day’s previous argument.

“It’s a real maze out there, especially if you’re new to downtown. I think maybe a few more signs could help out with that.” He twirled an empty jet container in his palm. “But that new water tank, I think it could really elevate the town… take some of the stuffing out of the Great Green Jewel.” His words dripped with sarcasm. He let out a little huff. “I do kinda miss them, ya know? I never appreciated that warm and clean feeling until it was just out of reach.” Hancock turned to her. “Anything you miss?”

“Miss? Miss about what?”

“About out west. Maybe something that isn’t around anymore.” He stared absentmindedly at the cracked ceiling. “I dunno.”

Payne leaned back, shuffling through her memories. After a moment, all she could do was shrug. “Guess if I could, I would bring back proper ice cream. I could kill for a half way decent float.”

“Float?”

“Yeah. If you can find some half-decent vanilla ice cream, put a big scoop into a chilled glass. Fill it with an ice-cold Nuka-Cola. A lot of people preferred Sunset Sarsaparilla, but I never liked that stuff. Oh man, on a summer day it just hits the spot…or hit the spot.”

Hancock started tossing the Jet canister idly in the air, repeatedly catching it one handed. “What do you think you’d be doing if the world didn’t go to shit?”

“Easy,” Payne smirked. “I’d be dead.”

“Bah, that’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He playful tossed the canister at her. “I mean… did you have plans for the whole white picket fence, husband, 2.5 kids, apple pies… that pre-apocalypse whole shtick?”

She snorted. “Are you kidding me? No guy in their right mind would try and get hitched to me! I was the daughter of an ex-call girl-turned-independent brothel owner. The only men burning down my door were the ‘get the milk for free’ kind.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “Beside, that whole scene wasn’t really my style. Too much commitment for my taste.” She smiled. “Not that marriage vows meant a whole lot to the people frequenting our establishment. Many were men in loveless marriages trying to relive their glory bachelor days. No thanks.”

Hancock raised an imaginary glass and toasted her. “But you surely must have had your eye on someone!”

What was with this sudden interest in her prewar love life? “I had a few exes over the years, but nothing stuck. I’ve got a pretty open with the whole relationship thing. Most people don’t know how to handle that, even if they say their okay with it.” She shrugged.

“Amen, sister!”

Before she could start needling Hancock over his own proclivities, Fahrenheit appeared in the doorway.

“Turn on the radio,” she ordered.

Perplexed, Payne walked over to the relic sitting on an end table and turned the knob. The sounds of gun shots and a struggle.

“Oh my god, what’s happening?” Kent’s voice shook with fright.

A woman’s voice cut in. “On your knees, dirt bag!”

“Wha..What are you doing?” Kent let out a pained grunt.

“Sinjin, all clear.”

Another voice came over the radio. Sinjin. “This is the Shroud’s headquarters… so you must be the Silver Shroud’s little friend”

Kent stammered a muffled “Yes” in reply.

“If you want to see your friend alive, Shroud, meet me at Milton General Hospital.”

“Don’t do it, Shroud!” Kent yelled. “It’s a trap! Save yourself!”

BANG!

Kent cried out in agony. “Oh my god! Do it, Shroud! Do it! Oh, my knee!”

“Tick tock, Shroud,” Sinjin warned. “don’t keep me waiting. We’ve got business that needs finishing.”

“It just keeps repeating,” Fahr said.

Numb, Payne turned off the radio. The shock hit her like a 2 by 4 to the forehead. “What the fuck?” Payne turned to Hancock, who was now bolted upright.

“That gangster-wannabe asshole. Sinjin is going to pay for this with his blood.”

Recovering Payne asked Hancock, “How did Sinjin get Kent out of town? Did anyone see anything?” She turned to Fahrenheit.

“Irma’s beside herself with regret. She tried to stop them, but there were too many. I’ll find out who let this happen, how they got in.”

“Good. Fahr, send out runners, too.” A deadly kind of determination suffused Hancock’s words. “Find Nate. Make sure he is here as fast as possible.”

Fahr turned on her heels, already barking orders to the Watchmen nearby.

Payne could see dread seep into Hancock’s steely expression as the gravity of the situation hit her as well. Both of them feared for their dear friend’s life.

By early morning, every Watchman had been severely interrogated by not only Fahrenheit, but Hancock as well. The only thing anyone noticed was hearing a commotion in one of the alleys in town. When the guard went to investigate, no one was there.

The trio quickly converged on the alley with a gaggle of haggard looking Watchmen. They combed through the cluttered dirty back street.

They were nearly to the dead end when Hancock stooped down. He picked something up from a pile of rotting rags that had been pushed aside by what had been Bobbi No-Nose’s secret door. He rubbed his fingers over it, cleaning the grime of the small enamel pin.

Payne recognized it immediately. “That’s Kent’s. I gave it to him the first time we met.”

Hancock’s eyes narrowed.

They all turned as the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps echoed off brick walls of the alley. An out of breath runner quickly turned the corner.

“The Shroud…” she huffed, “was about a half an hour north. He’s on his way.”

With a nod and wave, Hancock dismissed her. Turning back to Fahr he issued an order. “Check the warehouse and move all supplies still housed there to the backup storeroom. Brick this whole building up. Look for any other exploitable gaps in the security of our walls. Plug everything.”

Payne followed Hancock out of the alley, leaving Fahr organize the Watch and start securing the town.

Back in the Old State House, Hancock and Payne shoved extra ammo and meds into their pockets and pouches. In her room, she happened upon the veil she had worn the night she danced with Kent dressed as the Mistress of Mystery. Carefully, she pulled her hair back and tied it with securely with the veil’s strings before fitting her helmet over her head. Dread started to build up in the back of Payne’s mind like a backed-up pipe, looming on the edge of her thoughts. As she returned upstairs, Nate burst through the doors followed by a hovering rusted white robot.

“Hancock!” He called.

The mayor motioned him in. “We need to leave now, Nate, and we need to travel fast.” He looked to the Vault Dweller’s new companion. “Find an upgrade while you were out scavving?”

“Hancock, this is Curie. She’s quite the special Miss Nanny robot.”

“This must be Monsieur Hancock, I presume.” The robot wave one of its three arms in his direction. “Monsieur Nate has told me so much about you. It is a pleasure to meet such a fascinating specimen at last.”

Hancock seemed a bit taken by surprise by her flowery speech. “Um, thank you.” He shook his head. “As much as I would love to make your acquaintance, we really need to get going.” He turned to Nate. “I think it might be best if you leave your robot here.”

Curie’s arms whirled in annoyance. “I am the top of the line of RobCo technology. I assure you I am capable of this.”

“No offense, but if Milton General is like the rest of the hospitals around, there are a lot of tight corridors, dead ends and bottlenecks just screaming for traps full of Psycho-filled raiders. In my experience, your model’s jet engine a bit conspicuous and,” he pointed to the large circular sawblade attached to the end of one of her three arms. “I don’t fancy my coat, or any body part, getting on the wrong arm of that accidentally.”

Nate put a hand on Curie’s floating round chassis. “He has a point, Curie. I think I am going to ask you to stay here while we take care of this.”

Curie’s arms drooped as she sagged a bit closer to the floor in disappointment. “But there is so much left for me to see in this new world…”

“I know.” Nate gave her a little pat. “When I come back, we can head back out on the road. In the meantime, why don’t you see if you and Dr. Amari in the Memory Den have any research you can share. I’m sure the two of you can find some common ground.”

“As you wish.” Her eyestalks focused on Nate. “Please be careful out there, Monsieur. Until we meet again.”

#antique champagne #ao3 #fan fiction #fanfic #fan fic #fallout #fallout 4 #payne #sosu #fahrenheit #hancock #kent #sinjin

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breezethegame · 6 years ago

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Dev Log #1-ish?

Seeing how I missed like two weeks of mini blog posts, I’m deeming this one an actual “Devlog” (fanfare and such yada yada). I'm just going to call it a Dev Log.

So much has gone on the last few weeks that I’m struggling to piece it all together, so here is an attempt:

Computer Adventures:

So, I don’t haven’t built a dev machine from the ground up for years now, (maybe since college?) and typically just upgrade parts as I see fit (graphics card, ram, processor, etc).

Well, my motherboard has been giving me problems for close to a year now, where it occasionally decides “yeah, don’t really care about your boot device today”, as well as other miscellaneous things that required me to do things like removing the CMOS battery or main drive. I was also running out of upgrade options, so I got a bit fed up and decided it might be time to replace it.

I wasn't going to be cost-effective to get another LGA1150 board and CPU, and I try to build computers with future-proofing in mind. I was also looking to get a smaller case too. I already had a nice GPU (GTX 1070) that I got a couple years ago before cryptocurrency “did the thing” and graphics card's prices got ridiculous, so didn’t have to worry about replacing that.

Ultimately, I decided to do a "completely new" build.

I’ve been building computers for friends and family for many years, so I literally woke up the next day and said, “I’m about to build this thing blind”.

Well, kinda learned the hard way of the hassle of going at it that way (along with committing a couple noobish mistakes)...

Shopping Time!

Lesson 1: Double check store inventory before heading to a store that's 20 miles away

Well, I choose the nearest Fry's Electronics (it was Saturday, and I really wanted to get a machine built the same day). I get there and start looking for all of the cases and motherboards (severally disappointed that they only had one Micro ATX board in stock, something I was looking to get for the more compact build, but not as restrictive as a Mini-ITX, which they had several of). Impatient as ever, I decided I was going to pick it up.

While looking at other things, I hear another customer talking to sales rep, and the rep mentions that they don’t have a certain CPU in stock. After listening even more (I’m noisy, sorry), he mentions that they have NO Intel CPUs in stock. I decided that I had to get in on this convo.

He informs up that as of late, their store may receive like, 10 at a time, and also mentions that their other location doesn’t have any either (both of these locations are 20+ miles away from me in Dallas).

I also find out that they don’t have the specific ram I was looking for either (I ended up getting something a little pricier). He ends up informing me that the Micro Center 10 minutes away from where we were should have some CPUs.

So I end up at the Micro Center and they did have the CPUs, as well as a case that caught my attention. They also had a lot of other nice things too! Kind of wished I would have known to go to Micro Center first, despite it being much farther from home.

Building Time!?

Lesson Two: Get a head-start of figuring out your plan for wire management and how pieces will fit in your new case

I got home and was ready to build. I spent a lot of time trying to get the interior wire management together since it’s a much smaller case than my last one. I ended up spending a couple of hours getting it just right (I don’t intend to go back into this machine once it’s complete since I’m nearly maxing it out spec wise for now), before moving out to everything else.

Getting my old water-cooling radiator in was a bit tough (a very tight squeeze), but after that, adding in the ram, etc was a Breeze.

Hours went by, I installed Windows, software, etc…

I go to shut it down (after having done several restarts for the software installs prior), and it doesn’t want to power off. After 10 minutes of waiting, I manually power it off. Whatever, I’m super tired at this point.

The next day (Last Sunday), I’ve encountered several other smaller issues. Updating the BIOS didn’t help either. Great…

Okay, Building Time For Real

Lesson 3: Kinda make sure things boot up and work before you get too early to clean/tighten things down in your build

After taking the whole thing apart, I ended up swapping out that mobo for another of the same kind (since Frys didn’t have any others), but then ended up ordering different board on Amazon. So waited another day or so and the new board arrived (it’s now Tuesday evening).

I rewired/rebuilt the computer once again, installed the software, etc. I spent most of Wednesday day checking in with the team and catching up with emails and such. Then Thursday as I was beginning to do some work, I noticed that the computer was saying that my Windows wasn’t activated. I go to my Microsoft account to retrieve my key, and the page wouldn’t load to provide me the key and would only show the transaction.

Lesson 4: Make sure to keep your activation key(s) somewhere other than online/digital if you can

It’s super late and the option to speak to someone was obviously closed, but they had a chat option, so I reached someone through there. After back and forth for a while, and him remoting into the machine to check the activation status, he tells me that the key might not be showing up because it was an “upgrade”, so I would need to buy another copy of Windows 10 again.

Lesson 5: Tell "Aaron" from Microsoft no over and over, and don't fall for possibly sketchy things like sales pitches that come out of nowhere

I originally bought Windows Home and upgraded it to Pro on the same day back in 2015, so I told him that and he kept insisting that I buy Windows 10 again. I refused and told him that I wouldn’t and that I’d take care of this in the morning, and he then offered that I could pay a smaller fee to reactivate my Windows 10, but it would be a one time fee of like, $40. (I refused again).

When I go to end the remote session, he then informs me that he “Really wants to help me out” and ends up activating it anyway. (This whole thing seemly suspicious, I ended up recording it). I watched him activate Windows for over 10 minutes through some manual process (it's almost 2am, and I had work in the morning). He eventually finishes and thanks/apologies. Not sure why I even had to go through all that, but whatever...

I ended up spending Friday wrapping up installs and doing a fresh system backup afterward, before moving along with pulling down the Breeze project from source control, and reminding myself of where I left off…

Anyway, long story short, I tried to get a system built in a day, and it ends up taking almost a week!

Okay, but did you get any dev done these last two weeks?

Yeah, somehow!

Health Bar and Health System:

First thing the team and I did was evaluate a few things that are critical, but we’ve been bouncing back and forth on: The Health System

(WIP of a concept we're working on for his health bar)

The reason for this is mostly for game balancing purposes:

Is this a game that focuses on having Breeze (the player) overwhelm his opponents with an array of abilities (think Devil May Cry/Bayonetta, Kingdom Hearts, God of War?)

Or is this a game where Breeze must focus on finding openings to deal damage and avoid an onslaught of danger (think Hollow Knight, Ori, Megaman, pretty much most NES/SNES platformers)

Game design… is hard at times. Sometimes you think something will work well in theory, but when you get down into the specifics, you begin to question how certain things will balance out.

You’d think something like designing a health bar isn’t too trivial, until you realize that the Health bar represents the player’s health, and the player’s health influences the character’s survivability, which is then tied to other factors: what options does the player have to “survive” and what threatens that?

Anyway, not going to get too deep into that because I lack the PhD.

Basically, there was a bit of a rift in the UI design process that led to really evaluating game design items, and I’ve been working towards seeing what Breeze’s options are and how to limit them in areas, or how I can build the world and it’s inhabitants in a way that will make this all work out.

It’s not going to be something that will likely be answered quickly, but nevertheless, that’s Game Design™ sometimes...

Frame Data:

[Insert Craig of the Creek frame data meme here]

I used to have a really convoluted way of tackling this in which I would have events in the animation that if given an ID, it will look for a set of “Frame Data” and then look for a specific frame and then load that information up.

It would then pass that frame information into the active hitbox and if something is in it, math and physics and stuff would happen.

I didn’t change this up too much, but I did reduce the setup process by allowing you to just drop the FrameData right into the frame of the animation (no more extra array and ID lookup stuff!)

New Particles:

We’ve got new particles! There’s one for jumping/landing/dashing dust, as well as one for wall sliding.

In the last update, I added a feature that generates “points” at the edges of a character’s collider box (as well as other “checks”), so this helped in making sure that the particles are created in the right place. This was especially challenging with the wall sliding particle.

Also, with the wall sliding particle, I needed to implement a way to have a “looping” particle effect, as well as making sure the particle effect follows Breeze as he’s moving down the wall

Developing Sprite Model Sheets

We've got models sheets completed for just about all of the cast members, though, since there's several artists on the project, as well as animators (including I), I wanted to get some sheets together that would work as a base for animators to use, and to eliminate elements that aren't needed in the sprites (minor details that would be seen in promotional art or more detailed art in general), as well as get a proper size for the characters in-game.

Misc. Features

I’ve done various other quality of life code changes to make it easier to do certain things, like creating new attacks, making the screen pause/slow-mo when Breeze changes forms, and updated my Debugging Manager so that I can hide/show certain debug messages.

I’ve also been working on a RoomManager, and writing features to look handle what happens when the player enters a room (like starting a cutscene, showing UI, spawning things, etc)

I’ve also been looking into updating the game’s Music Handler, mostly for how to handle looping a song after it's intro plays, as well as finding ways to add effects to tracks!

Other Breeze things:

I’ve been working on getting shirts done through Teespring, and I would have loved to show off some of the shirts I ordered, but Teespring shipped them using DHL, and somewhere between DHL and USPS, my shirts have been sitting in shipping limbo for 5-6 days, despite being like a city or two away from me… Maybe tomorrow ~

Also, working on a couple of enamel pin designs! Haven’t figured out the maker yet, but designs are coming along nicely!

Quick Test Build Coming

So, a week or two ago, I planned on releasing a quick build for the Drop Tier backers and above. There was a lot of features and such that I wanted to get done... before my computer stuff happened. Our goal was to have one out before the end up March, so....

I’m going to release one anyway. Maybe tomorrow?

I’ll be creating a post for those in the eligible tiers once I’m done compiling/building it! Please keep in mind that this build will be very minimal and exists to test out controls/physics. I wanted to make a strong first impression, but I'll chill on the whole "striving for perfection" thing for now!

Also, I'm on vacation this week, so I'll be cramming on Breeze stuff this whole week to make up for lost time!

#Breeze in the Clouds #game development #Indiegame #patreon #Breeze #sodo

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 6 years ago

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The Witches of Los Angeles, Chapter 1: I am apparently not wasting any time starting in on the next installment of this saga!

[ao3] [Seelie of Kurain masterlist]

“But what if, even after all of this, I make it to the end, and nobody will hire me? That nobody’s willing to work with a teenage attorney and I just – can’t do anything because I don’t have anywhere to go?”

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs’ there, kiddo. But if – if – you get your badge, do your searching, can’t find a single office in the LA area willing to take on a prodigy – then there’s always my office. It’s sure as hell not a law office right now, but it’d give you a space to work out of.”

It’s a bad time for the phone to ring. Even if Edgeworth was still in Europe, he’s always been good at working around the time difference (and he knew that at the odd hours of the night, even if Phoenix was awake, he’d be in the basement of the club with no reception) and never just called at a time that would make Phoenix panic. And it can’t be Maya or Pearls, with no sense of time, because he worked with Iris (the only one of them who understood human needs for sleep) to put an enchantment on his phone that stopped them from calling him about things that weren’t life-threatening at 2 am.

In the time it takes him to fumble for his phone, he has gone through the options: Trucy snuck out and got arrested for underage drinking or trespassing or arson or whatever teen girls do to have fun in the small hours of the morning. Edgeworth got murdered staying too late at his office. Apollo got into some sort of trouble, though Phoenix’s imagination has never been able to figure out what Apollo would be doing out and in trouble at this hour (though if he really considers possibilities, Klavier is probably also involved). Or Thalassa had something happen to her, or she found out what lost, forbidden knowledge he and Maya have been chasing for the sake of her soul and with no regard for time wants to yell at him.

Bleary-eyed, he doesn’t check the caller ID and simply answers. “Phoenix Wright speaking.”

“Mr Wright! Mr Wright! I passed! I passed!”

Or, the option he hadn’t considered. “Time zones, please,” he groans, resting his face back against his pillow. “It’s two am and – wait.” He sits back up, blinking at the dark room like written somewhere in it will be something to help him replay the words she just said. “You passed?”

