#i think he was trying to sound like a chain smoking twelve year old? anyway. it didnt help the vibes

[mokutone]

i don't want to imply that last panel is resolution, or that, at this point, kankuro even knows How to be a good brother, they all have a ways to go

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Idiot | Tony Stark

Hey lovelies— I wrote some flangst even though I have a billion other things that needed to be written. I really woke up and said “comfort character? I think you mean: Tony Stark” and then wrote a fic with no plot. It’s just sappy and sad and cuddly and kinda’ elusive as to the relationship. Might expand on this or might let it sit in the void like I am :) Enjoy

Description: Literally like zero plot, this was literally written today this morning because I am a heartbroken mess and I fucking hate real life men right now and I hate the military and I hate guys who tell you that you’re special when they don’t fucking mean it and I really need a Best Friend/Maybe More!Tony Stark cuddle

Pairing: Best Friend / Maybe More!Tony Stark x Female!Reader

Warnings: Like nothing, kinda angsty

Word count: 2.7k

Tags: Fluff, Angst, breakups LOL

She wakes up screaming again. This is the ninth night in a row and she’s starting to think that the others are going to request to soundproof her room. She wouldn’t blame them. She would almost prefer they do that because at least then she won’t have to stop screaming when she wakes up. She can just keep going and finally run out of voice and then maybe— maybe— she won’t be able to say his name anymore.

She flips over, her hair plastered to the back of her neck, her stomach tossing like she’s on a roller coaster. She can’t tell if she wants to cry or throw up— she wants to scream at both choices. She wants to rip her hair out too but then she would be sad and bald and she can only do one of those things right now. She’s not deep enough in the spiral to chop it off yet— that’s a day twelve activity.

She settles on crying— like she even has a choice— and soon her room is filled with the sound of her heaving against a pillow that still smells too much like him. She tosses it— she whips it across the damn room and doesn’t flinch when she hears something shatter. It was nothing important, she knows that for a fact. She hopes it’s the picture of them.

She pulls her knees up, tucking them under her torso, praying the pressure will alleviate the bubbling in her stomach. It won’t— she’s only fooling herself. He’s not a cramp— it’s not food poisoning; it’s rage. It’s brain melting sadness. It’s every ‘Good morning beautiful’ and ‘I miss you’ and ‘I love—

No. Nope— not that one. She can’t think about that one. If she does then she might never stop— she might take a match to everything in this room, every piece of clothing in her closet, every mug in the kitchen that he ever touched. Where would she be then— stuff-less, clothes-less, and with every Avenger looking for a coffee mug pissed at her?

Yeah no— better to just not think about it. Better to just scream.

She squeezes her eyes closed— not like it matters, the room is pitch black anyway— and slams her fist against the mattress, letting the sting that rips up her arm ring louder than his name in her head. It only works for a moment before it’s back— louder and angrier than ever. Louder and angrier than her. His name in her head is a separate entity, haunting her skull like it’s a dilapidated mansion, trying to evict her from the endless halls of her own mind.

She bunches the blanket up, shoving it against her mouth and praying that it muffles the crazed roar that sheds from her lungs— like an animal being ripped apart, she can’t tell if she’s screaming for help or for something so much worse.

There’s a knock on the door and she freezes, her blood running ice cold. A few seconds tick by, her limbs and jaw glued into a tight position, tongue heavy and aching in her mouth. Her heart pounds hard in her chest— the entity knocking back to whoever’s at the door— there’s just no way.

“Would you open the door if I told you there are macaroons in my hand?” A collected, slightly sarcastic, familiar voice breaks through the wood barrier of her door.

Her shoulders drop, her throat closing slightly— it’s just Tony.

“I— erm—” she jumps off her bed quickly, stumbling in the dark until she finds the lamp on her desk, turning it on the the sight of her blasphemous pillow and the shattered remains of a purple mug— damn she overshot the pillow by an inch— “gimme’ a minute, ‘k?”

“You get five seconds — these walls are thick but Friday alerted me to the— and I quote— distressed wailing.”

Oh god of course she did— how could she forget about the damn AI? She presses her palms against her eyes, wicking away as much moisture as possible. She’s so tired— her bones feel like cement, her neck barely keeping her head screwed on let alone straight. She’s a mess and all she can do is chuck her pillow back on her bed and ignore the purple shards peeking out from behind her dresser. One thing at a time.

She pushes her lead bones to the door, trying not to wince as the light pours into her dim room. She blinks a few times, her eyelashes sticky and cheeks stiff, taking in the man in grey sweatpants and a worn MIT hoodie in front of her. She glances down and sure enough he has a mug of pistachio macaroons. A mug. How ironic.

She flicks her gaze to his face, blinking back another wave of tears when she sees the concern mingling with his coffee eyes. “Hey doll.”

She swallows, trying to clear her stinging throat. It doesn’t work, her voice still sounds like she’s been chain smoking since the ripe age of five years old. “Hey Tony.”

He raises a dark brow, eyes drawing down her front, and she shifts on her feet, wishing the hallway light would flicker out. She just knows her eyes are puffy and her hair a mess. Her t-shirt is definitely crumpled, hiding what she can only hope is shorts and not just a pair of panties, and she only has one sock on— she can feel it now, the hardwood like ice against her toes. Her face flushes with heat, fingers clasping awkwardly in front of her— she may as well have a sign flashing above her head. Heartbroken idiot.

For a moment they just stand there, eyes locked, daring the other to move or speak or do anything at all first. Finally Tony sighs, holding his arms out, shaking his head. “Are you waiting for an invitation? Get your butt over her— now.”

That’s all it takes for her to practically jump into his arms, throwing her weight against the man like a drowning woman would a life preserver. That’s kind of what he is. Her best friend— her life line. Any other time she would have been the one knocking on his door— kicking his door down is more like it— but he told her— he told her that he was no good and she didn’t listen. She wraps her arms around his neck, biting her lip hard enough to keep the tears from dripping down her face again. She missed him— she’s been missing him for months.

“He’s an idiot, doll.” Tony mumbles against her hair, arms circling her back and pressing her to him so tight that it feels like he’s trying to fuse their bodies together.

He smells like motor oil and coffee and her chest shakes from the contrast of the fire in her veins and the cool relief of finally going home. It feels like longer than months— it feels like years. She’s been walking on eggshells around him since she introduced her— now ex— boyfriend. They don’t fight— at least, they didn’t before. They’ve never had a reason to.

Not until him.

Warmth seeps from him, curling around her limbs. She presses her face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent ingrained in his hoodie. He’s been wearing it for a few days, she can tell. If things were normal she would be tugging at the pocket, slipping her hands in and tangling them with his, tracing his knuckles with her thumbs. She’ll settle for this though— she’ll take anything.

“I’m the idiot.” She mutters dejectedly, fingers tugging on his hood, trying desperately to distract herself from how much she wants to scream again. “I thought, Tony— I— god I’m so stupid.”

Tony stiffens, chest like marble and pressing against hers so hard she can feel his heart beating against her practically bare skin— deadly calm but beginning to pick up.

“Don’t you dare.” His voice is gravelly, grinding his words against her ear.