“The Bar results came today! I passed! Athena Cykes, barred and badged attorney at the ready! I’ve got a flight booked tomorrow and stuff packing now! Vámonos!”

Oh, god. Athena never lets him forget that she lives her entire life in a frantic rush. “Slow down, kiddo,” he says, knowing that she absolutely will not but feeling obligated to try to make her do so anyway. “Do you have somewhere you’re working? A place to live?”

“No to the second, yes to the first.”

“Well, that’s probably something you should do before you come back. I can give you a hand, but you shouldn’t have too much trouble finding a place.” There are always cheap available apartments in a city built this close to faery hills – or mountains, as it is. The unpredictable, not-typical-SoCal weather would probably be enough to send people running, but Phoenix also has a theory that the city itself has enough of a life force that it decides what people it doesn’t want and gives them little mental nudges to make them leave. (To the people it does want, it gives cheap rent and depression.)

“So where are you working?” he adds. He doesn’t know every defense attorney in the city, but he knows of most of them. (Athena’s a sharp, emotionally intelligent kid. He doesn’t need to vet her entire career for her. She’d figure out quick enough if she was working for someone nasty.)

“Uh, have you forgotten, and isn’t it obvious – Boss?”

Phoenix manages not to swear out loud, which he thinks is rather impressive of him, all things considered. His mind racing, he tries to remember if he ever directly offered Athena a job or simply positioned himself as the backup-backup plan, the last resort, because he isn’t a boss or a mentor and all he knows how to be is the shelter that collects stray kids fucked up and fucked over by fae magic where he can’t do much worse to them than has already been done. And Athena isn’t one of them.

(Isn’t she?)

No, Athena shouldn’t be here.

And then what he says is, “Ah. Right,” as his mouth once again keeps going ahead of his brain. “You know,” he adds, knowing that it’s probably too late but needing to try, “you don’t have to just charge in like this. You can look for other places instead of just coming with me because I was the first option. You’ve got time. It’s not like there’s some kind of door that’s about to slam in your face.”

Midlife crisis before she’s out of her teens, that’s the impression that she gives him. Like she thinks her entire life will be useless if she doesn’t have a badge and a certain number of cases under her belt before she turns nineteen. Like there’s an end line she’s afraid of tripping over that no one else can see, but because she’s a damn kid Phoenix is terrified she’s going to get chewed up like Franziska and Klavier and Sebastian all were, ripped apart and rearranged by the heartless, manipulative people who stood behind them.

(And Athena doesn’t have one of those, not now, not yet, but Phoenix doesn’t have any reservations about what he is, what even more he could be.)

“I can do stuff now, so I’m gonna do it! Also the plane ticket can only be canceled 24 hours in advance, and the flight is closer than that, so I really can’t stop now.”

Knowing that she can’t see him, Phoenix still shakes his head. “And where are you planning on staying until you find housing?” he asks.

He might be able to guess the answer to this one, too. And that is its own can of worms for him to lie in, but if she’s working at the Agency, then – well, he can keep an eye on her but still distance himself, and she’ll have Apollo to show her the ropes. She could learn a lot from him, and he from her. It might – scratch that, it would definitely – be good for Apollo to have another lawyer to work with. And he knows that Apollo, unlike most others, shouldn’t be too freaked out by Athena’s powers. No one’s normal at the WAA. Maybe it is the best place for Athena, in spite of himself.

(No, he’s going to need to repeat that to himself a few hundred more times before he believes it.)

“So Trucy kinda said that maybe I could crash on your couch? Or her bedroom floor. Or the fire escape! I mean, all I really need is a shower and a flat surface, and I guess I’m gonna get a gym membership and they’ll have showers, so I could sleep at the office too!”

“I am not going to make you sleep at the office,” Phoenix says. Mia wouldn’t allow him to do that. “I’m not sure where you would hang your clothes, anyway.”

“Is that – is that you being cool with Trucy’s floor?”

Is it? He’s lost on everything else so far he’s tried to bargain with Athena on. “Living room couch. She’s got school, and you’ve got a law career, and I know you’ll be talking to the middle of the night like it’s a sleepover if you stay in the same room.”

“Thank you! Thanks so much!”

“And you’re gonna be looking for apartments from the start, but I think that goes without saying.”

“Definitely. I wasn’t planning on couchsurfing forever. I mean, mostly because you’re the only option I have.”

“What, you haven’t asked Edgeworth?” He at least would have a spare bedroom, though Athena would probably eat him out of the house in a day.

“Wait, I could? Unless there’s like – there’s not any rules against a defense attorney bunking with a prosecutor, right?”

If there are rules like that, then Phoenix and Edgeworth have already broken most of them. There are very few actual rules, and Phoenix has broken most of those too. “No, though you’d be bunking with the Chief Prosecutor now, you know.”

“Oh man, really? I keep thinking about how I’ve come so far since I met you two, but I guess you’ve both come a long ways too!”

“The two of you have.” And Phoenix stuck as always, as ever. He’s what he’s made of himself and nothing more.

“Don’t say that, Mr Wright! I’ve been reading about what you’ve been doing. And you could take the Bar again, I’m sure! You definitely should. I passed! You would too! You did before!”

Phoenix snorts. “Thanks, but I’m not so sure. I’m a little less lucky than I was when I first passed.” Does he owe Iris and her blessing for passing the Bar on the first try? Probably, and he doesn’t want to dwell on that much.

“Still. I think you should. Then we’d have three lawyers, me and what did Trucy say his name was, Apollo! And you. We’d be an unbeatable team!”

It would be nice to have her optimism. He has no way of responding that she won’t hear his doubt, so he goes for the redirect. “You should let Edgeworth know you got your badge, even if you don’t ask him if you can crash at his place. He’d like to know how you’ve been doing, and I’m not sure if you’d see him in person any time soon. Chief Prosecutor stuff is keeping him really busy.” Worryingly busy, in fact. There’s a lot of corruption to clean up, Phoenix knows, but more and more he wonders if there’s something else, something on top of the base level of corruption that’s eating up all of Edgeworth’s time.

“I’ll email him. And then I’ll see you soon! This week! Two days! One plane ride away, Boss! And then it’s gonna be awesome, I just know it!”

After she hangs up, he stares at the dark floor, at the thin lines of the city lights seeping in around the window shades, for a long time. It would be nice, unfathomably so, if she was right. If the the constant expectation gnawing at the back of Phoenix’s skull was wrong. Let her be right, and for once, let everything – or even just something – turn out all right.

Edgeworth calls in the morning, causing Phoenix to realize something: he both worries when he doesn’t hear from Edgeworth, and when he does. He didn’t sleep well after Athena’s call, worrying about that too, and her, and this realization that he feels responsible for her like a father and that’s the last goddamn thing he wanted. “What’s up?” he asks through a yawn, and there is silence on the other end of the line, Edgeworth clearly reassessing whether Phoenix is the best person for whatever the problem is. Or maybe he still thinks Phoenix is the right person, but Saturday morning not the right time to have a serious conversation.

Then he sighs and says, “Wright, I have a… a favor to ask. A special request.”

“Ominous. So how can I help?” It’s not the way he would respond to anyone else; it’s a rule he’s had since he met Mia and started tangling with the fae, to never agree to any request without knowing the terms. But it’s Edgeworth. Phoenix sets different rules for him.

“I want you to clear one of my subordinates of suspicion.”

“Edgeworth, that’s like, the one thing I can’t do for you. I’m not a lawyer, remember? Haven’t been for longer than I ever was.”

“And you aren’t at all eager to return?”

“Eh.” Is he? What does he want to do? He doesn’t know anymore, hasn’t had time to ever figure it out. Who is he when he’s not trying to keep Kristoph from doing more harm, when not flailing to keep himself and Trucy afloat and alive?

(He’s the person that Edgeworth asks for help on investigations, an invitation extended again and again even when Phoenix thought for sure he would give up in the face of “not now”s and “someday”s, that he wouldn’t wait like he did for the now and the someday. And he’d liked those investigations, more than getting to show Trucy more of the world, more than spending time with Edgeworth. And for everything else there was, he had enjoyed jumping behind the defense’s bench with Apollo, for more reason than finally getting to tear Kristoph down.)

(Maybe he does know, and maybe what he knows is that he misses being an attorney.)

“With everything cleared up, you would be able to, and I can’t imagine you just continuing to delegate everything to others.”

Does Edgeworth know him too well? Maybe, but as long as he doesn’t point out that the reason he can’t imagine Phoenix leaving things to other people is because Phoenix is paranoid, suspicious, and laden with trust issues, Phoenix can live with it. “Athena called last night and was saying I should retake the Bar, too.”

“I received an email from her, as well. I’m inclined to agree with her in regards to you.”

“I’ll think about it. But who exactly is it that you’d be asking me to – defend?” There hasn’t been any news this week of prosecutors arrested for crimes. If something happened recently, it’s been on tight lockdown. And if it wasn’t recently, then what?

“You’ll recall the Blackquill case?”

“Oh,” Phoenix says.

That was a case on tight lockdown, details unknown to Phoenix, but whatever happened was damning for Prosecutor Blackquill, who pled guilty and was convicted in barely a few hours. And even if more information had been released, Phoenix probably wouldn’t have looked that far into it; even a year and a half after his disbarment, he was still struggling to keep from drowning, too preoccupied with himself and Trucy and Kristoph and no room to consider yet another murdering prosecutor. (How many of those have there been?)

“Yes. He will…” Edgeworth sighs. “He will be standing in court again, very soon. I want you to keep an eye on him.”

If it was anyone but Edgeworth speaking, Phoenix would assume that he was asking Phoenix whether Blackquill was human or fae, to look with the Sight and get answers. But it’s Edgeworth, and he probably doesn’t mean that. “So if he’s standing in court, do you mean his conviction was overturned – but if you’re asking me to clear him, then that means he hasn’t been…?”

“He will be standing in court, prosecuting, as a convict.”

Phoenix closes his eyes and considers flinging himself face-first into the couch. He heads for the kitchen instead. “Well,” he says. “That’s still not the worst or weirdest thing a chief prosecutor has done.”

Silence. He probably shouldn’t have said that. He definitely shouldn’t have said that. “I thought I was getting good at the piano thing,” Phoenix adds, and Edgeworth snorts, “but I mean, I guess this is a job I could do. Is there anything more you can tell me about Blackquill? Like if Apollo and Athena were to end up facing him in court.”

“Or if you were, should you get your badge back.” The silence stands for a few more seconds, Phoenix not wanting to agree to that, not wanting to get Edgeworth’s hopes up until he himself is sure, and Edgeworth adds, “He isn’t… pleasant, exactly.”

“That could mean a lot of things. Some people might say that about you, y’know.”

“Hmph. I’m sure some people might also say that about you. But I might compare him to Franziska: tolerates very little nonsense, does not suffer fools lightly, and has a very broad definition of what counts for foolishness. He’s studied psychology as a tactic for the courtroom and when he isn’t threatening, he’s manipulative. And if you were to defend him, he still insists quite stringently that he is in fact a murderer, though I know you have had clients of that sort before.”

And you were one of them, Phoenix thinks. “So, tough client, and tough prosecutor.” Sounds like someone else Phoenix knows. “Apollo could use some experience going up against a hostile prosecutor.” The most hostility he’s had to deal with has been witnesses – not to discount the ordeals that Crescend and Gavin made of those trials – but Klavier is far too fond of him. (Which Phoenix can’t complain about because that’s worked out for his purposes and also for the Jurist System trial case.) “And psychology, huh. You’ve got him, and I’ll have Athena.”

Edgeworth hums a noncommittal acknowledgement.

“You don’t paint a flattering picture of the guy you want defended, though.”

“You deserve to know as much as I can tell you. I didn’t know him well when he first joined the office, but it’s my understanding that six and a half years in jail has sharpened anything that was ever tempered about him.”

That sounds achingly familiar, but not because of any of the prosecutors that Phoenix knows. Seven years is a long time to ferment and grow painfully bitter. “I suppose that makes sense,” he says. “I’ll keep that all under advisement. Anything else?”

“There is…” Edgeworth sighs and clicks his tongue. “There are a number of absurd rumors I’ve collected about him from other inmates and guards. It’s nothing I would pay heed to, but…” He sighs again.

“But?”

“They call him a witch.”

“Edgeworth, one of these days you’re going to have to accept the truth staring you in the face that these things are way more likely than you think.”

“Actually, I believe they are much less likely than you think, and your life is not accurate to the demographics of this city.”

“You met Kay, Lang, that shapeshifter lady, Sebastian, his bastard of a father, Judge Courtney, and whatever else was happening there, all within one month.”

The silence stretches for so long that Phoenix has to check to make sure Edgeworth hasn’t hung up on him. He goes to the pantry and finds that Trucy ate the last of the cereal. “Fine,” Edgeworth says at last. “People with magic have a tendency to move in packs. I will give you that. But Blackquill is… very much a loner, and I’ve spoken with him a number of times and seen nothing to suggest that he isn’t normal.”

“I guess I’ll have to meet him and see for myself.” It’s funny, really; Edgeworth’s disdain for cries of magic at anyone or anything that breaks a narrow mold nearly stopped him from mentioning the thing that has the best guarantee at bringing Phoenix in on this venture.

“I’m hoping to find a case for him in the next few days. I’ll let you know once I do. And the next exams are being administered in May, so you should get to studying for that.”

“Did I say that I was retaking it?”

“You’re already signed up and paid for, so I would really prefer you don’t let that go to waste.”

Phoenix nearly drops the phone. “Edgeworth. Edgeworth, tell me you’re joking—”

“I would never.”

“Didn’t you need my signature? Are we really starting my new career with more falsified—”

“Speaking of, I’ve meant to let you know that your daughter is worryingly good at forging your signature, and you should probably have a talk with her about that sort of thing.”

“You used my daughter for crimes—!”

“I also considered buying Miss Maya dinner for it, though I didn’t know which of those options you would have preferred less.”

Oh. Oh, Edgeworth is serious about it, about Phoenix getting his badge back, if he had considered making a deal with Maya over it. “You could’ve at least warned me and given me more than I don’t know, two weeks, to study!”

“And would you have used that extra time effectively?”

Phoenix drops his head against the refrigerator. He doesn’t know why he thought he would win against Edgeworth. He’s not even sure why he bothered to fight. “Okay, first of all, fuck you, and secondly – fuck you!”

Edgeworth chuckles. “Prosecutor Blackquill and I will see you in court, Wright.”

#fic: the witches of los angeles #roddy fanfics #do i also put this under the original 'seelie of kurain' fic tag just so everything is organized or do i just say fuck it #ANYWAY BOIS WE'RE LIVE AND HEADING DOWN INTO HELL #fic: the seelie of kurain

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hgfstreamchats · 5 years ago

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Halloween (2018)

Hello! Night human, hello! Are you playing music, or is it coming from somewhere else? It should be coming from my end. If it's not, well... Ah, good Follow the sound of the unexplicable Halloween theme for a magical adventure. I LOVE magical adventures! I like how some of the whipped cream disappeared mysteriously before they put the nutmeg on Very mysterious indeed. I assume the answer involves licking. The answer always involves licking. Is that considered humane? Just keep them standing around in the sun? I... have no idea what the exact setup is supposed to be, but presumably they're not outside all the time Wuh oh So the mask is supposed to be... a magic artifact now? Good old Pumpkin! It's... un-rotting! It's got things to do! Things to watch! Yes. Things.

The slit between the nose and the mouth kind of weirds me out there. You too? "well, surely they don't mean us" "Not us! We're starting things on a respectful note, comparing her to her almost-killer and a caged animal all within under the space of a minute!" "we've traveled a very long way... we didn't feel like trying to contact you ahead of time or make an appointment or anything, though" unbiased as SHIT "Here's 3000 dollars, now let us make a rubbing of your scar." IKR? "how the fuck should I know" I kinda hope this guy is the first victim. "We did, but we were sort of hoping to snap off a few shots of you crying." Likewise. I have a bad feeling about those mousetraps I hope they go off on Podcast Man's person. Somehow. That sounds like a lie That's Pumpkin's polar opposite, the disgusted one. The one who kinkshames. Kast, I swear to various gods, I will destroy you. Victim #2 Starscream! Hello! I finally beat the blasted thing into working. I did not want to miss the shenanigans. You haven't missed much! And so you didn't! A couple of idiot journalists went to bother the final girl from the first movie I'm glad. Today requires dead teenagers. And upset Michael's fellow patients for no reason. Ah, that is always a good idea. Ah, that is always a good idea. This one is aware she lives in a horror movie universe, isn't she. Yeah. Is *anyone* going to approach her and her very obvious trauma in anything resembling a respectful way? Probably not! Doubtful. wow awww man She clearly is not handling herself well. "It's not like this is a difficult day for you or anything." What kind of person doesn't shrug off a whole lot of her friends getting murdered and nearly getting murdered herself? Shiiiit I mean, we knew it was coming, but "don't get murdered" Who gave that child a rifle? Oh good, the kid has a gun I bet it'll do him a world of good I bet he startles and shoots his own father. cool, cool, investigate by yourself Well, you guessed close, anyway! And who's in the backs....yep That's about right. "And, don't forget, just naked enough for """fanservice"""" Let's see.... known serial killer on the loose on the night he's known for being extra murderous... Yes, maybe you should cancel Halloween. What can possibly go wrong?! Oh, great Lovely! Ugh He's very strong for an older fellow. Maybe should have given him a little less fresh air and healthy food. So, that's four more corpses. Think they will cancel Halloween yet? Says the soon-to-be-corpse Whatever you say, Corpse Number 5. Just think of how squirrelly she will be when her stupid family gets murdered for not listening to her. :( And journalists intrude on her privacy to ask her about it. Does no one in this town lock their door? Apparently not? Ham, never eaten. Oh, jeez He doesn There's no effort needed to get in. Oh, I like this little human. Awww. Yes, leave the door open. Every door in this town must be left open, so murderers can get in. Welp. "If you're cold, they're cold. Bring them in." Wow. What the fuck. I hope he is stabbed nineteen times. Uhh. "a noise like... a murderer?" Oh goody, dry! fuuuuck cue murder ...really, dude So I guess she didn't QUITE check everywhere That kid is going to need so much therapy. Run, sensible child! Run! Again, they know that they have a murderer problem. Why does he have no backup? Backup is for losers I think he wants to be murdered. "Captured" "so in a way, all this is his fault" It is not paranoia, if there really is something out there to get you. If only some shithead hadn't dropped her phone in the punch bowl, or soup, or whatevr that was facepalm . . . . Oh, I've heard that one. oh my god. dude stop Look at that, she managed to not be killed for the moment. ...Well, that took care of that! Double tap. Is it Ben Tramer? .... Well, that's a problem. Damn it. So did he survive that after all? Are there two of them now? Oh, he's not going to be happy about that. Now his mask has old man stink inside it. I admit I don't quite get how he did that through the grate He kicked the grate out. Ohhh His head was...overripe, apparently? I guess? That was a strange plot cul-de-sac ...I feel like taking the van would've been a better bet It's Pumpkin! Well, damn it Oh. No, no it isn't. Oh, no! That guy I hated is dead now! Hopefully she didn't like him too much. I don't like that he gets to survive most of the movie and Fun Babysitter didn't. I feel like it's a bad idea to leave that remote up there. I feel like her just leaving the remote on the counter there is a bad thing urgh I hope she brought it down with her, at least Well, that gave you away. But what do I know? It's not my paranoia cellar. I feel like she should have forced him into a chute, for a clean kill. Oh, crap Don't be impatient... For someone planning this for forty years, she's done a poor job of building a trap house. That is a creepy target practice area Why have a scary mannequin room, if you know one day this situation is coming? Right? For that matter, why not install proper indoor lighting, to see who you're trying to shoot? That would spoil the jumpscares! When you're planning on facing off with your supernatural attacker someday and plotting things out to the minute, but you need to keep the atmosphere Spooky. About time. hey Hello and goodbye, Nude Human. Keep shooting him. I feel like this is a kill that should be confirmed before they relax. No more relaxing for any of them ever. But on the plus side, they no longer think Grandmother is crazy. Now they love Grandmother and her room full of non-jamming guns and canned corn! Grandmother who they all call grandmother for some reason. Why *did* she stock rations? Did she think Michael would just pop a seat down on the kitchen floor for a month on end and they'd have to wait him out? Perhaps she was planning for zombies as well, given she knows at least one creature that refuses to stay dead. She likes to cover all bases. Michael, zombies...got a couple of hobgoblin defenses lined up just in case. If one is going to be prepared, might as well cover all bases. Except when it comes to well lit rooms and moving the mannequins out. Who has time for that? Sigh. My computer froze and I missed everything after the spooky mannequin rom. What happened? They eventually got him into the basement, and lit him on fire. Which he'll almost assuredly walk off. Oh, good. Less good. And we hear his spooky breathing at the end of the credits, so... And Allison has a knife. Of course we do. I haven't been able to pull up a light note to end on, so I'm open to suggestions! Goose game! Goose game it is! How about a fun goose game highlight reel? Beautiful! He's enjoying the moment. Sun hat! put it in the pond! What did this old man ever do to anyone? He dared try to get work done. Tried to keep the goose out of the garden! Unforgiveable! Unforgourdable! I'm having this great idea for a game for you to stream sometime! I'm thinking the same thing! I thought he did too! no, no, it's floating back! Somebody do something! Oh this kid gets TERRORIZED What kinda scam is she running here! Clearly she knows how to make the money. oh my gosh I wonder if you could make him buy back his glasses... His evil delight is infectious. He is having too much fun. What kind of person walks right up to a goose to take a ribbon off it I want to play this, but I don't think it's on steam... yet. That's going to be a beautiful day when it is. Right? Well, that wraps it up, I'd say! I am very glad I did not miss out. Your streams are definitely a highlight. Goodnight, and thanks for the stream! Oh, hush! But don't, of course, never hush. Thank you for coming! Good night!