His hold on her loosens and she panics, her own heartbeat spiking rapidly in her chest— what is he doing? Is he leaving? No, no, no he can’t leave! She locks her arms around his shoulders as he bends down, shaking her head, the tears finally spilling over her cheeks, hot and angry and desperate. “No please— don’t go I’m sorry— I’m— please don’t leave me.”

She’s incoherent, not even sure that the words coming out of her mouth make any sense at all but she has to at least try. He can’t leave— not now. She can take a broken heart, she can take one stupid man, she can take having a sockless foot and a head that feels like its caving in— she can’t take her best friend walking away and leaving her in this obscenely bright hallway to fend the light off by herself. If she loses her home she’s done for. “Tony no you can’t— you can’t go.”

She’s sobbing, chest heaving, and she just barely registers the soft clink of the mug settling against the floor before one of his arms is slipping under her thighs, hauling her toes off the floor. His other arm remains anchored around her back, fingers digging into her side to keep her from falling. The sudden motion makes her gasp— a watery, broken noise— her legs pushing around his hips and clinging for dear life.

“Hey—” his jaw rubs against her temple, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, stubble scratchy enough to regain her attention— “I’m here, doll. Right here— you honestly might be an idiot if you think I’m leaving you.”

She chokes out a laugh. It sounds more like a whimper— like she’s scrounging for the last drops of happiness in her for his sake. Probably because she is. She tightens her legs around his waist, socked ankle crossing over bare ankle, sucking in a deep breath as his thumb rubs circles on her ribcage.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” She sighs and his hand stills. “You were right.”

“Trust me— I wish I wasn’t.” His fingers crawl up her back, curling around the back of her neck, pushing the hair from her clammy skin.

The warmth of his skin on hers is like heaven and she tries to ignore the fact that he’s touching her while she’s a complete wreck. “You should hate me.”

His hand clamps harder around her skin, the sharp inhale he takes making his chest rise and push against hers. His fingers slip into her hair and he tugs gently, coaxing her to lift her head from shoulder. When she does she meets his determined, narrowed stare and his minute frown. Her heart clenches when she takes in the rest of his face, her gaze landing on the off purple bruises under his eyes, the tell tale sign that her best friend hasn’t been sleeping. It’s her fault— she knows it is.

He shakes his head, his brown hair ruffling slightly. “God, baby, you really are an idiot, aren’t you?”

Her lip trembles, her stomach squeezing— baby. “Tony—”

His forehead drops, his damp skin meeting her own, nose bumping against hers, drawing up the bridge and then back down— she can’t breathe. “You’re an idiot if you think for a second that I could hate you. For anything let alone something so damn ridiculous.”

He laughs a breathy, frenzied sound, nose drawing along her cheekbone. She must be dreaming. That's the only explanation as to the sudden lack of oxygen in the hallway— the only explanation to the way her veins are thrumming like guitar strings being plucked. This can’t be real. She feels like she’s going to wake up any minute now, throat raw and chest aching twice as much.

She opens mouth— she has to say something— but he keeps going. “An idiot if you think I wouldn’t follow you to the other end of the earth. Of the galaxy. Here you are thinking I hate you because you dated a moron? Because, what, I told you not to? Big deal— you tell me not to do things all the time. That’s what we do, baby. We tell eachother not to do stupid things and then we don’t listen.”

He pulls back enough to take in her face, eyes drawing over the curve of her nose and the slope of her cheeks before landing back on hers. His stare is intense— demanding, like him— she wouldn’t be able to look away if she wanted to. That’s impossible though; she could stare at this man all day and not get bored. She thinks back to all those days in his workshop, watching him fiddle with his suits. What she wouldn’t give to be there now, legs curled under her and his MIT hoodie— the same one on him now— pulled over her, singing along to their playlist and passing him screwdrivers. Her chest squeezes at the thought— she can’t remember the last time she did that.

His hand in her hair tugs again and she forces herself to stay in the moment, watching his lips form the words first and then letting her ears catch up. “He was a tool and you’re too good for that, alright? That has nothing to do with us. Point blank, whatever, he has no effect on us. Okay?”

She nods, her nose bumping against his again, and for the first time all night— all week— it feels like she can breathe. “Okay.”

His chest sags under her, the tension in his shoulders releasing under her fingers. “Good. Don’t say stupid things. That’s my job.”

“You’re right.” She cracks a smile, one that feels too foreign but entirely familiar. “You can have it back.”

Tony’s brows push together, head pulling back, his own smile beginning to carve over his lips. “Have what back?”

“The title of world’s biggest idiot.”

Just like that she’s giggling, throwing her head back and letting the laughter pour out of her. It’s cathartic— it’s natural. Like a dam breaking, it’s fast and dangerous and exhilarating. Before she knows it he’s laughing too, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, chest shaking, and she’s digging her fingers into his hoodie to keep herself steady. They’re definitely waking up everyone else in the compound but she doesn’t care. She only throws herself closer to him, hugging him so tight that she’s practically falling over his back, legs locked high around his stomach.

He turns his face against her neck, mumbling his words into her skin. “Missed you, doll.”

Her fingers slip into his hair, toying with the soft strands and sighing. “Missed you more.”

Groaning, he straightens, re-securing his arm around her. He passes her another smile, this one softer, more in control. She pulls at his hair in return, earning a half-hearted eye roll and the reward of him sinking his head against her hands. She scratches at his scalp lightly, scrunching her nose and trying not to giggle again. Now that she’s started she can’t stop— that’s his real super power; leaving her in stitches.

“You think you’re ready to sleep again?”

She sobers at his question, shrugging. She already knows she’s not. The thought of going back to her room and having to sleep without a pillow again, alone, makes her blanche. She would rather not sleep at all then do that. She may as well go make a pot of coffee if that’s her option. The answer bubbles in her mouth— no.

No she is not ready— but she has to be. She has to be a big girl. Even if it means sleeping with the window open so that she can’t smell her sheets, even if it means freezing because the windows are open and she can’t use her blankets, even if she would rather be tucked under the covers of Tony’s bed like the old days when things were normal and she was happy.

But she can’t say that— can she?

“I guess— you gotta’ put me down though,” is what she finally settles on, trying to keep the disappointment from her words. It definitely doesn’t work but for the sake of her sanity she pretends it does.

He frowns— fully this time— blinking at her like she’s grown another head. “Uh no I don’t.”

He says it sarcastically— like she’s crazy for even suggesting such a thing— his face incredulous. It makes her heart spike, adrenaline pumping through her veins. She’s missing something.

“Tony, what are you talking—“

And then he turns, starting down the hall, starting towards his room, and she shuts her mouth. She’s not going to protest— she’s not risking her chance.

She’s not an idiot.

[brokentoasterrr]

i try to never show vulnerability on this blog because i am simply Like That, but i wrote piece of creative writing (ish) about my best friend and i want to share it so here we go

tw for death, implied smoking and drinking and a bunch of other shit. read at your own risk, essentially.

He hates onions. Onions and mushrooms. Still, he eats the noodle stir-fry I make him, with onions and scallions. And the pasta Carbonara with chickpeas instead of bacon, because I'm vegetarian and I like to cook. He eats it despite the uneven pieces of onion speckled throughout creamy sauce that clings to the pasta.