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willowlark369 · 7 years ago

Text

Reasons Why

This story is dedicated to @shanastoryteller who mentioned in response to a recent ask sent to her that she believed Tony/Rhodey were underappreciated and that she wanted to see more of it. Agreeing with her (it’s easy to do when someone just on point with something like that), I wrote this. It ended up being longer than fics I post on Tumblr, but I’d like to think that’s less of a problem for others than it is for me.

General Warnings: Canon typical violence; mentions of past non-consensual drug use (resulting in unfriendliness towards the drugger in question); references to the MCU comic tie-ins; maybe a bit gratuitous profanity

James spent most of the flight feeling like he couldn’t breathe. No mystery franken-tech or Ten Ring remnant worried him more than the fact he couldn’t get Tony to answer. Connecting to JARVIS didn’t help ease growing fear in the airman. J apparently lost track of Tony’s vitals due to the idiot flying a fucking nuke through a wormhole. The suit had briefly gone offline and while J could confirm that it was back on this planet, diagnostic systems were not functioning.

He should have dropped the mission in Hong Kong the moment Tony called him. He should have come right away. He knew that Tony was like a cat; too many times the genius refused to ask for help when he needed it. Not this time. This time he had reached out; this time Tony had asked. Like an idiot, James had continued a goddamn mission because Tony had asked him to help protect people, because Tony wanted the suits used to help even if that meant letting a member of the Armed Forces pilot one, because Tony wouldn’t have wanted civilians left unprotected against terrorists. It just could have cost him the most important person in his life.

God, he should have dropped the mission, civilian casualties be damned. Tony had needed him and once again, he hadn’t been there. How many times would they ride this edge of disaster before one of them actually died for these people? Had it already happened and James was heading towards a body to id? JARVIS couldn’t even get a visual on the area due to damage from the alien army that had invaded New York (because that was their lives now: alien army was a thing they could face).

Hitting Midtown didn’t help. There weren’t any aliens, which James had already been expecting from J’s limited report. The destruction was vast. Alien tech littered the streets. A lot of it had damage from repulsor blasts. A quick flight around the Stark Tower showed that the upper floors had sustained damage. The penthouse had taken most of it.

His stomach felt like it was filled with gravel as he noted the entirely missing window that matched JARVIS’ report of Tony being thrown through it.

James had to find Tony ASAP.

Once he tracked down the location of Tony’s personal reactor, James took a moment to listen to JARVIS’ newest biometric scan of the genius. He spared another moment to reassure the AI that he would get Tony seen by actual medical personnel in short order. Only then did he step out of the armor to confront his troublesome lover sitting with a group of other people all of who looked just as exhausted as Tony clearly was.

James had meant to be angry or at least demanding. He had meant to scold or yell. But freed from the suit, he could smell the blood and ash in the air. He could taste the death surrounding the area. It left no room for anything except remembering the list of ways that this could have ended differently. When Tony noticed him and immediately lit up like he was seeing the best thing in the world, James could only think about how close to not even having a body to bury this situation had been.

“Rhodey,” Tony protested when James yanked him in for an embrace. He knew what Tony was trying to do, even as he melted into the hold. They had agreed to keep up the lie that they were just friends, even after the repeal. They had good, solid reasons. There had been charts even. None of it mattered now, not when Tony would have been alone.

“I’m quitting,” he declared before finally giving into the urge to rain kisses down on Tony’s upturned face. James continued his declaration even as he did so, letting the words and kisses alternate. “Not leaving you alone again. You get kidnapped or shot at or tossed out fucking windows. Nukes through wormholes. J had no clue and he couldn’t get eyes on you. Worried us, baby. No more. Not leaving again.”

A throat cleared off to the side, dragging James’ attention back to their audience. Most of the ragged group were complete strangers--though the blond in the Captain America getup did bear a passable resemblance to the real Steve Rogers. But one face was very familiar. Woman or not, James made a sudden lurch towards the spy, only stopping because he still had a hold of Tony.

“You have a lot of fucking nerve showing your face, Rushman,” James snarled. “Stab anyone with needles recently? Spiked any drinks?”

“I did what was needed,” the woman stated in a flat tone.

“I bet,” James replied, not hiding any of his disagreement with that statement. SHIELD was yet another reason that he shouldn’t be in another part of the world. It left Tony too vulnerable to them, and without backup if they decided to take more than Tony was willing to give. He had to get Tony away from here. He directed his attention back to Tony. “Why haven’t you been through decon yet? J detected residual rads beyond the node.”

“I didn’t think of it?”

“Yeah, that would be the concussion,” James noted with a stern frown. “You know, the one you got when you were thrown through a reinforced window.”

“Honeybear, sweetheart, light of my life--”

“I’m quitting.”

“You can’t do that! You love that uniform, being a part of something greater than yourself. You can’t give up something you love!”

“Oh, my little idiot,” James countered as he shifted his hold to cup Tony’s face. He planted a kiss on the brunet’s forehead, taking a moment to breathe in the scent of unwashed genius-engineer. Then he gently placed a kiss on each of Tony’s eyelids and the tip of his nose. He pulled back to see Tony staring at him with wide eyes. The man never could figure out how to respond to tenderness. “I do love my career and I worked hard to get where I am on my own merits. But you’re forgetting something, Tones, like always: there will never be anything I love more than you.”

“Platypus,” Tony whispered, his voice cracking in the middle of the word. James began urging them from the restaurant. The tower wasn’t far and it would have the facilities to handle decontamination. JARVIS could use the uplink from War Machine to restore his connection to the building and then they could probably handle any other injuries without resorting to outside medical personnel. “You still can’t quit.”

“I’m going to seriously consider it for at least the next month.” James stopped suddenly to make a point. “Tony, let’s get something clear right here and now. This? Us? It’s the greatest thing I could ever be a part of. Today, I nearly lost you again and it’s because I was once again too far away to help. So you are going to skip the very rational list of reasons why quitting is a bad idea and we’re going to get clean and patched up before making good use of the new bed you had installed in the penthouse for at least twelve hours. Then, if we aren’t feeling both our age and the fact that we got aggressively knocked around in tin cans, we’ll make better use of it. Sound like a plan?”

“You are a genius,” Tony declared in awed gratefulness.

“Takes one to know one.”

#MCU #MCU Comic Tie-ins #Romance Challenge 2018 fill #Iron Husbands #Tony Stark/James Rhodes #Tony Stark Friendly #Not Natasha Romanoff friendly #Magi's Fics

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zrtranscripts · 3 years ago

Text

Home Front, Mission 18: Lair of the Abhorroghast

Buff Up Your Burrow

[radio cycles past a snippet of music and some static before landing on the Abel frequency]

SAM YAO: Hello, runners, and the rest of us. Is your tent untidy? Is your pre-Z-Day ruin run down? Sorry, I sound like an advert for limescale remover. [advertisement voice] “Bang, and the horde is gone!” Yeah, not so much. Still quite a lot of zombies on the loose.

What I was trying to say is that I've noticed my own little shack getting pretty filthy lately, which is all because of the horde situation and definitely not how it normally is. Now I know housework probably isn't the first thing on your mind right now, but well, since we're not going anywhere, I figured we could have a tidy up together. It'll be fun!

If this was Janine, she'd probably tell you how to clean your regulation domicile with military precision and a toothbrush, but she's busy installing a backup backup generator. And while I was looking for the mop, I found an old Demons and Darkness module Runner Fourteen picked up last month, [sinister voice] The Lair of the Abhorroghast.

Now maybe I'm just missing Abel game night, or maybe it was the box hitting me on the head, but I reckon with a few creative changes and a bit of imagination, we can combine playing Demons and Darkness with a good old spring clean! All we need to do is replace dice rolls with various cleaning tasks and bob's your, um, halfling paladin uncle.

Now, okay, I know it sounds a bit bonkers, but you can do whatever cleaning jobs you fancy, you don't have to D&D it up with me unless you feel like it. So well, let's see what it says on the game box. Okay. Aha. [dramatic narrator voice] “Deep in his labyrinthine lair, the Abhorroghast gnaws on the world's heart, guarding a fabulous treasure, the Madman's Crown. Dare ye brave this den of dread and face the terror below the earth?” Figurines sold separately. Just as well we're doing this by radio. Judging by the state of the box, I think most of the figurines are inside a zombie.

Anyway, [clears throat, adopts dramatic narrator voice] gather your party, bold adventurer. Arm yourselves with weapons of power and wizards potions. [own voice] Well, you know, rubber gloves, mop, broom, cloths, cleaning supplies, all the essential adventuring kit. Have a bit of a tidy up while you're at it and prepare to cleanse the [sinister voice] Lair of the Abhorroghast! [own voice] Right after this song, which definitely always makes me think about hideous creatures from the demon dimensions.

[SAM alternates between a dramatic game master voice for narration, different voices for characters, and his own voice for asides and cleaning instructions]

SAM YAO: [clears throat] Beneath this endless maze of twisting blackened trees and damned spires of stone lies the lair of the Abhorroghast. The entrance gapes like a bottomless maw with stalagmites for teeth... Hmm, hang on. Which ones are the pointy uppy ones and which are the pointy down ones? You know what? It doesn't matter.

[clears throat] ... like a bottomless maw with fangs of solid rock. Like the worst halitosis imaginable, clouds of noxious choking vapors fume from the cave mouth. To reach the lair and cleanse it for good, you'll first have to dispel this evil miasma.

And you know what's a breeding ground for evil miasmas? Commonly-used surfaces like doorknobs and light switches. Ministry guidelines say to give them a good old wipe down daily to get rid of any zombie bits you might drag in with you. Most household cleaners will do the trick, or anything with bleach if it's diluted. Now make sure to keep the bleach outside of your body and wipe it off with a wet cloth. So start dispelling those evil miasmas and yeah, hold on, just uh, finding my place. [mutters rapidly] Start to dispel this evil miasma...

As you use your magic to clear the foul air, a haughty elven voice rings out. [high-pitched breathy character voice] “Ah, another adventurer. Well, lucky I found you.” Through the haze, you see a tall elven woman driving back the fumes with her spells. “I am Ameline,” she declares. “Doubtless we have the same purpose here. We may as well work together. The master of this place lies below. His evil leaks even into the earth itself. Come, we must cleanse this ground before it chokes the life from us.”

Well, yeah, what the elf said. Keep cleaning all those door knobs and light switches and maybe you'll be able to find your way into the lair of the Abhorroghast.

[SAM alternates between a dramatic game master voice for narration, different voices for characters, and his own voice for asides and cleaning instructions]

SAM YAO: The miasma dispelled, you and your new partner Ameline enter the cave mouth. Beyond the stony jaws, you find yourself in what looks like the antechamber of an ancient temple. These are the Halls of Decay, where the dust of a thousand centuries has gathered. Moths feast on fraying tapestries. Soot rains from the rafters. Cobwebs adorn the statues of forbidden gods like a widow's veil. Sounds like my old student flat.

Suddenly from the darkness, another voice calls out. [gruff West Country-accented character voice] “Slow, friend!” A halfling dressed like a weapons rack emerges from the shadows. “Ye want to spend your gold at the bottom of a spoilt pit?” He asks. “Don't ye know to dust for traps?” Now you know, I know what you're thinking, listeners, but dusting for traps is a well-known D&D mechanic that I've just made up. So really go to town with those dusters. You never know what could be lurking on your bookshelves. I'm gonna give the shack a good going over with a dustpan and brush right now.

Uh, now where was I? Aha. Ah, yes. Yes. [clears throat] As you pick your way across the floor, the halfling shuffles towards you, careful to avoid every third tile. “How wonderful,” Ameline drawls. “Another scavenger.”

Kit flashes a gold-toothed grin. "Arr, arr," he says. "Arr, arr..." No, hang on, that's pirate. Hey, but pirates and halflings, are they both from the West Country? Hang on, give me a sec. So... arr ,er... no. Arr! No! Uh... oh, I know! Uh, [Samwise Gamgee voice] boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a – po-ta-toes! Po-ta- okay, got it. Po-ta-toes. All right, my lover. Po-ta-toes. [coughs] Okay.

“Arr,” the halfling says. “Kit’s the name, adventuring's the game. Dungeons like this are packed full of death traps to slice, dice, and spiralize the unwary adventure, and since we're all adventuring in the same direction, I wouldn't want anything to happen to my new companions.”

As if to illustrate his point, he ducks out of the way of a swinging bladed pendulum that almost shears off Ameline's nose! “I'm sure you'd just hate to have all that treasure to yourself,” Ameline says sarcastically. “But worry not, my friend, there's only one treasure down here worth claiming. The Madman's Crown has the power of making and unmaking. The other baubles, you can keep.”

As the elf and the halfling bicker, you make your way slowly, carefully across the dusty floor to the foreboding portal at the hall's far end, watchful for hidden switches and concealed pressure plates. And well, you know, sort of dusting all the household surfaces that need dusting, that kind of thing.

[SAM alternates between a dramatic game master voice for narration, different voices for characters, and his own voice for asides and cleaning instructions]

SAM YAO: As the ancient dust is swept away, gruesome carvings and inhuman statues emerge from beneath the grime. Easing your way over an obvious tripwire, you come face to face with a hideous cyclops statue, its single eye an enormous sapphire. The treasure does not go unnoticed. “Arr, now what's this?” Kit says, grinning like a pumpkin. “Arr, adventurer, you're a natural. Let's just pry this out for safe keeping.”

“Kit, wait!” Ameline yells. She rushes towards you, too late. As Kit tugs the sapphire free, the floor beneath the three of you suddenly gives way. Down, down you fall until you land with a splat in a deep pit of dark, stinking slime. As you regain your bearings, musty light from the broken ceiling far above illuminates the bones of hapless beasts and unwary travelers, all picked clean.

Ameline grabs your arm and whispers, “Ah, I recognize the signs! This is the Pit of Woe, a slaughterworm broodpit.” Kit scrambles to his feet and draws steel as the cold mud boils beneath you. In moments, the whole fetid floor seethes with huge wormy bodies, trapping the halfling in their grasp, and the rest are coming your way!

Now, fun fact, slaughterworms hate clean floors. That's in the creature compendium. So to defeat them, you're going to need to take a broom to the floors in your home, and you'd better get going. Those slaughterworms are looking hungry.

Yeah. Meanwhile, with her quick reflexes, Ameline helps you up onto an enormous rib cage. As the worms sink their lamprey jaws into Kit's flesh, she hurriedly flips through her books as Kit struggles and the filthy foot-long worms swarm ever closer to your feet. “Ah! Ah, I have it!” she cries at last. “Their bodies must be completely destroyed and the whole area purged of their spores or they'll reform from the filth in moments. Come on, adventurer, we'll clear a path to that halfling fool.”

Ugh! You know, I think I've got some slaughterworms under the cupboards. There's something grim down there, anyway. Oh well, nobody said fighting evil would be pretty. If you want a rescue Kit, you'd better keep sweeping.

[SAM alternates between a dramatic game master voice for narration, different voices for characters, and his own voice for asides and cleaning instructions]

SAM YAO: Sweeping your way through the mass of ravening slaughterworms, you at last reach Kit, still struggling in their slimy grasp. With one mighty swing of your sword, the worms fall away like ribbons, allowing the halfling to wriggle free. He holds up the sapphire cyclops eye with a conspiratorial wink. “Arr, ye've me thanks, adventurer,” he says. "Oh, and look, our labors were not in vain." "Are we not done yet?” Ameline snaps. “Mop up their remains or they'll reform before we can find a way out. We'll be worm food!”

And by mopping up, I mean like, literally mopping the floor. Well, unless you actually have hideous foot-long worms wriggling around your house, in which case, there might be limits to what cleaning can achieve.

Anyway, [clears throat] you cannot return the way you came. The floor you crashed through is too high to reach, but as you wade through the entrails, you spot a crack in the wall. Mud oozes through it into the darkness beyond. It could be a way out, if you can make it that far. By uh, well, you know, mopping. Some like, really enthusiastic mopping?

[SAM alternates between a dramatic game master voice for narration, different voices for characters, and his own voice for asides and cleaning instructions]

SAM YAO: Stained with mud and ichor, you, Kit, and Ameline plow through the swarming worms and stinking mud of the pit to reach the crack in the wall. The tunnel beyond is just big enough for you to squeeze through in single file. Kit leads the way, his flickering torch soon vanishing in the darkness. “It's safe enough,” he calls back. “Better than our prospects here,” replies Ameline.