He loves liquorice. I hate it. He buys a bar of liquorice with a caramel center, urges me to try it, so I do. And I like it. But I never eat it again.

He buys a chocolate bar. I'm terrified of germs so when he asks me if I want a bite, I shake my head. The next time he buys a chocolate bar, he lets me break away a piece myself before he does, so I can eat without the anxiety. 

I'm terrified of germs, I'm terrified of becoming ill. I use hand sanitizer until my hands dry out and the skin cracks, wash my hands until my cuticles break apart. He buys me a medium fry from McDonald's, and when I use my hand sanitizer, he doesn't even look at me twice. He stretches his hand out and asks for some. When I don't eat the piece of the fry that my fingers touched, when I put them on a napkin and ignore how anxious it makes me, both to eat and to waste, he nods towards them and says, "Can I eat that?" 

When my hands start to shake because I forgot to eat before I left the house, he drags me to the supermarket. He pays for a chocolate bar, says, "It's better than nothing."

He loves orange and chocolate ice cream. Buys a five litre tub and pays £5 to share with all of us. Ten people. He ends up eating most of it, because no one wanted more than a spoonful or two. I am supposed to go vegan, but I eat some anyway.

He walks around with a lizard made out of fabric and sand in his pocket. Says it's there to keep him company. There's a homeless man at McDonald's. He gives the man the sand filled lizard, and says, "Keep it. So you won't be alone anymore."

I'm angry with my mum. She's left me and my older brother alone again. There's no food in the house and I've eaten pasta with frozen peas and ketchup for three days in a row and I'm angry. I feel neglected and alone. He offers me cigarettes, and acts like a drain in which I can pour all of my problems. He says my feelings are valid, says that love doesn't cancel out the neglect. He puts on some music and makes me laugh.

He never says hello. He says, "Good morning." He never says goodbye. He says, "Good luck."

I'm homeless. Well, not quite. I live in the spare room in my grandma's house, young with no money other than the weekly allowance that I spend on cigarettes. He lets me stay at his house for five days, lets me roll cigarettes with loose tobacco because I can't afford another packet this week. He says, "Do you want to start a business? Two pounds per packet. You get a pound if you help me roll." It sounds borderline illegal, but it's just cigarettes, isn't it? I nod. 

He owns an ATV. It's started snowing but the air is still warm enough that it doesn't lay as a loose powder over the streets, but packs together. The perfect texture for sledding. He ties a sled to the back of his ATV, gives me a helmet. I sit on the sled, he drives. It's the best thing I've ever done in my entire life.

I'm struggling in school. He says that he'll hopefully get a job in another town. The town where I want to go to highschool. He says he'll get a flat, says that maybe we should move in together. One room each, I can cook and do the dishes, and he'll clean and do laundry. He helps me with my homework. He helps me see the end of studying, and gives me something to work towards. A home with my best friend, a school I'll enjoy.

My body doesn't feel like my own. My head says he and him, my body says otherwise. He's the same. My body feels wrong and I want to crawl out of my skin. He knows exactly how it feels. I haven't showered in a week. He tells me to try to shower with the lights off. I don't smell sweaty and my hair isn't greasy anymore.

He loves orange juice. If he could, he'd probably stop eating and only live of off orange juice. I buy him a litre for his birthday, and he grins and laughs. Empty cartons stands around his room, and his fridge is filled with it. I don't like orange juice, but I like apple juice. So I buy the same brand, different fruit. 

He likes to sew his own clothes. Scrap bits of fabric, floss and some free time, and he's patched up a pair of trousers that he decorates with more patches, writes on them, sticks chains and random items onto them. I've never seen anyone sew with floss before, but he does.

He loves dogs. Walks around with dog treats in his pocket in case he runs into a good boy or girl to love for a few moments. 

He loves punk. Listens to it loudly on a Bluetooth speaker and screams along. He dances. I dance and I scream with him and I don't care who watches. When we listen to our song, we stand face to face, jump forward and backwards and scream the lyrics in our faces until we can't breathe. I hear the intro and I slap my thighs in excitement, stand up immediately. "It's our song! Come on!"

I love to ride the bike. He does too. We ride our bikes all over town, listen to our music and feel the wind hit our faces. Mine is pink and purple. Because it's not mine, it's my sister's. His is red, rusty and old. It's his mother's. 

He wears his hair in a mohawk. It's either blue or black, standing straight up, tall and stiff. My hair is green but still boring. He helps me comb it up to liberty spikes. We wear patched trousers with loud chains and soda caps that hit against one another with the tell-tale metallic jangle. People stare and take photos when they think we can't see. We stand up taller, laugh louder.

He feels alone. He's sad, and angry, and alone. It's my turn to act like the drain. So he talks and talks, smokes cigarette after cigarette and I nod as he speaks. Smoke my own cigarette and says that he's valid. What he's feeling is valid.

I move into a group home. My ceiling lamp hangs too low and I'm only 5"4 yet I bump my head against it. He helps me hang it up properly. Jokes and talks about nothing and everything as he hoists it up until I don't bump my head against it anymore.

We make chocolate truffles. Butter and oats and sugar and cocoa powder. A Swedish thing. We cover them in more chocolate and they taste better than anything we've made before.

He hates Christmas. But he buys battery driven fairy lights and sticks them into his mohawk, down to his trousers. He walks around like a goddamn Christmas tree. Because he hates Christmas but other people love it and he wants to make them happy.

He's drunk. It's Christmas Eve and he's so drunk that he has to hold onto the wall to stand upright. I'm on the balcony and he's on the ground and he looks up at me. "I'm so happy," he tells me. "Kevin, I'm so happy. I always want to be like this." I tell him to go home, drink some water and to sleep it off. He goes.

It's New Year's Eve and I'm at my girlfriend's. We drink non-alcoholic wine and cider, kiss when the clock strikes twelve. We're both tired and we go to bed before one in the morning. He calls me, he says that we're going to start a band. Our friend's new partner has a studio and it's one town over but it's okay because we're moving there anyway. "I love you," he tells me. And I tell him, "I love you too."

Our friend texts me the next day. She asks if I had seen him, if I had heard from him. I tell her no. And I send him a text. I hope you're alive, I write, call me. He never does.

Instead it's our friend, the next day. I've just showered and I'm eating breakfast with my girlfriend and her dad. My phone rings. Our friend. My friend. "Axel's dead," she tells me. "They found him in the attic." I scream. I cry. I tell her no. No, he's not dead. It's not true. She's playing a stupid fucking prank with me, she's lying. But when she says that it's true the third time, I believe her. And I break down.

I cry in the car ride home. I make a promise to myself that I'm going to live for the both of us. For three hours, I cry. I listen to music and audiobooks and nothing works to stop the he's dead, he's dead, he's gone. And I cry some more.

I cry when I wake up the next morning because I don't want to wake up in a world without him. 

I stop eating. I stop drinking. I'm nauseous all the time and the ache in my stomach consumes me and I can't eat anything because I am terrified of throwing up.

I cry so much that after three days, I get skin rashes by my eyes from scrubbing my eyes too much. Crying hurts but not crying hurts more. Every breath I take rattles and shakes and I only leave my bedroom to smoke. The staff at the group home tells me to let some light in. I pull my duvet up to my nose.