“Ah, look out!” All around you, slaughterworms rise from the ooze, their lamprey jaws slathering for your flesh. But as you flourish your sword to hold them back, Ameline's staff glows brilliant blue and summons a wave of water. It crashes through the pit towards your tunnel, sweeping up all the worms and spores in its path. You hear a cry from the tunnel behind you as Ameline is caught in the flood, before it engulfs you and then Kit.

[water pours from a faucet] No? Sorry, my foley work is a bit low-tech. The water carries you down the tunnel into the Stygian darkness. What awaits you at the bottom? Treasure, power, or merely a grisly death? Find out when we return to the Lair of the Abhorroghast! [sinister laughter] See you next time.

#zombies run #zr home front #zrhf 18 #lair of the abhorroghast #zr transcript

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angrygoateestranger · 4 years ago

Text

Megafon Internet For Mac

Megafon Internet Mac Os Catalina

Megafon Internet For Mac Download

Megafon Internet Mac Os

Intervieweren blev booket. Velkommen til Megafons Bookingsystem.

Telephone,internet,long distance, phone service, megafon, megafon Connection, megafonconnection, ontario, ottawa, NorthernTel, Northern Telephone, NorthTel, phone.

Free Megafon Internet icons! Download 263 vector icons and icon kits.Available in PNG, ICO or ICNS icons for Mac for free use.

So I have this 4G+/LTE modem - Huawei E3372, also known as Megafon M150-2 - which is exactly the variation I got.

Eventually I got sick of its connection management software for Mac OS (the one that comes from Megafon), so I started looking for a way to be able to connect to the internet on Mac OS without it.

The modem itself is rather a great piece of hardware.

Coming in a form-factor of a USB-stick, it is capable of maintaining quite a high-speed internet connection, and apparently it supports all the international LTE standards because I was using it in several countries without problems.

On top of that it has slots for external antennas and even a slot for microSD card (don’t know what to do with it):

Note that it requires full-sized SIM-cards.

I bought it several years ago in Moscow at some Megafon selling point. Back then it cost me just ~700 RUB (10-20 USD?). The reason for such a low price is usually that modems are locked to a particular operator, but in my case surprisingly that wasn’t the case.

If memory serves me well, I did not perform any unlocking operations, and it just works fine with SIM-cards from other operators than Megafon. I must say, however, I never tried it with any other russian operators - the only SIM-cards I was using it with were the ones from norwegian operators (Telia and Phonero).

And it is available for purchase even today:

from the very same Megafon, although it is likely to be a locked version (which can be unlocked);

an unlocked version on Amazon.

But what is wrong with the Megafon software? Well, while it does its job, after some time it started to irritate me for the following reasons:

Megafon Internet Mac Os Catalina

It installs god knows what to your system, while the only thing you really need is just a modem driver;

In addition to the main application it requires its service to run in the background, otherwise it won’t even start discovering the modem;

It sends some data to different Megafon hosts. I would understand if it was for checking the updates, but why different hosts then? I don’t feel like having yet another spyware in my system;

File Activity tool from Instruments shows some enormous files access by the application and/or service. What could be the purpose of such an activity, I wonder?

So I started looking for a way to avoid using the Megafon software.

The first clue was the fact that the modem works just fine with routers:

There is no need to install any Megafon software on the router for it to be able to connect to the internet via the modem, is there? So why the need in such a software on Mac OS?

After some research I got the following steps (mostly from this great topic at 4PDA and also this SuperUser answer):

Install the driver for Mac OS for the initial modem discovery;

Put the modem into a mode in which it will be discovered by Mac OS as a dial-up modem;

Add a new network service using the modem.

Driver for Mac OS

Maybe it’s just me, but I’ve spent quite a some time looking for a driver. Surely, I could use the one installed together with the Megafon software, but there is no way to install only the driver, and I wanted to have a “clean” set-up procedure.

Most of links I found on the internet were dead. Of course I tried looking at the official Huawei’s website, but didn’t succeed there either.

But then in a comment section at some blog I did find a link to the working driver. And it was hosted on the official Huawei’s website! I don’t know how does one find it on his own, but here’s the link.

You don’t have to install everything, the only thing you need from this package is the driver (MobileConnectDriver.pkg):

I will be hosting a copy just in case the official link dies like the rest at some point. Note that this is a driver for Mac OS Mojave, scroll to bottom for the Catalina version.

After the installation you should get the following thing installed:

Check if the modem is discovered in the system:

Switching to dial-up mode

I’m sure that it’s called something else and not the “dial-up mode”, but I haven’t found the correct name for it.

So, you’ve got your modem discovered by the system. Connect to it via screen:

And try to communicate with it using AT-commands. First I tried to collect some information about the device (first line in each group is the command, the following lines are the response):

Okay, and here’s the command to switch the modem into dial-up mode:

Connecting to the internet on Mac OS

The only thing left is to create a new network service in Mac OS.

Create a new service using HUAWEIMobile- interface:

Set the good old mobile dial number *99#:

Megafon Internet For Mac Download

And you’re connected to the internet without any additional software, using only the native Mac OS tools:

As it was pointed out in comments, the driver stopped working on Mac OS Catalina. Most likely this is because it was x32, and Catalina requires x64, so an x64 version of driver is required. That actually was one of the reasons why I haven’t upgraded to Catalina.

Fortunatelly, such version exists, and apparently has been available since at least 30.10.2019. An awesome chap shared a link on 4PDA forum. I’ll host a copy here too.

I’ve tested it on Catalina, and it works fine.

macOS Recovery is part of the built-in recovery system of your Mac. You can start up from macOS Recovery and use its utilities to recover from certain software issues or take other actions on your Mac.

How to start up from macOS Recovery

Turn on your Mac and immediately press and hold these two keys: Command (⌘) and R. Need help?

Release the keys when you see an Apple logo, spinning globe, or other startup screen.

You might be prompted to enter a password, such as a firmware password or the password of a user who is an administrator of this Mac. Enter the requested password to continue.

Startup is complete when you see the utilities window:

After starting up from macOS Recovery, select a utility, then click Continue:

Restore From Time Machine Backup:Restore your Mac from a Time Machine backup.

Reinstall macOS: Download and reinstall the Mac operating system.

Get Help Online: Use Safari to browse the web and find help for your Mac. Links to Apple's support website are included. Browser plug-ins and extensions are disabled.

Disk Utility: Use Disk Utility to repair your disk or erase your disk or other storage device. Additional utilities are available from the Utilities menu in the menu bar: Startup Security Utility (or Firmware Password Utility), Network Utility, and Terminal.

To quit macOS Recovery, choose Restart or Shut Down from the Apple menu . If you want to choose a different startup disk before quitting, choose Startup Disk from the Apple menu.

If you can't start up from macOS Recovery

If your Mac can't start up from its built-in macOS Recovery system, it might try to start up from macOS Recovery over the Internet. When that happens, you see a spinning globe instead of an Apple logo during startup:

To manually start up from Internet Recovery, press and hold either of these key combinations at startup:

Option-Command-R

Shift-Option-Command-R Learn more

If startup from Internet Recovery is unsuccessful, you see a globe with an alert symbol (exclamation point):

In that case, try these solutions:

Megafon Internet Mac Os

Make sure that your Mac can connect to the Internet. If you're not prompted to choose a Wi-Fi network during startup, move your pointer to the top of the screen, then choose a network from the Wi-Fi menu , if available.

Press Command-R at startup to try using the built-in Recovery system instead of Internet Recovery.

Connect to the Internet using Ethernet instead of Wi-Fi, or vice versa.

Connect to the Internet from a different Wi-Fi or Ethernet network. Your network configuration might not allow the Internet access that macOS Recovery needs.

Try again later, because the issue might be temporary.

Start up from another disk or volume, if available, or use a bootable installer to reinstall macOS.

If you still need help, please contact Apple Support.

0 notes

builder051 · 7 years ago

Note

hey idk if you're still taking prompts but I LOVE the MCU ones you've been doing. what about one where steve's sick but bucky's already having a bad day and he doesn't want bucky to notice? :D

Ok, here we go. I kind of took what you wanted and made it what I wanted, but anyway… Hope it’s not too far off base.

Powers/no powers choose your own adventure

___________________________________________

As Steve unlocks the door and steps into the house, all he wants is a hot cup of tea. The headache he’s been nursing all day is threatening to ratchet up into blinding territory. He’s not quite ready to admit to the fever; it could still be his high metabolism that’s cooking him from the inside out. But the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead and haze of achiness around his joints certainly add to his general discomfort.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls as he slips off his shoes and dumps his work bag under the coatrack. He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out so tired-sounding, so Steve clears his throat and pads through the entryway. There aren’t any cooking sounds coming from the kitchen or TV sounds in the living room, so he fully expects to see Bucky at the table hunched over his laptop or a magazine.

The entirety of the downstairs seems deserted. No lights are on in the kitchen or living room, and even the bathroom is dark. Steve’s about to go upstairs and see if maybe Bucky decided to take a nap in the bedroom when there’s a soft creaking of something stirring on the couch.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, approaching the sofa. Bucky’s face-down, and his right arm is folded around his head while his stump shoulder is thrust into the crack between the seat cushions and the back. Steve recognizes the crumpled posture, though he hasn’t seen it for months.

“What’s going on?” Steve murmurs quietly, sinking to his knees at Bucky’s side. The question doesn’t feel gentle enough leaving his tongue, but Steve thinks it’s a better ask than ‘are you ok,’ to which the answer is already decidedly ‘no.’

“It’s all…gone to shit,” Bucky breathes into the couch cushions, his voice a muffled exhalation against the velour upholstery.

“I’m gonna touch you, ok?” Steve warns him before dropping his palm onto Bucky’s back, which is vibrating with minute tremors. Bucky flinches, then relaxes slightly.

“You’re at home. In Falls Church. It’s 2017. You’re with me,” Steve intones. “You’re safe.” There’s no obvious trigger, no kids playing too loudly or cars backfiring or neighbors doing yard work. The offending event could’ve happened hours ago. And if Bucky’s still this shaken up, Steve’s not going to make him talk about it. “You’re safe, ok.”

“I, it’s…I don’t know…”Bucky mumbles. His body heat is enticing, and Steve wishes the couch was wide enough for him to sprawl at Bucky’s side. He settles for resting his throbby forehead on Bucky’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to know,” Steve says. “You’re gonna be ok.”

Bucky shifts slightly, pressing into Steve’s touch. “You’re doing fine,” Steve keeps up the encouraging murmur.

Bucky unwinds his arm from around his head. Steve straightens up to gaze into Bucky’s pale face. “You’re doing good,” Steve whispers.

His eyes are bloodshot; his jaw is trembling. Bucky looks so sick that Steve deems himself in perfect health by comparison. Steve’s still unconsciously intoning, “You’re ok,” when Bucky starts to swallow convulsively.

“You’re gonna barf.” There’s no time for anything but a desperate off-balance tug to get Bucky leaning over the coffee table, because god knows the hardwood will be easier to clean than the carpet.

Steve’s stomach clenches in sympathy as Bucky throws up all over the table and a week-old TV Guide. He coughs through a final retch, then breaks into shallow empty breaths.

“Ok, ok,” Steve guides Bucky through a few deep breaths, but ends up just squeezing him close and counting him down from 10. Bucky’s not filling his lungs until 6, but he’s still limp by 1. Steve thinks he can feel Bucky’s thrumming heartbeat in his own chest.

“Sorry,” Bucky gasps.

“It’s fine,” Steve says. “You’re ok. That’s all that matters.” Steve lets his eyes drift closed and presses his cheek to the top of Bucky’s head.

When they finally separate by a few inches, cold air fills the void where Bucky’s warm body had been pressed to Steve’s front. “Alright,” Steve asks. “What’s your headache at?”

“Hm,” Bucky sighs. “Six. Maybe…Seven?”

Steve firmly rates his own discomfort at a four and suppresses it as best he can. He brings over painkillers and water, then sees to cleaning up the coffee table. When the living room is finally sanitized and smelling of Lysol, Steve glances back at Bucky, who has his head tipped back against the sofa cushions and might be dozing. The prospect of a cup of tea beckons from the kitchen, and Steve slips across the open room to boil the kettle.

As he lights the stove, Steve notices the clock flashing 12:00. The microwave’s doing the same thing, and he concludes the power must’ve blinked earlier. He imagines Bucky, confused, watching lights and electronics flicker on and off without warning. Steve’s hit with a gut punch of guilt for leaving Bucky home alone before logic kicks back in and reminds him that he can’t be responsible for every tiny detail of Bucky’s life. He’s doing so well, after all. And one sickening flashback-ridden panic attack every 3 months is an immense improvement from one every few days. Still, Steve wonders if the landlord would oppose the installation of a backup generator…

The kettle starts to hiss, and Steve turns off the burner before it can turn to a screech and set Bucky off again. He throws a peppermint tea bag into a mug, pours the hot water, and holds the steaming cup between his hands. Steve retrieves the bottle of ibuprofen from where he’s left it on the counter and swallows the same dose he’s just given Bucky. Then he leans back against the cabinets, the line of the countertop pressing pleasantly against his sore lower back.

Steve has his eyes closed. He inhales the scent and vapor of his tea, then sniffs again to keep his nose from dripping. He hopes whatever pathogen his body’s fighting will move on and out quickly. He can’t waste time feeling poorly when there are more important things to think about.

“Don’t feel good?”

Steve’s so zoned out he hadn’t heard Bucky’s footsteps approaching.

“Yeah, I know. Do you want to just get in bed?” He asks.

“No, you don’t feel very good, do you?” Bucky asks. Steve must’ve missed the question mark in Bucky’s slightly gravelly voice the first time.

Steve’s instinct is to say he’s fine, but the lie doesn’t seem like it’ll do a lot of good. After he’s spent so much time encouraging Bucky to be open with him, Steve feels like he owes it to him to return the favor.

“Mm. Yeah, not great,” Steve admits. He can’t help but backtrack a little. “Not that bad, though. Just, like the start of a cold. It’ll be gone in the morning.” None of it’s a lie.

“You should take care of yourself,” Bucky says. “Not just me.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs in reluctant agreement. A glance at his watch shows him that it’s still the dinner hour, but his exhaustion and the darkness in the house and outside makes it feel much later.

Bucky fixes himself a cup of tea. They sip side by side for a while. Then Steve starts to busy himself with the reprogramming of the digital clocks on the kitchen appliances.

“Leave it, ok?” Bucky says, twisting his fingers into the fabric at the hem of Steve’s shirt. “Worry later. Just relax right now. You’re always good at telling me that.”

Steve smiles and shakes his head. The painful throb is still there, but less zealous. Bucky’s arm comes around his shoulders, and though he still smells of sweat and sickness, the gesture makes him feel better too.

#mcu #marvel #captain america #stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #sickfic #emeto #emetophilia #powers/no powers choose-your-own-adventure

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vmheadquarters · 7 years ago

Text

What Goes Around...(part 24)

This is PART 24 of a story that is being told in segments by twenty-six different authors, campfire-style. Each author will take over the story with no prior planning and then pass it on after putting their own spin on it! Expect the unexpected! :) You can check our vmhq campfire tale tag for all of the previous installments or read the story as it develops on AO3. — Part 24 is written by @mysilverylining

[Part 23]

Screeeeeeeech.

The high-pitched cry comes from somewhere in the near distance, and despite Weevil's thick leather jacket, a full-body shiver runs through him. He can't identify what species of animal made the sound, but he's confident it's nothing he wants to run into in the dark.

What's taking so long, anyway? At least thirty minutes have passed since Mr. Mars disappeared into the mansion, promising he'd text once it was safe to follow.

His cell rests in his pocket, right next to his hand. He would've felt it if it buzzed. Nevertheless, he checks it again. Just to be sure.

Nothing. There's plenty of battery life left, and his signal strength...Oh. Well that explains it.

The animal shrieks again, closer now, and hair lifts on the back of his neck. Crossing himself, he scans his immediate surroundings, detecting no movement in the fading light.

He doesn't know what – if anything – is going on inside that house, but he'd rather take his chances with bad guys than end up as an hors d'euvre for some rabid animal. And anyway, who's to say Mr. Mars hasn't tried texting him for backup? The more he considers it, the more he's convinced he's needed inside that house. But, just to be safe, maybe he shouldn't burst through the front door.

Weevil puts his bike in neutral and silently rolls it around the side of the house. He parks next to an ornate garden patio, climbs off, and creeps to the French doors.

On the other side of the glass, an immense wooden table dominates the center of a fancy dining room. A large rounded doorway, looks into what appears to be a formal library. Shadows bounce against the wall indicating multiple parties within. The question is, who?

A series of slamming car doors jolts him from his thoughts. Ignitions start, and he spins around just as two vehicles speed away down the long curving driveway. He's not familiar with the truck, but he'd recognize the driver's big old head anywhere. Echolls. The passenger could be Veronica, but he's not positive. Keith Mars follows in his own car, an unidentified man riding shotgun, and someone else in the back seat.

Well shit. Now what? Should he hop back on the bike and catch up?

Movement inside the house catches his eye. Raised voices. Somebody leans against the doorframe, fiddling with their watchband.

He'll decide whether to join Veronica's caravan later. After he's shaken an explanation out of Mr. Rolex.

It takes thirty seconds to pick the lock. Oh yeah! Still haven't lost my touch. He slips inside, closing the doors silently behind him. Creeping up behind the unidentified man, Weevil grabs him by the wrist, pushing forward while twisting it up behind his back. "You have thirty seconds to explain what's going on with the Mars family."

Up close, the guy is tall, tanned, with shaggy blond hair and... Oh hell. He releases his grip, and Casablancas whirls around, belligerent. "What the hell, Weevil? Did somebody order a pool cleaning? Because it's not a good time right now. Come back next week."

"Ha ha." Weevil speaks, monotone. "You've been milking that lame joke for how long?"

While Dick scowls and rubs at his wrist, Weevil examines the other two occupants (maybe three, if that blanket-covered lump on the couch is what he thinks it is).

To his right, a slender man with a familiar face sits, stiff and sullen, in a leather club chair.

Tilting his head, Weevil points a thumb at the guy. "Is that my high school History teacher?"

"Maybe?" Dick shrugs. "I know he taught something at Neptune High, but then he got shitcanned for boning a student."

"Boning a student?" At first glance, the sequined blonde on the other chair resembles Veronica, but even seated, she has half a foot of height on V. She speaks, harsh and judgmental. "That student was Susan Knight, and you weren't good enough to lick her boots."

"Fine!" Casablancas holds up both hands, defensively. "So, he made loooove to her, or whatever."

She lifts her lip in a sneer. "You're as repulsive as that pedophile."

Weevil squints, mentally peeling back the thick false lashes, heavy makeup - and blonde wig (if he's guessing correctly).

"Ruby Jackson." Lips stretching into a wide grin, he crosses the room and bumps her fist. "How the hell are you doing?"

"Could be better, Weevil." She sweeps a hand out, indicating Casablancas and Rooks. "And it's Ruby Jetson now. Just fits my brand better."

He can't argue that.

Casablancas stares back and forth between them. "How do you know Logan's stalker?"

"Who, Ruby? We go way back." At least three names ago.

“Weevil came to my rescue in high school when a couple asshole 09ers were bullying me. Playing keep away with my glasses and backpack."

Dick chuckles. "Ha! I used to do stuff like that in high school."

They both stare at him until the nostalgic grin slips off his face. "Oh." He drops his eyes, rubbing the back of his head. "Sorry. I guess."

Dismissing him, Weevil gestures to Ruby's 'look'. "So, what's with the VMars impersonation?"

"Maybe I just wanted to find out if blondes do have more fun?"

"Obviously she's trying to lure Logan into her bed." Casablancas volunteers. "She's as much as admitted it."

Weevil runs a hand over his face, and blows out a breath. "If you’d like to write some goodbye letters, I'll be sure to get them to your loved ones, after Veronica murders you."

Ruby's nose crinkles, offended. "For your information, I can hold my own against Veronica Mars. In fact, I've been one step ahead of her all along."

Doubtful. As much as he likes Ruby, she lacks V's killer instinct. "Speaking of Veronica...Does somebody want to explain what's going on? Why did Mr. Mars request backup and then leave without talking to me? Why did they just tear out of here like a bat out of hell? And who the hell is that dead body on the couch?"

"Wow." A muffled voice speaks from under the blanket. "That's just harsh, man."

Weevil crosses the room, and throws back the cover. "Fennel?"

Wallace's eyelids flutter, pained by the overhead lighting, and his rib cage heaves with labored breaths. His complexion is...well...alarming. It's as if he's been dip-dyed in a giant vat of neon pink highlighter ink, tinting his flesh, and staining his teeth and eyeballs. In fact, some kind of gooey pink residue clings to him even now, like the skin on the top of his abuela's Jell-O.

Alarm bells go off in Weevil's brain. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Fennel moans, speaks in a pained voice. "Should I start at the beginning, or just skip to the part where Einstein here ran me down with his truck?" He gestures to Casablancas.

"Yeah, I'm totally sorry for that, dude. My bad."

Weevil turns his glare on Dick. "Why the hell isn't he in the hospital? He could have cracked ribs. Punctured lungs."

Casablancas shrugs. "Got me, man. Veronica took off out of here to track down an antidote for him. She didn't mention anything about hospitals. Just told us to watch him and keep him alive."

Ruby adds. "We couldn't have done anything anyway. We're stuck without a vehicle, there's no cell reception, and the phone lines were cut."

Damn! All he has is his bike, and Wallace is in no shape to hold on. "What did you mean by antidote?"

Casablancas looks at him like he's an idiot. "Umm...antidotos? You know, they cure poison and viruses and stuff."

Weevil sighs, and counts backwards from five. "I meant, what's wrong with Fennel? Other than the results of your vehicular homicide attempt."

"Ohhhh" Dick nods, getting it now. "The antidote is for that sludge stuff that was being piped into his coffin."

"Oh, give me a fucking break." Weevil spins around. "Coffins? Sludge? What the hell is this? A Toxic Avenger reboot?"

Rooks crosses his legs, pulling his lower pant leg tight enough to reveal a bulge. He’s sullen and silent, in the same room, but not with the others. And from the look of those bruises, has already run afoul of Echolls. All of it together indicates that he’s probably shady. If not? Well, he can always apologize later.

Weevil turns back to the others, casual and at ease. He counts to three, turns, and dives on the man. Before Mr. Rooks even knows what hit him, Weevil’s confiscated the pistol.

"Great job checking him for an ankle holster, guys." Holding it by its barrel, he passes it over to Ruby, who tucks it down the front of her jeans like a TV gangster.

Casablancas rolls his eyes. "Um...we've been a little occupied running for our lives. God, you're judgmental."

"Running from who?"

"Him." Dick points at Wallace.

"You ran for your life from Wallace Fennel?" Weevil snorts. "What did you think he would do? Make a three-pointer on your face?"

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Wallace groans. "I wasn't chasing you. I was trying to escape."

"Maybe you were when I hit you, but what about all the other times? You've been chasing us all day, with your super speed, and stuff."

"WHAT other times?" Fennel seems clearly baffled.

"Hold on." Weevil puts up a hand. "I want to hear the whole story, but first can somebody have the decency to clean this guy off? If that residue is toxic enough to require an antidote, he shouldn't be left wearing it." He points to Rooks. "You. Make yourself useful and help out your fellow educator."

The man speaks for the first time. "And get that stuff all over me?"

"Call it karma for Susan Knight." Ruby sneers. "And Carrie Bishop, too. She would still be alive if you hadn't traumatized Susan."

"I didn't traumatize Susan. She loved me, and I...cared for her."

Weevil holds up a hand, halting Ruby's imminent tirade. "I'm sure you have a lot to say, and he's clearly scum of the earth. But arguing right now won't help Fennel."

Dick speaks up. "If we let him leave this room, how do we know he won't dump Wally somewhere and take off?"

"Wallace." The blanket mumbles.

"I don't know." Weevil touches his chin, pretending to ponder. "What stopped him from taking off before I showed up? You weren't even watching him, he had a weapon, and if I wanted to get away badly enough, Dick Casablancas wouldn't be much of a deterrent."

Ruby seems to think this over for a second, but isn't convinced. She pulls the gun, and aims. "Let's go pervert."

"Go ahead. Shoot me." Rooks lifts his pointy, belligerent chin. "The only way to get him to the bathroom would be to carry him, and if I get that substance all over me, I'll die anyway."

With a feral snarl, Ruby leaves the room, returning thirty-seconds later with a wheelchair. "Lift him onto this."

"Where'd you get that?" Weevil asks.

"It was in the sister's room." She points in a vaguely Northeast direction.

"No way! That Lydia chick making Ronnie jump through hoops is a gimp?"

Ruby whirls on Dick. "Don't even speak to me if you're going to use ablest slurs."

From the way Dick's forehead scrunches, Weevil guesses he'll be checking the dictionary later.

She continues. "It was the other sister's room. The little one. The one Sean Friedrich is holding as leverage over Jeff and Lydia."

Wait. What? Weevil feels a migraine coming. "That sniveling twerp, Sean Freidrich is involved in this, too?"

"To the teeth."

"Her name is Katie." Rooks is staring at the wheelchair, skin tight around his eyes, and wearing an expression of pure nausea. "She's twelve years old."

Oh fuck. Not a kid. That sticky-fingered freak better hope Weevil doesn't find him first. You never mess with kids.

"Well?" Ruby waves the gun, to get Rook's attention.

He sighs, and stands, pulls his sleeves over his hands and gingerly transfers a moaning Wallace into the chair. They leave the room, Ruby muttering, "I dare you to try something, Pedo. Go ahead. I'll shoot your nuts off."

Weevil stares out the window, while Casablancas rolls a thick doobie on a priceless antique game table.

It's full dark now, the only light coming from the solar powered garden stakes lining the front bed. He tries his phone again, but still can't get a signal.

Hopefully Veronica and Echolls are having some luck, but antidote or not, Wallace needs to be in a hospital. He's barely holding on.

Then again, if he's been exposed to a toxin, maybe they should get him to the CDC. It's in Atlanta, if he remembers his Walking Dead canon, but maybe there's a local chapter. He'd look it up on his phone, but...

At the sound of squabbling and squeaking wheels, he shakes his head, refocusing on the here and now.

Wallace appears marginally better when they return. He's clean, at the very least, with white bandages taped and wrapped haphazardly. They've managed to round up some fresh clothing for him, and a cap to shade his eyes. The jeans are about a mile too long, but it's not like he's going to be tap dancing.

Weevil pinches the bridge of his nose. "Feeling any better?"

"I still feel like I've been hit by a truck." Wallace slants angry eyes at Casablancas. "But I suppose not sticking to myself and everything around me is an improvement."

Grabbing a side chair, Weevil drags it over to Wallace and sits at eye level. "Tell me what happened to you."

"Most of it I don't remember." Wallace gives a helpless shrug. "They got me when I came here looking for…a friend. Lydia seemed nice enough. She invited me in, offered me refreshments, and pretended not to know anything. I think she must have drugged my tea or something. Next thing I know, I’m in a damn coffin, covered in some kind of gel or plasma, with a breathing tube shoved down my throat.” He shudders, and Weevil can't really blame him.

So, the nice white lady invites a black guy inside. Coffins, and toxic sludge, and drugged tea. Forget the Toxic Avenger, this is starting to look more like the Get Out Sequel, “Get the FUCK Out.”

“Hey,” Weevil begins, choosing his words carefully. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Remember that redhead that was with me the first time we met? At that diner?”

Wallace’s scowls. “Have you been sniffing glue? The first time we met, you and your gang ambushed me in the parking lot, stripped me naked, and duct taped me to a flagpole.”

“Sorry.” Weevil exhales. “Had to be sure.”

Wallace stares at him, brow crinkled in confusion, and then rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I saw that movie too, and I would remind you that it’s fiction, and therefore, impossible, but I’ve seen – and done – some things today. And I’m not sure I can tell the difference anymore either, so…?”

Weevil guides him back to the explanation. "So, Veronica was okay with you coming here without backup?"

"I don't need to clear every decision with Veronica, you know."

"Considering what happened to you, maybe you should." Dick licks his rolling paper and glances up. "I'm just sayin'"

Interesting. So, Fennel purposely kept Veronica out of the loop. Why would he do that? Unless... Weevil leans forward. "Who's the friend?"

Wallace’s face forms that obstinate expression he remembers from high school. "I can't tell you."

"Like hell, you can't."

"No man. I promised. I swore I wouldn't say a word." Wallace rolls his shoulders and then winces. "Man. My ribs are killing me. Maybe I should take some Ibuprofen."

"Nice try, Fennel." Weevil shakes his head. "Who did you come here to help? And why didn't you want Veronica to know about it?"

Surprisingly, it's Ruby who answers. "His name is Piznambia."

Dick perks up. "Piznarksi? From Hearst?"

"That's what I said."

"Damn." Dick chuckles. "Last time I saw that dude, he was getting his face smashed-in at our high school reunion. I have pictures."

"I know." Ruby pins Casablancas with a stare. "Why do you think he volunteered?"

Dick's brow furrows, confused. "To get beaten up?"

Ruby sighs. "No. He signed up to be a test subject for an experimental drug. A drug developed for the express purpose of creating super soldiers. Super-fast and super-strong, super-soldiers."

Something in Weevil's peripheral vision catches his attention, and he turns back to the window. "Um...guys?"

"Piznarski?" Dick snorts in derision. "I'll believe it when I see it. Super-tool is the best he can hope for."

"He spent a lot more time under that goo than this guy did." She waves a hand at Wallace. "And you saw how fast he could run."

"Guys!" Weevil raises his voice, and they all turn to him. "Don't look now, but Piz is coming this way, and I think you made him angry."

Despite the darkness, the skin not covered by the figure’s shredded tee-shirt and tighty-whities glows with a pink, phosphorescent light.

"Holy shit!" Dick whispers.

The whites of Piz' eyes are the same neon hue as his skin, and his lips are pulled back in a rictus grin. "RONNNKA! RONNNKA! 'SMEE PIZ!"

"What language is that?" Ruby asks.

Weevil can't take his eyes off the monster. "He's calling for Veronica."

A variety of bright, colorful flowers spill artistically from a two-foot terra-cotta planter. Piz bends down, picks it up, and holds it out in offering like a hostess bouquet. "COME OUT RONNNKA! WANNA TALK TO YOU." The planter cracks in his grip and breaks into a dozen pieces, contents tumbling to the ground. He looks down, confused, and then back to the window.

"Fuck. My. Life." Weevil crosses himself. "We need to get the hell out of here. He's going to bust in, and I don't want to be here when he realizes Veronica's not around."

"How?" Dick asks. "We have no cars and no phones."

"I know what to do. Follow me." Ruby crosses to the far side of the room, out of sight from the picture window.

Dick watches her, forehead wrinkled in thought. "Wait a second. You haven't limped in an hour. What happened to 'I can't walk. My ankle’s broken.'?"

Ruby glances back over her shoulder, rolls her eyes. "Logan's not here to carry me. Guess I'm on my own." She tugs on an antique brass wall sconce, and a wide section of bookcase swings open, revealing a darkened tunnel of some kind.

Dick gasps. "No. Freaking. Way. Where does it lead?"

The flashlight on Ruby's cell illuminates only a few feet. "Catacombs. They run under the entire property." She turns to Weevil. "Think you could roll your bike through here?"

Weevil rubs the back of his head. "I think so. Can we get it back up?"

"Yeah. There are ramps at each end."

"How do you know all this?" Dick asks. "Jeff and Lydia give you a map?"

"They don't even know the tunnels exist." Ruby turns a sad glance to Wallace - no, the wheelchair he's sitting in. "Katie discovered them. Gave me the underground tour before Sean took her away."

From outside. "RONNNKA! TALK TO MEEE. MISS YOU!"

Dick hooks a thumb at the window. "What about Pepto Pizmal out there? If he figures out the house is empty, he might search the property for us."

"For the first time in your life, you may be right," Weevil says. "We need somebody to stay behind and play decoy long enough for us to get a head start."

All eyes turn to Rooks. He lifts both hands, shaking his head adamantly. "Nope. I won't do it. You leave me behind with that...thing...I'm out of here. I'd rather take my chances running."

Weevil turns to Ruby. "Know where we can find some rope?"

"You can't leave me here defenseless!" Rooks shrieks. "That's murder!"

He's not wrong. "Fine." Weevil sighs, out of patience. "That leaves Ruby or Dick. Wallace needs to be hospitalized, and I need to take him."

"Not me." Ruby crosses her arms over her chest. "You'll need me to guide you, if you don't want to get lost."

Four sets of eyes turn to Dick.

"No. No way." When nobody budges, he whines, "Come on, guys! How the hell am I supposed to convince him I'm Veronica."

A wide smile stretches across Ruby's face. She plucks off her golden blonde wig, placing it on Dick's head, and adjusting it until it covers all of his own hair. "Wow. You're kinda pretty."

Despite his predicament, Casablancas smiles, enjoying the flattery.

"For a douche," Ruby continues.

His smile drops.

Weevil rolls his bike in from the patio, choosing not to fret about parquet flooring. Leaving it next to the tunnel, he makes a quick loop of the manor, locking exterior doors and reinforcing them by stuffing chairs under the knobs.

The monster formerly known as Piz is still howling when he rejoins the others. Ruby returns seconds later with a handful of flashlights, and a machete. She's changed her clothing and now wears tight khaki pants, tall brown boots and an olive-green tank top under a Veronica-style leather jacket. The gun is still tucked into her pants, and her long dark hair falls in a braid down her back.

Weevil keeps his laugh on the inside. If role-playing helps her find her confidence, who is he to judge? At least she didn't go with hot pants and thigh holsters.

Straddling his bike, he puts it in neutral and turns on the headlight. "Ready to get this show on the road?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." Without a backwards glance, Ruby clicks on her flashlight and steps through the opening. Rooks follows, pushing Wallace in the wheelchair.

Dick stands next to the tilted wall sconce, bewigged and trying valiantly to conceal his fear.

Shit. Hell has officially frozen over if he's feeling sympathy for this asshole.

Weevil gives him a manly nod. "I've never liked you, Casablancas."

Dick bites his fist, the image of contained devastation. "Somehow, my heart will go on."

"But..." Weevil continues. "I don't want you to die. At the very least, it would hurt people I care about."

"Is that violins I hear?" Dick cups his ear. "It's like we're almost...friends."

"Don't get ahead of yourself." Weevil chuckles. "Anyway, stay visible from the window. Once Piz wanders off, wait a few minutes and follow us." He aims his flashlight inside the tunnel. “There’s sand on the tunnel floor, so you should be able to follow the track of my bike. If Piz gets inside the house..." He pauses. "Hey Ruby, come here."

She returns from the tunnel. "What's up?"

"We need to give Dick that gun."

"Are you crazy? We can't give him our only weapon."

"What do you call that machete?" Weevil raises an eyebrow. She still looks resistant, so he puts a hand on her arm, appealing to her emotions. "He's taking a huge risk to keep us safe. We can't leave him defenseless."

"UGH! Why do you have to make sense?" Roughly yanking the gun from her waistband, she hands it butt first to Dick. She returns to the tunnel, muttering, "The idiot will probably shoot his own foot off, but what do I care?"

Wallace gathers enough energy to make threats. “He’s still my friend, man. Don’t you dare kill him, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Dick’s eyes lift to the ceiling. “Yeah. Sure. We’ll just toast marshmallows together, and sing “Come Buy Ya.”

Weevil snickers. Idiot. "Best of luck, my man." He hands his flashlight to Dick, pushes off and rolls his bike down the ramp. The secret door closes behind him, leaving only his headlight, and three small flashlights to guide the way.

So, this is it. Alone with the freak.

The bookshelf swings closed with a loud creeeaaak, sounding much like the final nail in Dick's coffin. Not a nail being hammered, obvi, but maybe one being stressed. Like if the coffin was wood, and he was inside doing a lot of wiggling or something.

Wonder if Wally did a lot of wiggling in his coffin before he got freed?

A wet motorcycle track runs from the patio entrance straight to the secret door, like a neon sign saying 'they went this-a-way'. He grabs a towel from the nearest bathroom, and using his foot, wipes it out. Kind of. He's not trying to win any housekeeping awards, or anything.

"RONNKA! RONNKA!"

Dick shudders. If he's going to be forced to stick around listening to the world's pinkest Stanley Kowalski, he's going to need a bit of...herbal relief. Luckily, he’s already anticipated this.

Bringing flame to the end of his joint, he inhales deeply, holding the smoke until his ears start to ring. Little by little his rigid muscles relax.

Piz still stands outside the window, staring in at him. Dick's skin crawls, but he forces a smile and gives him a little finger-wave.

Damn, why can't Logan be here? He wouldn't stand around waiting to be hulk-smashed. He'd head out there and take a shovel to the fucker's head. Of course, he'd probably end up hospitalized, but at least everyone else would get away.

Wait...am I the Logan tonight? Smiling, despite his predicament, he takes a seat in the club chair next to the window - still warm from Ruby's fine ass.

It's almost miraculous, the way she'd transformed from a simpering, clingy, hot-mess when Logan was here, to a competent, bitchy, take-no-prisoners, hot-mess, the moment he was gone. Something about her utter disdain for him, well...it's disturbing how much that turns him on.

He’d bang her. Probably. It’s not like Mac will ever give him the time of day, so why not?

He fluffs the long blonde wig over his shoulders. If only he had some props or something. A fan, maybe.

Bugs Bunny would flutter a fan when he was hiding in plain sight as a woman. Sometimes he’d do the Knitting-Granny thing, or the bonneted Southern Belle, or chick with the fruit-basket hat.

And you can never forget blonde, Viking-Braids Bugs. That was kinda hot. Huh. My man, Bugs, REALLY enjoyed going drag.

"RONNKA." The Piz thing howls. "LOVE YOU!"

Despite the danger, Dick can't help but snicker. Raising his voice to a feminine pitch, he shouts back. "I LOVE LOGAN! NOT YOU!"

"RONNNKA! I FIGHTS GOOD NOW, TOO!"

Dick calls back. "BUT YOU STILL CAN'T FUCK WORTH A DAMN!"

Piz lets out a roaring shriek and runs straight at the window.

Oh shit! Why did I do that again?

Dick backs away - all the way, until he bumps into the bookcase. The glass picture window shatters into a million pieces, and he pulls the gun from his pants, holding it straight out in front of him.