Axel means shoulder in Swedish. Every time he met someone new, he said, "Hi, my name is Axel and I'm always by your side." He never said that to me. And he never said goodbye, he said "Good luck." 

I get a tattoo. It says good luck on my wrist in his hand writing. And he remains by my side.

[downtonabbeyrevisited]

Series One - Episode Seven

One thing that seasoned Downton viewers will know is that either the plot moves so fast that you get whiplash moving from point to point and have to perform a fair amount of mental gymnastics to recall single lines that were (canonically speaking) made months and sometimes years ago, or it’s so slow that you think you’ve slipped into a coma and are having a strange dream about the coming of electricity. This instalment is a whopping 65 minutes long and  defiantly falls into the former category of episode. Don’t be fooled by the slow start of dusting chandeliers, every single plot point that King Julian has ever thought of is about to be covered in rapid succession whilst the July 1914 stamped ominously at the bottom of the screen indicates that the shit is about to get real. The main topic of conversation in Downton Village is apparently the murder of the Austrian Arch-duke. Who knew that rural Yorkshire with its still broadly illiterate population during this time period was so switched on to international relations? 

William’s mother has (predictably) died and Anna has made an armband which is utterly indistinguishable from his livery in her honour. Another soul unable to appreciate this is Mrs Patmore who is now so blind that it has been brought to the attention of those who dwell upstairs. Mrs Patmore is summoned to the library where she collapses into the nearest available chair after chewing off Robert’s ear and he arranges to send her up to London. I doubt this was quite the reaction he was expecting but there we go. In Beryl’s absence, Mrs Bird comes to hold the fort and test Daisy’s loyalties to provide a bit of light relief in what is, when you think about it, quite a grim episode. 

Despite being slow on the uptake, Daisy soon gets into the swing of launching the Downton scullery equivalent of chemical warfare whilst Mrs Bird makes disparaging comments about the kitchen and staff. But Daisy soon falls foul of a bit of bait and switch and only succeeds in almost giving Thomas’ colon a thorough clean out. 

Whilst Mrs Patmore sits in Moorfields reeling at the fact that cataracts can’t be removed by whatever the 1914 equivalent of homeopathy is, Anna is determined to get to the bottom of why Bates was in prison. Thomas and O’Brien’s written confirmation of Bates’ previous misdeeds have only served to light a fire under her and with a confidence to which I can only aspire, she marches into Greenwich. Or is it Chelsea? My knowledge of barracks isn’t what it used to be despite the fact that I am typing this a stones throw away from one now. My superiors are weeping somewhere. In true British Army fashion, a man with an impressive hat brings out a massive book which he never refers to for any information that he could not hold in his head. He then gives out Mrs Bates Senior’s address 104 years before GDPR kicks in. 

A meeting with Ma Bates confirms that it was Vera who stole the regimental silver rather than John but he took the fall, apparently feeling that he had ruined her life. However I can’t be the only person who is still a little unclear as to why he did go to prison for Vera as there doesn’t seem to be much evidence that he had ruined her life unless I’ve missed something, which is entirely possible. Anna returns to Downton and appeals to Robert to keep Bates on. Because he is a useful character for pivoting plot points around, Robert agrees, and our favourite self-sabotaging valet lives to survive another series. 

Considerably less eager to stay at Downton is Thomas who has a right old time of it this episode, roaring through all of his typical behaviours: smoking in archways, leaving tables with entire plates of food in-front of him to go and perch on a crate and plot with O’Brien, stealing from Carson in an inept manner, having at least two other characters discuss just how awful he is and finally take shots at William. Except this time, they aren’t snide remarks. These are actual shots involving pre-German sniper mangled fists. Having volunteered for the Army medical corps with Dr Clarkson, Thomas is riding high on his way out the door and makes inappropriate marks about a combination of dead mothers and babies. William takes him on and the two roll around a bit on a table then the floor. Carson calls for a halt but doesn’t actually intervene: its up to the Irish Radical to bring about peace. Some irony there one feels. 

But perhaps Carson’s inaction is connected to the emotional upheaval that of course comes with owning a telephone. I should know; mine has been on ‘Do Not Disturb’ for at least a year now. Presumably seeing the phone as an affront to his skills as a butler, there are a fair number amount of him looking perplexed at the new arrival. But with a bit of practice under his belt, he is ready to reluctantly shuffle into the twentieth century. Oh I do love him. 

The coming of the telephone is good news for Gwen through who manages to bag herself an interview out of its installation in the Abbey. However she neglects to say that she was a housemaid on her application form. The manager of the company scoffs at this upon learning she works at Downton “you thought that would put me off!”. Well yes, because less then twenty minutes ago you were bemoaning the fact that you couldn’t find any secretaries with experience which is what you needed. King Julian is now struggling to maintain continuity within an episode never mind between. Lord. 

After 18 years, and presumably a lot of hormonal shifting, Cora is pregnant. Robert sounds incredulous and frankly, we all are. Robert doesn’t understand what’s been done differently to bring about this major shift in plot, but Cora brings him to an abrupt halt before he can pick along any further down that particular line of enquiry and an entire nation, nay the world, exhales. However Foetus C’s appearance on the scene coincides with the departure of Simmons and through a convoluted chain of events, their fates are inextricably linked. O’Brein overhears that a new lady’s maid is required and immediately jumps head first into the wrong end of the stick. But to be fair to her, Violet and Cora seem to only talk about their quest when either Thomas or O’Brien are in earshot which is asking for trouble really. But that does not excuse O’Brien committing infanticide by proxy via the medium of Imperial Leather. With a bar of poor quality soap that breaks alarmingly easily and an off-screen yelp, it’s all over and another massive plot point that has a whole lifecycle within less than an episode. 

Although Foetus C didn’t hang around long, he made quite the impact and along with the influence of Aunt Rosamund manages to unsettle the romance that Matthew and Mary have been carefully cultivating since Episode One. St James Park provides a backdrop for Rosamund, following the tradition of all Aunts worldwide, to winkle out the truth about their nieces and nephew’s love lives. As they glide through London, and pass two men sat on a bench trying to divert the apocalypse, Rosamund plants the seeds of doubt that will eventually blossom into a full blown crisis in about thirty minutes time with the mere suggestion that Mary might have to live in a cottage. 

With the prospect of another male heir on the horizon, Matthew considers moving back to Manchester but not before he can have the first of two emotionally charged conversations under a tree. Matthew witters on about ‘prospects’ whilst Mary looks increasingly desperate. That tree and the accompanying bench have seen an awful lot of drama: people have sobbed under it, plotted beside it and stared artfully into the middle distance beneath its shadow and its only series one. 

But even when it’s clear that Matthew’s inheritance is not in danger, he returns to the tree with Mary to assert the fact that he is leaving Downton for reasons that I can’t entirely fathom but are mainly based around the fact that he doesn’t want to be socially engineered and that he can’t be sure of anything. Wearing the world’s most pointless gloves, Mary covers her face and weeps in what is fast becoming a signature move. The ‘tree’ scenes between her and Matthew have been a real chance for both actors to get their teeth into a bit of decent uninterrupted dialogue. I have loved Michelle Dockery since she stole my twelve year old heart as Susan in Hogfather and she has not failed me yet. 