Piz-zilla stands among the debris, barefoot and unaffected. His eyes lock on Dick, and his head tilts, confuse. "Ronnka?"

He stalks closer, ignoring the gun and leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him.

Something hot and wet runs down Dick's leg, and in desperation, he rips the wig off his head, holds it out in front of him, and waves it like a white flag.

He squeezes his eyes closed and waits. Piz doesn’t attack, nor does he retreat. He waits there, breathing like a bad porn star and smelling like wet dog.

When he can’t take the suspense another second, Dick cracks an eyelid.

Piz is staring at the wig, horrified. "Wha you do to Ronka?"

"No! I didn't fucking scalp her. It's a wig. See?" He turns it inside-out, displaying the woven cap section. "Not Veronica. Ronnie left an hour ago."

"Ronka here. Saw her."

"No man. That was me! Look!" Dick demonstrates, putting the wig on and pulling it off, repeating the gesture several times. "I'm Veronica. Not Veronica. Veronica. Not Veronica. See what I mean?"

"Not Veronica." The Pizmonster repeats.

"Not Veronica," Dick confirms. "She left an hour ago. With Logan."

"LOOOGAN!" Piz roars!

Dick cringes. Way to poke the beast, genius.

Piz spins away, howling, "LOOOGAN! LET RONKA GO! SHE LOVE MEEEE NOW."

"Yeah. Logan stole yo girl!" Dick gently shoves Piz into motion. "Go get 'em, big guy."

He waits until Piz is out of sight. Not daring to open the secret passage – the creaking hinges might draw him back – Dick hides instead in the coat closet to the left of the front door. He hears crashes and bangs as Piz stalks from room to room, screaming for Ronnie and Logan.

Minutes pass, and the noise stops. Dick bites his lip at the sound of crunching glass outside his hiding space. He lifts the gun, swearing that this time, he'll shoot the fucker.

Piz reaches for the exterior door instead, ripping it from its hinges with a loud, creaking crash. He heads out into the night, resuming his call for Veronica.

It takes Dick several minutes to escape the closet with the debris in the way. He's forced, to sit, press his back to the wall, and shove with his feet until the door opens far enough for him to squeeze out.

With one last look through the broken window – nothing pink, nor glowing in sight – Dick exits into the catacombs.

Darkness closes around him, thick and silent, and this has to be what solitary confinement feels like.

He flicks on his flashlight, but the beam is weak. If he doesn't catch up before the batteries die, he's going to be trapped down here in the dark.

One wrong turn, and he could be lost down here forever. Would the others even search for him? Weevil has every reason to hate him, Fennel thinks he's trash, and Ruby would just use his passing as an excuse to console Logan.

He trains the small circle of light on the motorcycle track, and moves with purpose. To combat his fear and loneliness, he lights his second joint, and tries connecting all the pieces he's learned or overheard since making the mistake of driving to this property.

Jeff and Lydia VanVino - or whatever - traded their failing Cabernet production for vats full of pink level-up potion. There has to be a shitload of cash in that, provided nobody catches wind of the results.

Lydia allied herself with that cockroach, Sean Friedrich, who's some kind of Fitzpatrick henchman now. Jeff, apparently, grew a conscience, and decided to work with Veronica. And her San Diego cop buddies. Separately. Whether that was before or after Friedrich kidnapped his little sister remains to be seen.

Piz signed up for the Captain America makeover treatment, but ended up trading most of his IQ points for the ability to smash property and a permanent case of rosacea.

Ruby’s in it because she wants to bang Logan. Piz wants to bang Veronica. Dick wants to bang someone. Anyone. It's been a while.

"And Mr. Rooks shot at Ruby because...why? She's annoying? She can identify him? He's a bitter prick?"

There's too many bad guys. Too many coincidences. Hell, even Beaver would consider this plan convoluted, and he engineered the whole...well...you know.

"We have to be missing something. They don’t call them the Fighting Fitzpatricks for nothing. There’s already a dozen of them, backbiting and jockeying for position. So…an army of braindead, pink, super-soldiers would just make things worse, right?”

A tunnel branches off to the right, but Dick ignores it, as Weevil's tire track continues straight ahead.

That is, until he hears the moaning. Not moaning-moaning, really. Nobody's bumping uglies or anything, and he's not being haunted by the Ghost of Pizmas Past. It's more like…somebody with a mouth full of...something, is really trying to get his attention.

He should probably check it out. On the other hand, his flashlight is growing dimmer by the minute, and with Logan and Mac across town with Ronnie, there's a zero percent chance the it's anyone he gives a shit about.

A minute later, his curiosity gets the better of him. What if Ruby or Rooks, (or both), turned against Wallace and Weevil, stole the motorcycle, and left them behind? He doesn't much like those guys, but they're Ronnie's people, and he's Logan's, so they're almost like his in-laws.

And anyway, this is going to make a helluva bar story someday – if they survive the night – and he'd be embarrassed to admit he got out alive without ever discovering the identity of the moaner.

Dammit. He retraces his steps, and turns at the 'Y', dragging his foot to make a new path.

The new branch curves sharply to the right, circling back toward the main tunnel, and dead-ending in a sort of cul-de-sac. Stacked crates line the wall, with shipping labels so old, the writing has all but worn off. Leaning against one of them, bound and gagged, sits...Ugh.

"This is what curiosity gets you." Dick rips duct tape from Sean Friedrich's, noting the pinkish bald spot in the dude's 'stache with some satisfaction. "Funny meeting you, here."

Sean spits a wad of white cloth from his mouth, pushing it with his tongue when it sticks to his lip. "Dick Casablancas. Last person I would've expected. I was afraid you didn't hear me."

"I wish I hadn't." Hooking hands under Sean's arms, Dick helps him up to his feet.

"Thanks. Hurry up, and untie me."

"Yeah. Not happening." The nearest crate has been pried open at some point, and Dick pushes aside its lid, shining his flashlight on the contents. He lifts one of the remaining nine bottles of wine, blowing off the dust. He can't read the label - not enough light, so he tucks it under the arm holding his flashlight. "Let's go, before we run out of light."

"Help me out, man! My wrists are numb."

"Sucks to be you." Dick shoves him toward the tunnel. "Get it through your head, we're not on the same team."

"We could be," Sean glances over his shoulder, preparing to start negotiations. "I can make it worth your while."

Dick chuckles. "That shit doesn't work on me. I'm already rich."

Sean persists. "What if I could offer you something better than money?"

"Like what?"

"I can make you a god." Sean says, without an ounce of irony.

Dick plays along. "A god? What do you mean?"

"I can make you invincible. Strong like Hercules. Fast like Hermes. Powerful like Zeus." Apparently, Friedrich has gone off the deep end, and thinks he's some kind of Bond villain now.

"Smart like a box of bricks?" Back at the main tunnel, Dick nudges Sean to the right. "Pink like Victoria's Real Secret?"

Sean sighs. "That was a... mistake. Lydia made a miscalculation in the formula. All the others were successes. Let me make you a success."

"You're talking to the wrong guy. I surf, I get baked, and play video games. What do I need with strength or speed?"

"Fine!" Sean snaps. "You don't care about money or power. What do you give a shit about? I'll get it for you."

"Well, there's family. Logan Echolls, for instance. Remember him?" Dick shoves at Sean's back, causing him to stumble for a few steps. "You should. You turned his girlfriend into an addict, fucked her behind his back, and then soiled her memory before she was cold in her grave."

"Hey! If it wasn't me, it would have been some other guy with good drugs. She came on to me, and anyway, I told Logan I was sorry."

"So, to make it up to him, you turned Piznarski into a heat-seeking missile intent on bumping him off and stealing his current girlfriend?"

"We humored the guy. So, what?" Sean's voice drips with condescension. "Do you think we're stupid enough to want Veronica Mars up in our business? She has a habit of ruining everything."

"So, you were just—” Dick's flashlight goes out, plunging them into blackness. "SHIT!"

Sean takes the opportunity to run, his footsteps shuffling in double-time.

"Stop, you idiot. I have a gun."

“Good luck aiming, sucker!” Sean calls back.

The flashlight hits the ground with an echoing clatter, as Dick pulls his cell from his pocket, and thumbs on the flashlight icon.

Ahead, Sean stumbles and trips, unable to catch himself with his hands tied behind his back. "Arghhh"

"Serves you right, sucker." Once again, Dick helps him up off the ground.

A film of dirt covers Sean's face, shirt and jeans. He spits out blood and one of his front teeth. "I had to try, before I just let you deliver me straight to Logan."

Logan? Considering the disgust and anger on Weevil's face after learning about the missing little girl, Logan shouldn't be Sean's main concern.

"What's your deal with Logan, anyway?" Dick experimentally tucks his cell in the chest pocket of his shirt, relieved when it's tall enough for the light to show over the top. "It's starting to look like you have a grudge or something."

"Why would I have a grudge against Logan?" Sean asks, but he sounds belligerent and totally fake.

"Whatever, man." Hands freed up, Dick relights his joint, inhaling deeply.

"What's that smell?" Sean stops and turns around. "Are you smoking a fatty?"

"What if I am?"

"Let me hit that."

Dick blows smoke into the douche's face. "Nope."

Sean sighs like the bitch that he is, and resumes walking. "When did you become such an asshole."

"When wasn't I an asshole? Do you even know me?" Just to fuck with him, Dick aims each of his exhales at the back of Sean's head.

Rounding a bend in the tunnel, pinpricks of light come into view. Finally!

Cupping one hand around his mouth, Dick shouts. "HELLLOOOOOOO."

Silence follows. He's about to try again, when Weevil's voice calls out. "CASABLANCAS?"

"YEAH, IT'S ME."

Weevil doesn't answer, but the lights stop receding, growing bigger and brighter as they approach.

"Piznarski give up and go away?" Weevil asks, when they're within spitting distance.

"Yeah. After he busted the window and rampaged through the house, he took off to look for Veronica outside."

A flashlight beam swings in their direction, forcing Dick to squint and shield his eyes.

"Ugh. Why the hell would you bring him with you?" Ruby asks.

At the sound of her voice, Sean lets out a furious snarl and hurtles forward into the blackness in-between. "You double-crossing bitch!"

"Did you really think I was going to let you hurt Logan?" She laughs, cruel and cutting. "You're lucky I stopped at tying you up."

"Lucky you conked me over the head and left me there for oomph--" Sean's voice cuts off.

Dick closes the remaining distance to the small - but glorious - circle of light. As he joins the group, Ruby greets him by plucking the joint from his hand, and lifting it to her lips. To her left, Wallace slumps in his wheelchair, eyelids at half-mast, as if fighting against unconsciousness.

Weevil has Sean pinned to the wall, a forearm pressed to his windpipe. He leans in close enough to tongue Sean's ear drum – what's up with this dude and his homoerotic posturing? – speaks in a menacing whisper. "Whatever my friend Ruby did to you is going to feel like a picnic by the time I'm done with you."

"What the hell?" Sean squirms and struggles. Tries to head butt, but misses by several inches. "What did I do to you?"

"Me? Nothing. But you took a disabled little girl away from her family, and I have a BIG problem with that."

Mr. Rooks closes-in from Sean's other side, almost comical in his attempt to look intimidating. As if Weevil needs backup from him.

Ruby seems to be thinking the same thing. She rolls her eyes and hands the joint back to Dick, now sticky, and tasting of Dr. Pepper flavored lip gloss.

"I'll give her back." Sean speaks slowly, as if trying to regulate his seething contempt. "She's useless to me now, anyway, thanks to that idiot, Jeff."

Weevil casts an appraising glance at Wallace, and sighs. "We'd better get a move on. This guy needs a doctor." Pulling out a pocket knife, he cuts Sean's remaining bindings and releases him.

Sean rolls his shoulders, and rotates his wrists back and forth. He only manages to take two steps away from the wall before Rook swings, planting a fist in his face. He stumbles backwards, hitting the wall and clunking his head.

Weevil side-eyes their old teacher. "You done, tough guy?"

"Yeah." Rooks whimpers and clutches his fist, as if surprised by the pain. "That was for Katie."

"Obviously." Weevil swings his leg over his motorcycle and pushes up the kickstand. "Let's move." He kicks off the ground, rolling the bike forward.

Dick and Ruby fall in behind, with Sean circling around to walk on Dick's left side. He wiggles his jaw, and spits a second front tooth into his open palm.

Dick snorts. "I hope Team Bad Guy has a good dental plan."

Sean isn't amused. He eyes each of them like they're vipers capable of striking at any moment.

Rooks - pushing Wallace's wheelchair - brings up the rear.

They walk in silence at first, the only sound being the squeaking of wheels and sizzle of paper, as Dick and Ruby pass the joint back and forth.

Cross-tunnels appear more regularly. Most, they pass by. Twice, Ruby instructs them to turn.

"Just out of curiosity..." Sean begins. "Has anybody considered the possibility of Ruby getting us thoroughly lost, and then slipping away when we're not paying attention?"

"That's a great idea," she answers. "Now let me just split Weevil and Wallace from the pack for a totally unrelated conversation..."

Dick bumps her shoulder. "Not a lot of loyalty on Team Bad Guy, huh?"

"I'm not on their team."

Wallace speaks up. "Well then, whose team are you on?"

"Good question," Weevil says. "How did you end up with these guys?"

"Team Logan, obviously. Should I start from the beginning?"

Obviously.

"Yeah. Sure."

"I was at the 09er Club, just minding my own business one day—"

Sean scoffs. "You were our waitress, and you illegally recorded our conversation."

She shrugs, shoulder brushing against Dick's arm. "As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted. That Piznambia guy was having lunch with Sean, Lydia, and Jeff, sniveling about Veronica Mars, and how she always rejected him for Alpha Males. Logan Echolls, specifically. Actually...hold on." She retrieves her cell and flicks her fingers over the screen. "Luckily, I saved a local copy of the recording."

From the speakers, comes Sean's prissy, over-annunciated voice. "Logan Echolls is an unevolved Neanderthal. Listen Stosh, you've seen the outcomes of our test subjects. They make Captain America look weak and puny. Once you've completed your treatments, you'll redefine alpha male."

A woman speaks in a high-pitched voice. Lydia, presumably. "You can throw Logan around like a ragdoll, if you so choose."

Piznarski giggles. "I choose. I very much choose. My occipital bone—"

Lydia interrupts with a bored sigh. "Yeah. We've heard the story already. Go ahead, kill him. Do whatever you want to him, as long as it can't blow back on us."

The recording ends, and Ruby resumes her story. "I cornered Lydia in the bathroom and played the tape for her."

"You blackmailed her?" Weevil asks.

"No. I told her I wanted in. I'd even help Piznolio get Veronica, but in return, I wanted Logan for myself, and if any harm came to him at all - even a scratch - the recording would go public."

"Do you realize how creepy that is?" Wallace asks. "Logan hasn't given up on Veronica since high school. You honestly thought you could lure him away with a cheap wig and an elaborate scheme? Better people have tried."

"Obviously, not." Ruby sighs, exasperated. "But I'm a great actress. It's not hard to convince people I'm looney and harmless."

"For the record, you totally convinced me." Dick says. "So, you joined Team Bad Guy as a double-agent, or something?"

Sean speaks, his voice venomous. "That's exactly what she did. I warned them not to trust the bitch, that she was sabotaging everything, but Lydia and Jeff thought I was paranoid. 'Ruby's harmless,' they said. 'We can use her as bait,' they said. I should've trusted my instincts."

"I don't trust her, either," Wallace says. "She says all this now, but why didn't she call the police? Why didn't she bring in Veronica?"

"I intended to at first, but then...I couldn't."

"He has a point," Dick says. "And what about today? You've had ample opportunity to tell the truth. You could've given us a heads-up on what we were walking into instead of simpering and whining and clinging to Logan. Hell, even that Jeff dude leveled with us."

"I couldn't okay? And Jeff doesn’t know it yet, but he probably won’t survive the day.”

"Talk to us, Ruby." Weevil halts his bike, and turns his head, speaks softly. "Why are you holding back?"

"The eyelashes, Weevil? That's not fair." She sighs. "I'm not holding back, now. I held back earlier today – and for the past few weeks – because Veronica Mars is working with the mastermind. Or at least I presume he's the mastermind, he could be reporting to others."

Wallace makes a derisive snort. "Veronica would never work with Fitzpatrick. He's everything she stands against in the world."

"Liam Fitzpatrick is not the mastermind. He provides volunteers for a share of the cut."

"And where does he get these volunteers?" Weevil asks.

"You can find them in any bar. Pathetic losers, crying in their beers over being friendzoned, or having sand kicked in their faces, or whatever. He gets them drunk, whispers promises about how everything will be different after their treatments, and reels them in. An army of 'Nice Guys'"

"Oh hell." Wallace makes a choked sound. "This is my fault! Piz was staying at my place during his visit from New York. Something came up at work on the second night, and I had to cancel plans to meet him for drinks. Fitzpatrick must've gotten to him then."

"No, it's not your fault." Ruby turns around, and lays a hand on his shoulder, ducking to look into his creepy pink eyes. "For every one volunteer, there were ten who walked away. Ten who opted out of quick-fix revenge or power or dominance or whatever. Piz stuck around because he was bitter and jealous, and delusional. And that says a lot coming from the me."

Dick is still working through the logic in his head. "So Fitzpatrick is out as the mastermind. It can't be Sean, because Ronnie wouldn't work with him. She is working with Jeff, but he seems to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, so...not the boss. It's not me or Logan, obviously. That leaves...oh God. Not Mac!"

Now, we’ll NEVER get to second base.

"The hacker? Why would you even go there?" Ruby groans, slowing her voice to a condescending drawl. "Since I have to spell things out...the mastermind is Wei Breitski. How was that not your logical conclusion?"

"Detective Wei Breitski?" Wallace demands. "The same guy who left the winery with Veronica, Logan and Keith to go find my antidote?"

"That's the one. He thought he was being sneaky, meeting Sean and Lydia in secret, but Ruby Jetson sees everything. These catacombs don't only run under the house."

Sean groans. “I told her I heard footsteps in the walls. ‘It’s an old house, Sean’. ‘It’s Great Uncle Percy’s ghost, Sean’. When will anyone ever listen to me?”

"What's the connection between a cop and hot pink, chemically-engineered, super soldiers?" Weevil asks.

"Technically, only Piznabbit turned pink. And Wallace, I suppose. Lydia had this great plan to speed up production, or something. It didn't work, obviously. As for the connection? I'm not positive, but they whispered about some kind of West coast private army or mercenaries."

"Okay, that's super fucked-up, and I'm admittedly, damn lucky to have escaped that fate," Wallace interrupts, "But I'm still stuck on part where Veronica thinks she can trust Wei, and you let her walk into danger."

"How was I supposed to warn her? He was always there, pretending to be innocent in that stupid bowler hat. I had to play dumb as long as he was around."

Rooks speaks up. "You should have played dumber. Wei's the one who forced me to find you and shoot you."

Ruby spins around to attack, but Rooks shifts the wheelchair, using it a shield. "Hey! You already payed me back. You knocked me unconscious, remember?"

"Maybe I'm in the mood for a replay." She stalks to the right.

He compensates with the wheelchair. "He didn't give me a choice, okay?"

"Stop it!" Wallace hits the manual brake lever, locking the wheelchair in place, and scowls at Ruby until she hangs her head in shame and slinks away. He waits until they're moving again to address Mr. Rooks. "That's what I don't understand. Despite your gross and highly illegal predilection for underaged girls, you were a damn good teacher, and really seemed to care about your students. How could you have fallen so low that you would attempt murder and consort with those evil bastards?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Weevil asks.

"Not really," Dick answers. "I'd like to know the answer to that as well."

When Rooks doesn't volunteer an explanation, Weevil sighs. "Katie VanVliet, the missing little girl, is his daughter."

Wallace shakes his head. "Shouldn't his daughter be almost grown by now? The math doesn't work out."

"My daughter Olivia, will turn eighteen in a few months."

"Oh. My. God." Ruby gasps. Tone reverent, she continues, "No wonder I felt an instant connection to Katie. It's like...I was meant to befriend her."

Dick scratches his head. "What am I missing."

Wallace fills him in. "I’m gathering that the Van Vliet family must have adopted Susan Knight's daughter with Rooks, and our friend Sean here, along with Detective Wei, kidnapped her to keep Rooks and Jeff in line."

"Took you long enough." Weevil says, pushing his motorcycle into motion again.

Dick turns to Sean. "That's harsh. Even for you."

Sean exhibits zero guilt or shame, merely gives him a 'what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it-sucka' smirk.

Something switches inside Dick, and, what the hell? Other than Wallace, he's the only one who hasn't taken a turn at this douchebag. Rearing back, he demonstrates how a real head butt gets done.

The sickening crunch of Sean's nose is worth the blinding flash of pain behind Dick's eyes. Totally worth it.

With that out of his system, Dick helps Sean up off the ground. "Any more teeth?"

"Fuck you." Sean's upper lip moves as his tongue takes inventory. "You missed, asshole."

"Bummer."

"Couple more minutes," Ruby says. "We're almost to the barn."

"Finally." Weevil exhales. "We should try to figure out what comes next."

"So, talk," Dick says.

Weevil glares over his shoulder. "The problem is, we have two people needing saving, and I'm only one person. As nauseating as I find the idea of anybody else touching my baby, I have to put Wallace's survival ahead of that, so..." He swallows and points to Dick and Ruby. "Do either of you have any experience riding a motorcycle?"

Dick shakes his head. "Not really, man. Only four-wheelers."

"I've only ridden as a passenger," Ruby says.

"Dammit." Weevil hangs his head in frustration. He breathes audibly for a second, and then straightens. "Listen. I've known both of you forever, and you've both spent your lives convincing people to underestimate you. Whether out of strategy..." he addresses Ruby, then swings his eyes to Dick. "...or laziness. I don't care. This is the moment for you to step up."

"Hold that thought." Dick lifts a finger, and pulls out his phone. "Imma find you some motivational speech background music."

Weevil slaps him on the back of his head. "Stop fucking around. Somebody needs to force Sean's cooperation long enough to rescue that kid. Since I can't be in two places at once, it's up to you two."

"And me." Rooks says. "I'd do anything to help Katie."

"Imagine if you'd tried something earlier, instead of...I don't know...attempted murder?"

"This is it," Ruby says, as they come to an upward-leading ramp. She toggles a switch and a door swings open, revealing giant metal vats.

They all file through the opening, into the strangest barn Dick has ever seen. Not that he's spent a lot of time in barns or anything, but...is that a coffin? Wallace’s coffin?

Weevil parks the bike, and crouches down in front of Wallace. "Okay, Fennel. This is it. We're gonna get you on that bike, and I'm gonna need you to hold on like your life depends upon it, okay?"

"No." Wallace swallows and shakes his head. Tears fill his strange pink eyes. "I don't think I can hold on. I'm scared."

Weevil lifts his eyes to the sky as if praying. "I don't know what else to do. I could leave by myself, drive far enough to get a cell signal and then call an ambulance, but how much time would it take to get here? And can you afford to wait?"

"I have an idea!" Ruby disappears around one of the giant vats, returning with a silver, donut shaped item.

Five minutes later, Dick returns the pocket knife to Weevil. "Why does this feel so familiar?"

"This is WRONG!" Wallace moans, cheek pressed to Weevil's back. "All KINDS of wrong!"

"You think I like it?" Weevil snaps. "I'm all for poetic justice and everything, but not at the expense of my favorite leather jacket."

"Can you two stop with the bickering?" Ruby stands with both hands on her hips. "Just be grateful that you're safe and it would take a hurricane to knock Wallace off that bike."

It's not an exaggeration. There has to be fifty layers of duct tape, binding Wallace to Weevil.

They'd stood on either side of the bike passing the roll back and forth. Dick to Ruby in front. Ruby to Dick in back. Front. Back. Front. Back. It might take hours to get the smell of tape off his hands.

They move as a group to the small door in the southeast corner. Ruby opens it, and turns back. "There's a service road right behind those trees. Follow it for--"

"RONNNKKKKA? THERE YOU ARE!"

She slams the door and bolts it. "Now what?"

"Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck." Weevil mutters. He lets out a sobbing laugh, and lifts an eyebrow. "Well...it worked once before?"

"Huh-uh! No! Nope!" Dick shakes his head. "Negative. I've already pissed my pants once today. It's somebody else's turn."

"Don't look at me." Sean crosses his arms. "I'm the only one who can take you to Katie."

Mr. Rooks – who was tasked with holding Ruby's leather jacket while they were duct-taping – straightens up and slips his arms through the slightly too-short sleeves, flexing where it's too tight along the upper back. He marches over to Dick, snatches the blonde wig, and drops it haphazardly onto his own head, not bothering to adjust the fit.

Well that’s embarrassing. Would it have killed somebody to remind me I was still wearing that?

“It’s been fun getting…reacquainted.” Rooks unbolts the barn door and, with a sad wave to the group, runs out into the night, shouting out in girl-voice, "Here I am, Baby! Come and get me!"

"Well damn." Weevil shakes his head. "Didn't think he had it in him." He waits until they're out of sight, kick starts his bike, and pulls away, looking back over his shoulder once.

"And then there were three," Dick says. Because it sounds kind of ominous. To Ruby, he asks, “Wanna make out?”

“Ewww.” She scrunches her nose with disgust, but there’s a gleam in her eye that makes him think it’s all for show.

He grins. I’ve got your number. "In that case, let's go rescue that kid."

"Let's not." Sean fakes a yawn and stretches. "You're all assholes, and I think I've changed my mind."

Oh, hell no!

Dick draws from his waistband, and pulls back the safety. "What was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of my gun." He pauses for dramatic effect, and slips on his sunglasses, while the opening theme for CSI-Miami plays in his head.

Want to find out what happens next? Check back next Saturday for the next installment written by… @nicemom93. Tag, you’re it! Make sure to submit your segment to [email protected] by Wednesday, October 11th.

#veronica mars #vm fanfic #vmhq campfire tale #vmhq round robin

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mogdaze-blog · 7 years ago

Text

The Trapdoors - Short Story

There's a lot of lies floating around about love.

I think the first is this mythical idea of "true love," like in a world of seven or eight billion people there's only going to be one unique piece that fits the gap in your jigsaw puzzle. Sounds so ridiculous when said aloud. It's a childish notion, cooked up by fairy tales and bad romantic comedies trying to distil the nuance of human connection into a cool, marketable hour and forty minutes. The reality is that any sincerely-felt love is true love - and just because you may love one person more than another, it doesn't mean the first love wasn't real. It's all real.

For some reason, that's just a fact we like to deny ourselves. Makes things feel more clear-cut, I suppose.

The second lie is about the permanence of love. I'm not a pessimist, never have been, but it's unhealthy to deny the facts. Love, in a sense, is like life: it can be beautiful, it can be terrible, but most important to remember is that it'll be there one day, and just not there the next. Everything, in the grand scheme of things, is temporary.

My husband Tyler and I came to this conclusion many years back. Our love had been there one day, and then just...not. It's funny how arbitrary the whole process can be. We weren't bitter or hateful, there was no resentment between us - we just made the mutual decision to wake up from a dream that didn't feel so sweet anymore.

We kept the whole arrangement mature, even business-like. We'd been married for ten years, almost to the day, so even if we'd decided not to be spouses any longer, we were still friends. We knew each other better than anyone, from the surface of the skin to the deepest crevices of the soul. For a decade, we'd had all-access passes to the museums of one another. The split would be a clean, surgical amputation of his life from mine.

Tyler, we both decided, would move out to an apartment in the city nearer to the credit company where he worked at the time. I'd remain the owner of our bungalow in the suburbs, closer to the day-care where I was working. Our lawyers brokered an amicable deal that we both agreed upon, and with the legal proceedings underway, all that was left to do was liberate his stuff from the house.

He was in the study, packing away all his ring-binders and credit files into a large, plastic storage box. We'd gone halves on renting a truck to get it all done in one night - we didn't want to get a moving company involved, that felt too impersonal. We'd built this life together, and it felt appropriate to be together when we took it apart.

Looking at him there, his calm face - still somehow boyish and youthful after all this time - his broad shoulders, his thick arms that filled out the shirt he was wearing. I could see even then why I'd loved this man once.

"I didn't realise how much crap I had stashed in here until now," he said with a quiet chuckle, trying to relieve pressure like he was lancing a boil, "I think we oughta take a trip down to the dump before we unpack the rest of my stuff. We could both use the space."

Tyler was always like this. Humble, self-effacing. He reminded me of the man I missed, catching glimpses of him here and there.

"The night's still young," I said to him, "we'll see what time it is when we're done, maybe we'll get a chance to take a detour."

This was the latest in a long line of plastic storage crates we'd filled up and shoved into the back of the rental. They'd contained everything from his books to his DVD collection to the number of tacky novelty mugs he'd accrued over ten years of birthdays, Valentine's days, and Christmases. Tyler's entire world fit into the storage unit of a truck - something about that just couldn't help but make me feel sad.

"You want a coffee?" I asked him, "I was thinking of getting one for myself."

"Yeah, sure." He said, as he lugged the crate out the front door and towards the truck.

I retreated to the kitchen and turned on the coffee machine, not entirely sure how I was feeling. Adapting to the rhythm of life without Tyler would take time, but there were little moments here and there that galvanised the fact that, yes, he really was going to be gone. The empty space in my bed at night, the times I'd open my mouth to say something and realise nobody was there to hear me, and, just then, the realisation that Tyler would have to use one of my mugs for his coffee.

When Tyler came back inside I gave him his coffee, and he took a long swig.

"This moving stuff is thirsty work," he said, "I think we're pretty much over the hump now, though."

"Probably a good thing," I said with a lump in my throat, "we're running out of crates."

He gave me a soft pity laugh, thanked me for the coffee, and got back to work. In our ten years as a married couple, and our three-or-so years dating before that, we'd been through plenty of places as our demands and situations changed - the latest stopgap being New York, after Santa Monica, Miami, and Seattle. We'd bounced across the country like a pinball, so being able to move quickly and efficiently was almost like second nature to us now.

While I was washing up the mugs, Tyler was just performing a final sweep of the home, going room to room to see if there were any stragglers left to collect. Neither of us wanted the shame of having to come back to collect something one of us missed; ripping off the bandaid quickly and decisively was the best way to do this.

Tyler was half way through his second search of the bedroom when he called to me.

"Helena!" He said, "can you step into the bedroom for a sec? There's something a little strange in here, I think you should see."

I had no idea what to expect. It was with a sense of mounting nerves that I followed his voice into the bedroom to see what exactly had suddenly made him so animated.

The bedroom, at first glance, was the same as it'd always been. King-sized bed, a wardrobe, a few cabinets lined with photos and tasteful knickknacks. Tyler stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at the rug.

"What's up?" I asked, "It doesn't look so strange to me, Tyler."

"That's what I thought, initially. But when I happened to trip over the rug," Tyler replied, "I saw this."

With an uncharacteristically dramatic flair, Tyler tucked his toes under the edge of the rug and peeled it back. Underneath, as plain as day, was a closed and bolted trap door fixed into the ground.

"You ever seen this before?" He asked, his tone now dead serious, "Look, I know I can be inattentive, but if this has been here, then I sure as hell wouldn't have missed it."

There were no words I could summon. A trap door, almost the exact same size as the rug covering it up, but undeniably there. Made from the same material as the hardwood flooring that we'd had installed when we moved here.

"I didn't think any of the houses around here had basements." I said.

Tyler shook his head, his eyes never once leaving the trapdoor. He was transfixed, like a snake charmer watching the swaying cobra rising out of the wicker basket in front of him. His focus an acknowledgment of danger.

"They don't," he said, matter-of-factly, "ground's not right for it, they can't be built around here. Not as far as I know, at least."

We both stood in complete silence, staring at a trap door that had no natural business being there. It seemed to give off a quiet hum, the kind you could only really parse from the general background noise of the world if you were consciously listening for it. Something about the trapdoor was wrong, so terribly wrong.

"Do you think we should call someone?" I asked.

"Who would we call? Police, the fire station?" He said, "and what do we tell them? Help, please, there's been a minor renovation in our home and it's freaking us out. We'd probably get fined for wasting police time."

The worst part was that he was completely right. There were no reinforcements, no backup, nobody we could get to lend us a hand on this. But it was easy to tell from his eyes that we were both hungry for some resolution on the damn thing, or it'd haunt us to the day we stumbled off the mortal coil.

"I think we should open it up and take a look inside." Tyler said.

"Hell no!" I said, emphatic, surprised by my own passion on the matter, "whatever's down there - if anything at all is down there - is bad news, Tyler."

Tyler just shook his head at me.

"For god's sake, Helena, you're a grown woman - it's not like someone could live down there," he said, "all the years we've lived here, we've never known about this thing. If I'm never coming back here, I think I'm owed at least one look in there, aren't I? Just a little peak, for curiosity's sake, then we can even nail it shut, if you like."

This was why having arguments with Tyler was impossible: he always knew how to put himself in a position of sympathy, framing himself as the victim and me as the bad guy, stomping on all his innocent fun. I knew in my heart of hearts that if we opened that trap door we'd regret it, but I didn't feel I was in any position to deny Tyler a final request.

"Alright," I said, "you can open it up, but then I'm getting a carpenter to come over and seal it for good. Deal?"

Tyler nodded, and unbolted the door. He didn't look curious, he didn't look excited. He just looked weary.

He practically peeled it from its place on the ground with a long, squealing creak of ancient hinges, until we were left staring into its yawning mouth. A gust of strange-smelling air came billowing out - the smell of stale dust, of old paint chipping. It wasn't, as I'd expected, pitch black down there. There was a soft, murky-yellow light that gave everything below the trapdoor a kind of vague shape, like shadow puppets.

"What the hell?" Tyler said, his voice soft and subdued.

"That's it," I said, "we're closing the trapdoor, and forgetting we ever found it. I'm going to reposition the bed and sit a goddamn wardrobe on top of it."

Tyler looked up at me, bewildered.

"Are you crazy?" He said, "we've found a genuine, bona fide mystery here, and you just want to shut it away before we even know what it is?"

"If that makes me crazy, then please, let's get my straight jacket fitted."

He just scoffed and shook his head at me; acting like a goddamn child.

"I'm not gonna let you close this off, Helena, not until we know. This is gonna nag at us for the rest of our lives if we don't look into it."

There was nothing in the world that I wanted less than to crawl down into that trapdoor with my ex-husband, but I knew Tyler better than anyone: once he got his mind set on something, he dug in his heels and never moved for anything. If I wanted this ordeal to be over as quickly and painlessly as possible, I'd need to indulge him. Let him have his fun.

"We need a weapon, if we're going down there." I said.

"Oh, come on, Helena..."

"No, I'm serious. Light means life, and if we're crawling into the belly of the beast here, I don't intend to do it unarmed."

Tyler thought for a moment.

"There's a baseball bat in the van, you want me to go get it?"

"And leave me here next to the trapdoor?" I asked, "no, screw that. I'll go get it. You wait here, okay? No funny business. I don't want to mess around with crap like this."

So that's what I did, walk out of the room, with Tyler's gaze boring into the back of my head. I gritted my teeth, ignored him as best I could, but the idea of him followed me out to the rental truck, taunting me. This was so like him, this last act of defiance. Retaining some modicum of control over me even now, when we were meant to be tying all this off.

I slid open the shutter and grabbed the bat by its business end, and headed back inside, muttering under my breath about what a terrible idea all of this was.

When I entered the bedroom and saw Tyler wasn't there, my heart all but stopped. The trapdoor sat there, gaping, just as I'd left it. What seemed like a yawn earlier now felt much more like a mouth in the grip of silent, mocking laughter.

"Helena," he called up from the pit, unseen, "you have got to see this. Right now."

His tone of holier-than-thou superiority had gone. His voice was empty, flat.

Getting my body through that trapdoor was like trying to get oil and water to mix at first. Tyler had remained silent for long enough to start worrying me, and I was the only one with any means to defend myself. I may have been afraid - no, terrified - but I knew I couldn't just leave him down there, a sitting duck.

Eventually, I bit my tongue, forced my eyes shut, and jumped feet-first into the dark.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a hallway - dark, and yet vaguely familiar - with a wooden ladder that trailed down from the mouth of the trapdoor behind me. At the end of the hall, the light was a little brighter, so I knew without a doubt that Tyler must have been down there.

The second I walked into the light at the end of the hallway, I saw two things. The first was Tyler, standing awestruck, and the second was what he was looking at. We both stood silently, just staring at it.

It was the sitting room of our home in Seattle, which should have been almost three thousand miles away, but there it was. The same couches, the same TV, same wall-art. It was as though the two locations had just somehow bled together, with the trapdoor acting as the nexus between them. Neither of us knew what to say.

"This is insane." Was Tyler's first attempt at commentary on the matter. And by god, was he right.

I walked over to one of the couches, running my hand across the cracked leather, just wanting to know if it was all real. Flesh touched tanned cow-skin, as real as you or me, and the sudden, awful realisation set in that this was all too real. Had someone created a perfect facsimile of the old house under the new one?

Without another word, I walked out of the living room and into another hallway. There were stairs, a doorway to the kitchen and to the downstairs bathroom, and to the dining room. It was all there, exactly as it had been back in the house in Seattle. Even down to the hideous brick-effect wallpaper we were both so sure looked stylish and hip at the time. The recreation seemed utterly flawless.

"This can't be happening," I said, not even believing the words myself, "this is madness. It's impossible."

It seemed almost like a cruel joke, something you'd see on a trashy hidden-camera TV show. But there was no grinning host emerging to congratulate us for being such good sports, no crew, no liability waivers to sign before the whole ridiculous mess could legally hit the airwaves. This was reality, and it hit us like a train.

"Do you think it was some kind of teleportation device?" Tyler asked. It was a notion you'd immediately laugh off in any other situation - but seeing what we'd seen, anything was possible.

"Couldn't be," I said, "we sold this house on, it was gonna be demolished along with the rest of the neighbourhood to make a mall."

"A time machine, then? Some kind of alternate reality or something?"

I held my temples and groaned, which was the only response that seemed sensible. Ask an insane question, get an insane answer. Insane was the only word that made sense here.

"So," I said, "either you're right, and we're in some kind of pocket dimension, outside of our reality. Or, someone has been living under our house, for at least as long as we've been here, meticulously building an exact replica of our house back in Seattle. And you know what, Tyler? I'm not sure which is scarier."