Carson comes to comforts Mary under the ’tree of emotional conflict’ and in one shot we have captured the charm of Downton. Ahh. Now, back onto the nonsense. 

The garden party is suddenly upon us and with it, the tying up of as many loose ends as possible just incase the series isn’t renewed. Hold onto your hats folks! Mrs Patmore returns in a cracking pair of sunglasses, Clarkson gives Thomas his papers who then promptly resigns, William and Daisy reconcile, Mrs Hughes warns Branson off Sybil whilst Sir Anthony pegs it out of Downton before Edith is allowed any measure of happiness, O’Brein attends to Cora’s every need and then learns that she was never in the firing line anyway, Branson plucks up the courage to answer a telephone, Gwen gets the job and proceeds to hug Branson and Sybil hug in a manner that you would think would be enough to cause a scandal, we learn of Ma Bates’ approval of Anna but Bates is still a stubborn idiot , Mr Moseley wants to crack on with Anna and if you squint a bit Downton Abbey briefly looks like The Villa. Oh and WW1 breaks out.  

Romantic declaration of the moment 

“I’d say he’s keen. Very keen indeed” Well then TeLl HeR JohN! Anna and Bates must be up there for slow-burn romance of the millennia and for my money is a better love story than Mary and Matthew but that could just be my gritty scots and northern heritage rooting for the little guy. 

Expressive eyebrow of the week 

Robert won last episode but nevertheless his face during the menopause chat with the accompanying “please” wins this one. THIS is why Fleabag Season 2 Episode 3 had to happen. 

Wait, what? 

“Is there anything worse than losing one’s maid” Erm…maybe the oncoming death of 17 million people with 11.5% of the British Army told by the upper echelons of society to walk slowly towards the guns? 

“Oy” is Mrs Patmore Jewish? 

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to sit in your presence my lord” That is a surprising amount of respect from someone who only two episodes fed him a chicken that had both been on the floor and nibbled by a cat…. 

“Try not to miss me, it will be good practice” Bates is a lovely man but ultimately he is a masochistic twat. 

“First electricity, now telephones. Sometimes I feel as if I were living in a H.G. Wells novel” Julian really does reserve his best for Maggie. 

“I’m not much good at building my life on shifting sands”  Calm down, Matthew. 

“He had a right to know how his countryman died, in the arms of a slut” Calm down, Edith. 

[readbookywooks]