Tyler squinted, as he was wont to do when concentrating, and walked over to the wall.

"I can think of a way to tell." He said.

He gripped at the ragged edges of that gaudy wallpaper and started tearing it off in great swathes. After a moment or two of confusion, I ran over and joined him, grabbing handfuls of the stuff and ripping it away.

Soon, the wall was clear. Well, not exactly clear, and that was the problem. A great, rotting stain of obsidian blacks and septic greens, festering against the wood, as large as either of us.

"Goddamnit," Tyler said, his voice no louder than a whisper, "God fucking damn it."

The black mold. We'd been happy in Seattle, our jobs were going well, our house was gorgeous, we were content with one another. But the real estate agent had broken the law. She never told us why we were getting the house so cheap, why the previous owners were so eager to get rid of the blasted place. It'd been infested, from rafters to carpet, with damp, stinking rashes of black mold.

"It's conceivable," Tyler said, "But only just, that a person or a group of people could recreate the house. They could find all the furniture, use pictures we took as frames of reference. Maybe, with enough time and money and insanity, someone could do that. But nobody is batshit crazy enough to somehow culture and shape the mold until it looked exactly how we remembered it. That's impossible."

Tyler was right. Nobody could do this, no normal, flesh-and-blood human.

"So, you think this is supernatural?" I asked, my voice trembling, "is that what you're saying?"

He shrugged.

"I don't have a goddamn clue what any of this is. But I intend to find out."

When we'd fully absorbed the madness of what'd happened, we decided to explore a little further, just to make entirely sure that we weren't just inflating the similarities. But no, room for room, this house was identical to the one we left in Seattle, not so much as a coaster out of place. I found my way into the bedroom while Tyler was rifling through the kitchen cabinets, and came upon another nasty little surprise.

"Tyler!" I yelled, shriller and more panicked than I'd have liked, "get in here right now!"

Another wooden trap door sat at the foot of the bed.

Tyler was carrying the baseball bat now, but when he saw what I'd seen he almost dropped it. How much deeper did this place go? How many trapdoors were there? And, most importantly, who the hell had put them all there?

"Open it up, Helena," Tyler said, "we've come this far, why stop?"

"Have you gone crazy?"

There was a pronounced fear in Tyler's eyes. His hands shook, his legs bobbed, like they were about to buckle.

"I can't leave without knowing, Helena. I just can't. Not now, not anymore."

There was no use in refusing him, not if I wanted a clean break. I unbolted the trapdoor and jimmied it open with my fingers - the hinges rusted and cracked, like the door would just snap off if pressure was applied in the wrong places.

Same gust of stale air, of mephitic wind. We were crawling deeper and deeper into the earth.

Tyler dropped down first, being the one with the weapon, and I followed a few seconds after. Another hallway, bathed in total darkness, leaving us to fumble across the wall for a light switch.

The whole situation just seemed uncomfortably familiar.

It was hotter here, more humid, the sudden change in climate feeling almost as jarring as the discovery of the trap doors. Walking further down that hallway was reminiscent of opening an oven door to check how a meal was cooking, and being hit by a sudden wall of hot air, like a punch to the jaw.

"Found it," Tyler said, "let there be light."

Click.

And there was light. We were greeted by the clean white walls and baby-blue shag carpeting of our Miami apartment. We'd lived in a duplex in Little Havana, where I'd wanted to start a family after the Santa Monica incident uprooted us - we'd even started decorating a room for the baby, complete with mobiles and a crib. A new start, a fresh start. What a joke that felt then, looking back at the ghost of the old place from the lens of the trapdoors. I was so wrapped up in the past I almost forgot the fact we'd somehow just stepped back into it.

"You know," Tyler said, "I was really hoping this one would give us some answers, not more goddamn questions."

The weirdness was still a little lost on me, somehow. We were part of a snapshot of a place that might not even exist anymore. An illusion, a lie. And yet, I could touch the leaves of a potted plant we kept in the living room and feel cold plant-matter touch my skin. Same furniture, same dusty ornaments, same art hanging on the walls. Were it not for the sudden and unsettling stab of memory, I'd have gotten lost in it.

"Why did we move from here?" I asked, more to myself than anyone.

Which is when my brain reminded me.

I trudged slowly, robotically, over to the front door, and my questions were answered. Bloody handprints dried and caked into the carpeting, with wide, all-consuming brown drag-stains where great puddles of claret had rotted in our doorway. Just like it'd been the next day, all those years ago.

On a hot, sticky night in June we'd been awoken by a hammering on the front door. Tyler and I had run down to open it, when a girl of about seventeen, barely alive, collapsed across the threshold. She'd been stabbed - no, the poor girl had been practically gutted, a gaping, yonic wound having been carved into her belly. She was wheezing, gagging out cupfuls of blood and crying. Her boyfriend had gotten hopped up on amphetamines, accused her of cheating, before trying to remove her uterus with a hunting knife.

We called the ambulance and tried to stem the bleeding, but the poor girl didn't make it. I knew I'd never forget that face, those pleading eyes, a child's eyes. Communicating so much fear and pain and betrayal, and then just nothing at all. Glassy, lifeless doll eyes.

That scuppered any plans we might have had for making a family there. The place was marked, tainted. How could we ever expect to build a good life in a place that'd been marred by such a violent, pointless death? It was then that we moved to the Seattle house, and left all this behind.

We were getting real good at resetting our whole life at a moment's notice.

"We need to get out, Tyler." I said, "nothing good is going to come of this. You know it, I know it. We go any further and I think we're both going to regret it."

Tyler put a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Helena," he said, "just one more level, if there is even one more level. I swear on my immortal soul that if there's nothing there, we'll leave immediately, not a moment's hesitation."

"But..."

"Please, Helena, just let me have this. I think we're gonna regret leaving this unanswered more than we'd ever regret anything that answer could be. Just one more floor, just one more. That's all."

Little by little, I was beginning to remember the things I'd always resented about Tyler. This stupid, childish "my way or the highway" attitude was one of them. He'd always been like this, so infuriatingly goddamn stubborn. Why couldn't he just listen to me and think for once, rather than charging into a situation unprepared?

We went to the bedroom, and there was another trapdoor. I let him prize this one open, having washed my hands of the whole mad business. If Tyler wanted to drudge up more sewage from the past, he was welcome to, but he'd have to be the one taking the lead. I was through sticking my neck out for that man, while he just sat there, sharpening his axe.

"Come on down." Tyler shouted from the darkness.

I held my breath and jumped down after him, landing in another hallway that lead to god-knows-where. Tyler had forged ahead into the open space in the distance. It was, as anyone could have guessed, the Santa Monica house. Our honeymoon house. The house where Tyler carried me over the threshold.

"I'm gonna look around," he said, "see if I can find any clues."

"Whatever." I said, resigned to the situation.

There was no more adventure left in me. This place had gone from a confusing, mysterious novelty to a tiresome reminder of what was and what could've been had things worked out a little better. Tyler could explore all he wanted, but I was done. This stupid place held no sway over me now.

Why had we left this one, I'd wondered? No biological disasters, no murdered teenagers. It'd all started off so well - no hiccups, no stumbling out of the gate. Well, not at the very beginning. There's always a honeymoon period. An unspoken, mutual agreement to pretend one another's flaws don't exist, allowing them to get more and more pronounced over time until you can't ignore them anymore.

I'd wanted kids, I'd always wanted kids. Tyler knew this. I'd asked, and asked, and asked "when are we gonna start a family?" And he always rebuffed me. Typical Tyler, don't do today what you can put off until tomorrow. Eventually, my frustration turned to anger, and my anger turned to resentment.

"Why don't you want to commit to something for once in your life, you son of a bitch?" I barked at him once after perhaps one too many glasses of the red stuff.

"We're young," he said, a little buzzed himself, "do we really want to tie ourselves down just yet?"

"Is that what all this is to you, a fucking burden?" I asked, fuelled by rage.

"Maybe it is," he said, suddenly quiet and sickeningly sincere, "maybe it is."

The next day, he bought me an expensive pearl necklace as a peace offering, but it wasn't the same. The house had been tainted, not by murder, not by some act of God or a lying real estate agent, but by us. Looking back, that was the genesis of what had spiralled into the mess we were dealing with now.

I read somewhere once about how oysters make pearls from a tiny grain of sand. You see, the sand gets in there somehow, and it hurts - it's agonising for the oyster, feeling that grain of sand there, digging against all its tender places. So it wraps it in layers upon layers of calcium carbonate until it's turned the source of its pain into a pretty little keepsake. We'd been doing the same thing for years, wrapping our pain in layers of denial and pleasantry, until our hearts were chock full of these little pearls of hate we didn't even know were there. But everything had a breaking point, and the pearls were starting to spill out now, for all to see.

Sitting there, at the foot of the stairs in the Santa Monica house, I put my face in my hands and cried softly. How long had I been lying to myself? It wasn't an amicable separation - we'd grown to despise each other, we were both just too ashamed of the mistake we'd made to admit it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could we have been so wrong?

When I was done wallowing in self-pity, I swallowed my pain again and looked up. Tyler was standing in the living room in front of me, his back turned. I couldn't help but wonder how much he'd seen.

"Looks like we're done here." I heard him say.

But his voice wasn't coming from the living room.

I turned to see Tyler emerging from the kitchen, his face bunched-up in childish disappointment. I whipped back around to the living room, only to see it sitting as empty and dead as we'd left it.

Something in the pit of my stomach knotted - those all-too-familiar feelings of dread and ambiguous danger.

"Were you in the living room?" I asked, instantly betraying the fear in my voice.

"What?" He said, "yeah, I've been in all the rooms."

"But just a second ago?"

"No, maybe like five minutes ago, I just came out of the bedroom. No trapdoor this time, I think we've reached the bottom."

Tyler was right: we'd hit the bottom. And whatever the hell was in the living room wasn't Tyler.

"We need to get out of here," I said, "right now. Right goddam now, Tyler!"

He seemed confused, but there would be time for explanations later. I was right all along: we weren't alone in this place, not by a long shot.

"Head back to the trapdoor," I said, "no time to explain, just get moving."

Stubborn and childish as he could be, Tyler was no idiot. When he sensed the sheer spike of panic in my voice, we sped off to the hallway, our only way out of this level. We ran, our footsteps thundering so hard we barely heard the third set of footsteps slowly advancing behind us. Those movements were steady, methodical. Controlled.

"There's something behind us." Tyler said, breathing fast.

"I know, but don't stop. Just keep moving. We have to get out of here."

Soon enough, we reached the hallway. Our escape route. The ladder out through the trapdoor into the second floor was in sight, when we heard a voice that belonged to neither Tyler nor I. It was, unmistakably, the voice of a child - the child we never had.

"Mommy...daddy..." It said.

It was stupid of me, but I craned my head over my shoulder to steal what I intended to be just a quick glance. That's not the way it played out, though. As soon as I saw what was speaking, I found myself locked in a trance, mesmerised.

The thing wasn't Tyler, not really. It was an approximation of Tyler - speaking in a child's voice, perhaps only to taunt us. Its colours were too garish - almost clownishly so, to the point that it hurt your eyes just to gaze at it for too long - and they seemed almost to bleed into each other with no rhyme or reason. Its flesh seemed mottled, bloated, and doughy, as though made from wet clay or mud. The whole thing shone with prominent grease.

"Stay a little longer," it said, trudging down towards us, "I want to play with you."

Tyler ran at his perverse double with the bat, swinging hard. It collided with the creature's face with a wet, doughy 'thuck', and became jammed in place. Tyler tugged and tugged, but the bat wouldn't budge.

"What the hell is this thing?" He yelled in panic.

It reached out and wrapped five meaty fingers around the handle of the bat. With what only seemed like a gentle squeeze, the wood exploded into a thousand diminutive toothpicks. The other end of the bat just seemed to sink into the creature's head, disappearing entirely.

Fearing he would probably do the same if he came in contact with the monster, Tyler retreated, running back to the ladder at speeds I wouldn't have thought he'd be capable of. We both climbed for our lives as the squishy, wet footsteps of the creature came hammering after us.

When we ascended through the open trap door above us, it wasn't into the Miami house as we remembered it. Those sandblasted white walls were covered in stinking blood - some dried, some still dripping. The whole place was choked with the noxious stench of death, made so much worse by the Miami heat and humidity.

"Jesus Christ," I said aloud, as we both felt our feet squelching into the bloody shag carpeting, "what the hell's happened here?"

The Tyler-Thing was hot on our heels, so we didn't have any time to stop and contemplate our situation. If we'd had a little longer we could have tried to barricade the trap door, but after seeing what it did to the bat with such little effort, we didn't want to take any chances on it. We just had to run for our lives to the next trapdoor.

"We're so close," Tyler said, "keep moving, Helena, just a little further."

We ran across the blood-drenched carpet while the Tyler-Thing crawled up the ladder behind us. I was about a foot away from the hallway to the next ladder when something broadsided me, knocking me off my feet and into the mess below.

"Why didn't you save me?" The new figure screamed in a shrill, female voice.

It was the girl who'd died in the Miami house - now terribly rotten, her wretched face twisted in blind, vengeful fury. Innards hung like garlands from the wide slit in her belly, scowling sideways at me. My lips parted in an ear-splitting screech.

"Why didn't you fucking save me, Helena?"

The Tyler-Thing was cresting over the edge of the Santa Monica trapdoor, its disgusting, puffy face seeming almost to pulsate with excitement at the prospect of whatever it was planning to do with us. The murdered girl payed no mind to it, and lunged forward, bloody hands extended to claw my face off of my skull.

Out of sheer reflex, I slammed the soles of both feet into her chest and knocked her backwards. Just as the Tyler-Thing had fully surfaced and began lumbering towards me, I managed to regain my footing and make another mad dash while it and the murdered girl collected themselves behind me.

Tyler was half way up the ladder to Seattle. I began climbing the rungs after him, as the murdered girl and the Tyler-Thing bulged into the corridor after us. I could hear their sharp, vicious breaths rattling in my ears.

"Go faster!" I yelled.

He disappeared up through the trapdoor, with me right behind. By the time I was back in Seattle, the creatures were already on the ladder - but the Seattle we entered wasn't one we recognised. Not anymore.

The mold had spread like an all-consuming virus. Every inch of the building was now a slimy dark-green, pulsing, breathing. The whole damn thing was infested - in what couldn't have been more than an hour. The structural integrity of this world was crumbling, it'd gone from perfect snapshot of the past to perverse fever dream. And the two creatures on our tail remained tireless in their pursuit.

"Play with me!" Yelled the dough-faced Tyler-Thing.

"Why didn't you save me?" Screamed the desecrated dead girl, in chorus.

Mold squelched underfoot. The ground seemed to sink under the pressure of our steps, more like marshland than concrete. Strange fungal vines swung lazily from the rafters, like stinking birthday party streamers, welcoming us back to the home we'd once abandoned.

The creatures were on our level now, working together. Joint manifestations of fear and resentment - two glowing pearls of hate. They strode through the mold, like it was nothing more than air, four hands stretched out after us. Grasping, groping. Caked blood under fingernails and garish playdough digits.

"Come on," Tyler, the real Tyler, gasped out, "just a little further."

Adrenaline had gotten me this far, but muscle ache was beginning to set in. I managed to stay ahead, if only just, knowing that this pain would be nothing compared to what those things would do to me. Still, I felt the need to tread lightly, as every other footstep seemed to sink further into the ground than I'd have thought possible. The whole place ran on nightmare logic: no matter how much effort you put in, it felt like running underwater.

"Didn't you want me, mommy?" The Tyler-Thing said, in its child's voice, "why do you always give up on me?"

Mere footsteps away from the ladder, I turned to see the Tyler-Thing mid-lunge. It sailed through the air in a way that normal physics would deem impossible, but none of that mattered here. I felt the breeze of its big, chunky fingers grasping close to my face and fell backwards against the ladder, as the thing tumbled to the ground. There was a wet crunch as the mouldy flooring gave way under the creature's weight, and collapsed. It started a chain reaction, the floor falling away, piece by piece, like a jigsaw puzzle, into seemingly limitless darkness below. The murdered girl and the Tyler-Thing fell, screaming and yelling in impotent protest, to the vast, unknowable oblivion.

I gripped onto the ladder for dear life, knowing that if I let go for even a second I'd be joining them. Tyler climbed up through the trapdoor above us, and when I'd gained the few snatches of strength I'd need to follow him, I did. With heaving gasps and strained muscles, I ascended through the trapdoor, back into the world I'd always known. The final ladder crumbled into dust and drifted off beneath my feet.

We sat there for a few minutes, just breathing heavily and saying nothing, and occasionally passing glances at one another and into the abyss beyond the trapdoor. There'd be no certain answers now, not beyond what we could piece together through guesswork. What was that place, and who built it? For the first question, I haven't the vaguest idea. The second? Tyler and I, on some level, both knew that.

When we were ready to start moving again, we closed the trapdoor, bolted it, and covered it with the rug once again. Nothing else would be coming out of it now.

***

This happened around ten years ago, and a lot has changed since then. After the events of that fateful night, I helped Tyler finish moving out, and begin settling in his new place. The next morning, when I checked underneath the rug, the trapdoor wasn't there - just as I was sure it hadn't been there every night before. That brief and frightening chapter of our lives had ended, and we were ready to move on.

We were happy, after it ended. Tyler and I were both hitched to other people a few years later, but we kept in contact, never telling another soul about the incident with the Trapdoors. We knew nobody would believe us, but that didn't matter. It was our time, our moment. Nobody else ever needed to know or understand.

Sometimes, I'd look at my kids, and I'd be thankful that their voices didn't remind me of the perverse whisperings of the Tyler-Thing. That was what crossed my mind most often when I thought of that day: the garish, pantomime face of the Tyler-Thing. When I allowed my mind to wander, it would often wander around with it, more like an old friend than an old enemy.

I visited Tyler a few weeks ago, a question burning on my mind. We exchanged pleasantries, caught up, I asked after his wife and he asked after my husband and children. We laughed and chatted like no time at all had passed, and it finally felt appropriate to ask him what'd been on my mind.

"Tyler," I said, "that night, all those years ago. Below the trapdoor."

"Yeah?" He said.

"We never discussed it all that much, did we?"

"Well," Tyler said, with a small, humourless laugh, "what is there left to discuss, Helena? I felt it pretty much spoke for itself."

"I just wanted to ask you one thing."

"What is it?"

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

"That thing...you know, the one that spoke in that voice, that terrible voice," I said, "what did it look like to you?"

We both sat in pregnant silence for a few seconds. His eyes searched the room, trying to find everything but my gaze. Eventually, he gulped down his trepidation, and began to speak.

"Truth be told, Helena," he said, "it looked like you."

I smiled and sat back in my chair, letting the fabric embrace me, lost in thought. Had my experiences with the Tyler-Thing changed how I looked at life and at love? Of course it had, how couldn't it? There are monsters hiding in the places our decisions make, and they're as much a part of us as anything else. How silly it'd be to deny that, in a world of seven or eight billion people, there wouldn't be a few questions unasked, and a few trapdoors left unopened.

#stories #horror #drama #gore #tw death

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