20. "Peeta!" I scream. I shake him harder, even resort to slapping his face, but it's no use. His heart has failed. I am slapping emptiness. "Peeta!" Finnick props Mags against a tree and pushes me out of the way. "Let me." His fingers touch points at Peeta's neck, run over the bones in his ribs and spine. Then he pinches Peeta's nostrils shut. "No!" I yell, hurling myself at Finnick, for surely he intends to make certain that Peeta's dead, to keep any hope of life from returning to him. Finnick's hand comes up and hits me so hard, so squarely in the chest that I go flying back into a nearby tree trunk. I'm stunned for a moment, by the pain, by trying to regain my wind, as I see Finnick close off Peeta's nose again. From where I sit, I pull an arrow, whip the notch into place, and am about to let it fly when I'm stopped by the sight of Finnick kissing Peeta. And it's so bizarre, even for Finnick, that I stay my hand. No, he's not kissing him. He's got Peeta's nose blocked off but his mouth tilted open, and he's blowing air into his lungs. I can see this, I can actually see Peeta's chest rising and falling. Then Finnick unzips the top of Peeta's jumpsuit and begins to pump the spot over his heart with the heels of his hands. Now that I've gotten through my shock, I understand what he's trying to do. Once in a blue moon, I've seen my mother try something similar, but not often. If your heart fails in District 12, it's unlikely your family could get you to my mother in time, anyway. So her usual patients are burned or wounded or ill. Or starving, of course. But Finnick's world is different. Whatever he's doing, he's done it before. There's a very set rhythm and method. And I find the arrow tip sinking to the ground as I lean in to watch, desperately, for some sign of success. Agonizing minutes drag past as my hopes diminish. Around the time that I'm deciding it's too late, that Peeta's dead, moved on, unreachable forever, he gives a small cough and Finnick sits back. I leave my weapons in the dirt as I fling myself at him. "Peeta?" I say softly. I brush the damp blond strands of hair back from his forehead, find the pulse drumming against my fingers at his neck. His lashes flutter open and his eyes meet mine. "Careful," he says weakly. "There's a force field up ahead." I laugh, but there are tears running down my cheeks. "Must be a lot stronger than the one on the Training Center roof," he says. "I'm all right, though. Just a little shaken." "You were dead! Your heart stopped!" I burst out, before really considering if this is a good idea. I clap my hand over my mouth because I'm starting to make those awful choking sounds that happen when I sob. "Well, it seems to be working now," he says. "It's all right, Katniss." I nod my head but the sounds aren't stopping. "Katniss?" Now Peeta's worried about me, which adds to the insanity of it all. "It's okay. It's just her hormones," says Finnick. "From the baby." I look up and see him, sitting back on his knees but still panting a bit from the climb and the heat and the effort of bringing Peeta back from the dead. "No. It's not - " I get out, but I'm cut off by an even more hysterical round of sobbing that seems only to confirm what Finnick said about the baby. He meets my eyes and I glare at him through my tears. It's stupid, I know, that his efforts make me so vexed. All I wanted was to keep Peeta alive, and I couldn't and Finnick could, and I should be nothing but grateful. And I am. But I am also furious because it means that I will never stop owing Finnick Odair. Ever. So how can I kill him in his sleep? I expect to see a smug or sarcastic expression on his face, but his look is strangely quizzical. He glances between Peeta and me, as if trying to figure something out, then gives his head a slight shake as if to clear it. "How are you?" he asks Peeta. "Do you think you can move on?" "No, he has to rest," I say. My nose is running like crazy and I don't even have a shred of fabric to use as a handkerchief. Mags rips off a handful of hanging moss from a tree limb and gives it to me. I'm too much of a mess to even question it. I blow my nose loudly and mop the tears off my face. It's nice, the moss. Absorbent and surprisingly soft. I notice a gleam of gold on Peeta's chest. I reach out and retrieve the disk that hangs from a chain around his neck. My mockingjay has been engraved on it. "Is this your token?" I ask. "Yes. Do you mind that I used your mockingjay? I wanted us to match," he says. "No, of course I don't mind." I force a smile. Peeta showing up in the arena wearing a mockingjay is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it should give a boost to the rebels in the district. On the other, it's hard to imagine President Snow will overlook it, and that makes the job of keeping Peeta alive harder. "So you want to make camp here, then?" Finnick asks. "I don't think that's an option," Peeta answers. "Staying here. With no water. No protection. I feel all right, really. If we could just go slowly." "Slowly would be better than not at all." Finnick helps Peeta to his feet while I pull myself together. Since I got up this morning I've watched Cinna beaten to a pulp, landed in another arena, and seen Peeta die. Still, I'm glad Finnick keeps playing the pregnancy card for me, because from a sponsor's point of view, I'm not handling things all that well. I check over my weapons, which I know are in perfect condition, because it makes me seem more in control. "I'll take the lead," I announce. Peeta starts to object but Finnick cuts him off. "No, let her do it." He frowns at me. "You knew that force field was there, didn't you? Right at the last second? You started to give a warning." I nod. "How did you know?" I hesitate. To reveal that I know Beetee and Wiress's trick of recognizing a force field could be dangerous. I don't know if the Gamemakers made note of that moment during training when the two pointed it out to me or not. One way or the other, I have a very valuable piece of information. And if they know I have it, they might do something to alter the force field so I can't see the aberration anymore. So I lie. "I don't know. It's almost as if I could hear it. Listen." We all become still. There's the sound of insects, birds, the breeze in the foliage. "I don't hear anything," says Peeta. "Yes," I insist, "it's like when the fence around District Twelve is on, only much, much quieter." Everyone listens again intently. I do, too, although there's nothing to hear. "There!" I say. "Can't you hear it? It's coming from right where Peeta got shocked." "I don't hear it, either," says Finnick. "But if you do, by all means, take the lead." I decide to play this for all it's worth. "That's weird," I say. I turn my head from side to side as if puzzled. "I can only hear it out of my left ear." "The one the doctors reconstructed?" asks Peeta. "Yeah," I say, then give a shrug. "Maybe they did a better job than they thought. You know, sometimes I do hear funny things on that side. Things you wouldn't ordinarily think have a sound. Like insect wings. Or snow hitting the ground." Perfect. Now all the attention will turn to the surgeons who fixed my deaf ear after the Games last year, and they'll have to explain why I can hear like a bat. "You," says Mags, nudging me forward, so I take the lead. Since we're to be moving slowly, Mags prefers to walk with the aid of a branch Finnick quickly fashions into a cane for her. He makes a staff for Peeta as well, which is good because, despite his protestations, I think all Peeta really wants to do is lie down. Finnick brings up the rear, so at least someone alert has our backs. I walk with the force field on my left, because that's supposed to be the side with my superhuman ear. But since that's all made up, I cut down a bunch of hard nuts that hang like grapes from a nearby tree and toss them ahead of me as I go. It's good I do, too, because I have a feeling I'm missing the patches that indicate the force field more often than I'm spotting them. Whenever a nut hits the force field, there's a puff of smoke before the nut lands, blackened and with a cracked shell, on the ground at my feet. After a few minutes I become aware of a smacking sound behind me and turn to see Mags peeling the shell off one of the nuts and popping it in her already-full mouth. "Mags!" I cry. "Spit that out. It could be poisonous." She mumbles something and ignores me, licking her lips with apparent relish. I look to Finnick for help but he just laughs. "I guess we'll find out," he says. I go forward, wondering about Finnick, who saved old Mags but will let her eat strange nuts. Who Haymitch has stamped with his seal of approval. Who brought Peeta back from the dead. Why didn't he just let him die? He would have been blameless. I never would have guessed it was in his power to revive him. Why could he possibly have wanted to save Peeta? And why was he so determined to team up with me? Willing to kill me, too, if it comes to that. But leaving the choice of if we fight to me. I keep walking, tossing my nuts, sometimes catching a glimpse of the force field, trying to press to the left to find a spot where we can break through, get away from the Cornucopia, and hopefully find water. But after another hour or so of this I realize it's futile. We're not making any progress to the left. In fact, the force field seems to be herding us along a curved path. I stop and look back at Mags's limping form, the sheen of sweat on Peeta's face. "Let's take a break," I say. "I need to get another look from above." The tree I choose seems to jut higher into the air than the others. I make my way up the twisting boughs, staying as close to the trunk as possible. No telling how easily these rubbery branches will snap. Still I climb beyond good sense because there's something I have to see. As I cling to a stretch of trunk no wider than a sapling, swaying back and forth in the humid breeze, my suspicions are confirmed. There's a reason we can't turn to the left, will never be able to. From this precarious vantage point, I can see the shape of the whole arena for the first time. A perfect circle. With a perfect wheel in the middle. The sky above the circumference of the jungle is tinged a uniform pink. And I think I can make out one or two of those wavy squares, chinks in the armor, Wiress and Beetee called them, because they reveal what was meant to be hidden and are therefore a weakness. Just to make absolutely sure, I shoot an arrow into the empty space above the tree line. There's a spurt of light, a flash of real blue sky, and the arrow's thrown back into the jungle. I climb down to give the others the bad news. "The force field has us trapped in a circle. A dome, really. I don't know how high it goes. There's the Cornucopia, the sea, and then the jungle all around. Very exact. Very symmetrical. And not very large," I say. "Did you see any water?" asks Finnick. "Only the saltwater where we started the Games," I say. "There must be some other source," says Peeta, frowning. "Or we'll all be dead in a matter of days." "Well, the foliage is thick. Maybe there are ponds or springs somewhere," I say doubtfully. I instinctively feel the Capitol might want these unpopular Games over as soon as possible. Plutarch Heavensbee might have already been given orders to knock us off. "At any rate, there's no point in trying to find out what's over the edge of this hill, because the answer is nothing." "There must be drinkable water between the force field and the wheel," Peeta insists. We all know what this means. Heading back down. Heading back to the Careers and the bloodshed. With Mags hardly able to walk and Peeta too weak to fight. We decide to move down the slope a few hundred yards and continue circling. See if maybe there's some water at that level. I stay in the lead, occasionally chucking a nut to my left, but we're well out of range of the force field now. The sun beats down on us, turning the air to steam, playing tricks on our eyes. By midafternoon, it's clear Peeta and Mags can't go on. Finnick chooses a campsite about ten yards below the force field, saying we can use it as a weapon by deflecting our enemies into it if attacked. Then he and Mags pull blades of the sharp grass that grows in five-foot-high tufts and begin to weave them together into mats. Since Mags seems to have no ill effects from the nuts, Peeta collects bunches of them and fries them by bouncing them off the force field. He methodically peels off the shells, piling the meats on a leaf. I stand guard, fidgety and hot and raw with the emotions of the day. Thirsty. I am so thirsty. Finally I can't stand it anymore. "Finnick, why don't you stand guard and I'll hunt around some more for water," I say. No one's thrilled with the idea of me going off alone, but the threat of dehydration hangs over us. "Don't worry, I won't go far," I promise Peeta. "I'll go, too," he says. "No, I'm going to do some hunting if I can," I tell him. I don't add, "And you can't come because you're too loud." But it's implied. He would both scare off prey and endanger me with his heavy tread. "I won't be long." I move stealthily through the trees, happy to find that the ground lends itself to soundless footsteps. I work my way down at a diagonal, but I find nothing except more lush, green plant life. The sound of the cannon brings me to a halt. The initial bloodbath at the Cornucopia must be over. The death toll of the tributes is now available. I count the shots, each representing one dead victor. Eight. Not as many as last year. But it seems like more since I know most of their names. Suddenly weak, I lean against a tree to rest, feeling the heat draw the moisture from my body like a sponge. Already, swallowing is difficult and fatigue is creeping up on me. I try rubbing my hand across my belly, hoping some sympathetic pregnant woman will become my sponsor and Haymitch can send in some water. No luck. I sink to the ground. In my stillness, I begin to notice the animals: strange birds with brilliant plumage, tree lizards with flickering blue tongues, and something that looks like a cross between a rat and a possum clinging on the branches close to the trunk. I shoot one of the latter out of a tree to get a closer look. It's ugly, all right, a big rodent with a fuzz of mottled gray fur and two wicked-looking gnawing teeth protruding over its lower lip. As I'm gutting and skinning it, I notice something else. Its muzzle is wet. Like an animal that's been drinking from a stream. Excited, I start at its home tree and move slowly out in a spiral. It can't be far, the creature's water source. Nothing. I find nothing. Not so much as a dewdrop. Eventually, because I know Peeta will be worried about me, I head back to the camp, hotter and more frustrated than ever. When I arrive, I see the others have transformed the place. Mags and Finnick have created a hut of sorts out of the grass mats, open on one side but with three walls, a floor, and a roof. Mags has also plaited several bowls that Peeta has filled with roasted nuts. Their faces turn to me hopefully, but I give my head a shake. "No. No water. It's out there, though. He knew where it was," I say, hoisting the skinned rodent up for all to see. "He'd been drinking recently when I shot him out of a tree, but I couldn't find his source. I swear, I covered every inch of ground in a thirty-yard radius." "Can we eat him?" Peeta asks. "I don't know for sure. But his meat doesn't look that different from a squirrel's. He ought to be cooked... ." I hesitate as I think of trying to start a fire out here from complete scratch. Even if I succeed, there's the smoke to think about. We're all so close together in this arena, there's no chance of hiding it. Peeta has another idea. He takes a cube of rodent meat, skewers it on the tip of a pointed stick, and lets it fall into the force field. There's a sharp sizzle and the stick flies back. The chunk of meat is blackened on the outside but well cooked inside. We give him a round of applause, then quickly stop, remembering where we are. The white sun sinks in the rosy sky as we gather in the hut. I'm still leery about the nuts, but Finnick says Mags recognized them from another Games. I didn't bother spending time at the edible-plants station in training because it was so effortless for me last year. Now I wish I had. For surely there would have been some of the unfamiliar plants surrounding me. And I might have guessed a bit more about where I was headed. Mags seems fine, though, and she's been eating the nuts for hours. So I pick one up and take a small bite. It has a mild, slightly sweet flavor that reminds me of a chestnut. I decide it's all right. The rodent's strong and gamey but surprisingly juicy. Really, it's not a bad meal for our first night in the arena. If only we had something to wash it down with. Finnick asks a lot of questions about the rodent, which we decide to call a tree rat. How high was it, how long did I watch it before I shot, and what was it doing? I don't remember it doing much of anything. Snuffling around for insects or something. I'm dreading the night. At least the tightly woven grass offers some protection from whatever slinks across the jungle floor after hours. But a short time before the sun slips below the horizon, a pale white moon rises, making things just visible enough. Our conversation trails off because we know what's coming. We position ourselves in a line at the mouth of the hut and Peeta slips his hand into mine. The sky brightens when the seal of the Capitol appears as if floating in space. As I listen to the strains of the anthem I think, It will be harder for Finnick and Mags. But it turns out to be plenty hard for me as well. Seeing the faces of the eight dead victors projected into the sky. The man from District 5, the one Finnick took out with his trident, is the first to appear. That means that all the tributes in 1 through 4 are alive - the four Careers, Beetee and Wiress, and, of course, Mags and Finnick. The man from District 5 is followed by the male morphling from 6, Cecelia and Woof from 8, both from 9, the woman from 10, and Seeder from 11. The Capitol seal is back with a final bit of music and then the sky goes dark except for the moon. No one speaks. I can't pretend I knew any of them well. But I'm thinking of those three kids hanging on to Cecelia when they took her away. Seeder's kindness to me at our meeting. Even the thought of the glazed-eyed morphling painting my cheeks with yellow flowers gives me a pang. All dead. All gone. I don't know how long we might have sat here if it weren't for the arrival of the silver parachute, which glides down through the foliage to land before us. No one reaches for it. "Whose is it, do you think?" I say finally. "No telling," says Finnick. "Why don't we let Peeta claim it, since he died today?" Peeta unties the cord and flattens out the circle of silk. On the parachute sits a small metal object that I can't place. "What is it?" I ask. No one knows. We pass it from hand to hand, taking turns examining it. It's a hollow metal tube, tapered slightly at one end. On the other end a small lip curves downward. It's vaguely familiar. A part that could have fallen off a bicycle, a curtain rod, anything, really. Peeta blows on one end to see if it makes a sound. It doesn't. Finnick slides his pinkie into it, testing it out as a weapon. Useless. "Can you fish with it, Mags?" I ask. Mags, who can fish with almost anything, shakes her head and grunts. I take it and roll it back and forth on my palm. Since we're allies, Haymitch will be working with the District 4 mentors. He had a hand in choosing this gift. That means it's valuable. Lifesaving, even. I think back to last year, when I wanted water so badly, but he wouldn't send it because he knew I could find it if I tried. Haymitch's gifts, or lack thereof, carry weighty messages. I can almost hear him growling at me, Use your brain if you have one. What is it? I wipe the sweat from my eyes and hold the gift out in the moonlight. I move it this way and that, viewing it from different angles, covering portions and then revealing them. Trying to make it divulge its purpose to me. Finally, in frustration, I jam one end into the dirt. "I give up. Maybe if we hook up with Beetee or Wiress they can figure it out. I stretch out, pressing my hot cheek on the grass mat, staring at the thing in aggravation. Peeta rubs a tense spot between my shoulders and I let myself relax a little. I wonder why this place hasn't cooled off at all now that the sun's gone down. I wonder what's going on back home. Prim. My mother. Gale. Madge. I think of them watching me from home. At least I hope they're at home. Not taken into custody by Thread. Being punished as Cinna is. As Darius is. Punished because of me. Everybody. I begin to ache for them, for my district, for my woods. A decent woods with sturdy hardwood trees, plentiful food, game that isn't creepy. Rushing streams. Cool breezes. No, cold winds to blow this stifling heat away. I conjure up such a wind in my mind, letting it freeze my cheeks and numb my fingers, and all at once, the piece of metal half buried in the black earth has a name. "A spile!" I exclaim, sitting bolt upright. "What?" asks Finnick. I wrestle the thing from the ground and brush it clean. Cup my hand around the tapered end, concealing it, and look at the lip. Yes, I've seen one of these before. On a cold, windy day long ago, when I was out in the woods with my father. Inserted snugly into a hole drilled in the side of a maple. A pathway for the sap to follow as it flowed into our bucket. Maple syrup could make even our dull bread a treat. After my father died, I didn't know what happened to the handful of spiles he had. Hidden out in the woods somewhere, probably. Never to be found. "It's a spile. Sort of like a faucet. You put it in a tree and sap comes out." I look at the sinewy green trunks around me. "Well, the right sort of tree." "Sap?" asks Finnick. They don't have the right kind of trees by the sea, either. "To make syrup," says Peeta. "But there must be something else inside these trees." We're all on our feet at once. Our thirst. The lack of springs. The tree rat's sharp front teeth and wet muzzle. There can only be one thing worth having inside these trees. Finnick goes to hammer the spile into the green bark of a massive tree with a rock, but I stop him. "Wait. You might damage it. We need to drill a hole first," I say. There's nothing to drill with, so Mags offers her awl and Peeta drives it straight into the bark, burying the spike two inches deep. He and Finnick take turns opening up the hole with the awl and the knives until it can hold the spile. I wedge it in carefully and we all stand back in anticipation. At first nothing happens. Then a drop of water rolls down the lip and lands in Mags's palm. She licks it off and holds out her hand for more. By wiggling and adjusting the spile, we get a thin stream running out. We take turns holding our mouths under the tap, wetting our parched tongues. Mags brings over a basket, and the grass is so tightly woven it holds water. We fill the basket and pass it around, taking deep gulps and, later, luxuriously, splashing our faces clean. Like everything here, the water's on the warm side, but this is no time to be picky. Without our thirst to distract us, we're all aware of how exhausted we are and make preparations for the night. Last year, I always tried to have my gear ready in case I had to make a speedy retreat in the night. This year, there's no backpack to prepare. Just my weapons, which won't leave my grasp, anyway. Then I think of the spile and wrest it from the tree trunk. I strip a tough vine of its leaves, thread it through the hollow center, and tie the spile securely to my belt. Finnick offers to take the first watch and I let him, knowing it has to be one of the two of us until Peeta's rested up. I lie down beside Peeta on the floor of the hut, telling Finnick to wake me when he's tired. Instead I find myself jarred from sleep a few hours later by what seems to be the tolling of a bell. Bong! Bong! It's not exactly like the one they ring in the Justice Building on New Year's but close enough for me to recognize it. Peeta and Mags sleep through it, but Finnick has the same look of attentiveness I feel. The tolling stops. "I counted twelve," he says. I nod. Twelve. What does that signify? One ring for each district? Maybe. But why? "Mean anything, do you think?" "No idea," he says. We wait for further instructions, maybe a message from Claudius Templesmith. An invitation to a feast. The only thing of note appears in the distance. A dazzling bolt of electricity strikes a towering tree and then a lightning storm begins. I guess it's an indication of rain, of a water source for those who don't have mentors as smart as Haymitch. "Go to sleep, Finnick. It's my turn to watch, anyway," I say. Finnick hesitates, but no one can stay awake forever. He settles down at the mouth of the hut, one hand gripped around a trident, and drifts into a restless sleep. I sit with my bow loaded, watching the jungle, which is ghostly pale and green in the moonlight. After an hour or so, the lightning stops. I can hear the rain coming in, though, pattering on the leaves a few hundred yards away. I keep waiting for it to reach us but it never does. The sound of the cannon startles me, although it makes little impression on my sleeping companions. There's no point in awakening them for this. Another victor dead. I don't even allow myself to wonder who it is. The elusive rain shuts off suddenly, like the storm did last year in the arena. Moments after it stops, I see the fog sliding softly in from the direction of the recent downpour. Just a reaction. Cool rain on the steaming ground, I think. It continues to approach at a steady pace. Tendrils reach forward and then curl like fingers, as if they are pulling the rest behind them. As I watch, I feel the hairs on my neck begin to rise. Something's wrong with this fog. The progression of the front line is too uniform to be natural. And if it's not natural ... A sickeningly sweet odor begins to invade my nostrils and I reach for the others, shouting for them to wake up. In the few seconds it takes to rouse them, I begin to blister.

[ecotone99]

[HR] A Wholly Superior Creature - Part II: The Priest

Part II: The Priest

Tom loomed over the warming mug of beer like a sulking vulture. Two chubby wads of bloody toilet paper jut from his swollen nostrils. He spun the mug, having no interest in what was left.

"Cheer up, Thomas," Sergeant Donnell said, slapping the sour photographer on the back. "the station is going to reimburse you for the busted camera."

"My parents bought me that camera as a gift for getting into art school, Sergeant."

I felt a quarter-past half-bad, but I did my best to try and follow the Sergeant's lead. "I know exactly how you feel, Tom."

He looked up at me. His swollen, sullen face tilting, annoyed. "Oh, really?"

"Oh yeah," I said. "When I first came on the job and I was working with Roger, I had this pocket watch that my granddad gave me as a gift for making it through the academy and passing my detective's exam. Real pricey, made out of solid steel. One of those old railroad style watches you see now in those western flicks. Had the shiny silver face plate, the wheel you'd wind at the top to keep it running. The whole deal. Authentic. He even had the inside inscribed with his favorite quote." I framed my hands as if examining a freshly hung portrait. "A man delights when he does what he was built to do."

With absolute authority the Sergeant chimed in. "William Shakespeare."

"Marcus Aurelius."

"Same difference," He said, shrugging it off like an unwelcome pat on the back.

"Anyway. So my first day in homicide, Roger takes me over to an apartment complex where a woman reported a foul smell coming from her neighbor's place. Turns out he'd been shot over some money a few days before and we bust down the door only to find that he's been laying in a pool of his own stink and filth for a few days."

Tom's eyelids started to buckle in boredom. "And?"

"And so I pull out my watch to check the time of our arrival for the report. Roger bumps into me. The watch spills out of my hand and falls slap bang into a pile of ruptured guts and excrement."

The Sergeant chuckled a fat bubble into his beer mug.

Tom's puffy cheeks snapped up like an umbrella in a rainstorm.

"Roger, he just looks at me and says. "Well, you'll never get the smell outta that."

They both started laughing.

I shook my head. "That old bastard never even said sorry."

"Roger never was one to apologize for anything," Sergeant Donnell said, then took a slug of beer.

"Consider this," I said, toasting my beer at Tom. "an olive branch from a man who has suffered the loss of something dear because a fellow officer acted rashly in the course of his duty."

Tom was laughing so hard, tears were rolling down his cheeks. As he wiped them away he asked. "Still have the watch?"

I reached into my jacket and showed it to them.

"And?"

"Doesn't work and Roger was right about the smell."

The both broke open again with laughter.

"Well if it doesn't work," Tom said, swallowing a chuckle. "why do you keep it?"

"It's right twice a day. The inscription reminds me why I do the job; and the smell, well, that keeps me grounded."

The memory reminded me just how much I missed Roger. I told myself I should go by his place, visit him and Mary.

The door of the pub groaned open. The dying light from the falling sun pierced the dark interior. Through the beams we saw a patrolman step inside. In one hand he held a paper sack, in the other was a folio. The line of his mouth was drawn taut and the ghostly color on his face didn't match his olive-tan skin.

I couldn't remember his name, but we'd told him to take Tom's camera over to the one-hour photo development place to see if they could salvage any of the pictures I'd taken.

"Officer Tasker." The Sarge was always good with names.

"Sir," Tasker said. "Here's your camera, Tom."

I knew something was wrong when the patrolman went to hand me folio, a palsied tremor quaked down his wrists to the tips of his fingers.

I flipped open the folio and pulled out a deck of photos. Most of them would turn out to be blurred snapshots of a dark figure, but one set a lump in my throat.

The last one.

What I couldn't see, even though the flash had perfectly illuminated the area around his head, was a single human feature. Where should have been eyes, a nose, and a mouth was a flat slate.

"What is it, Sam?" The Sarge asked as he pulled the photo out of my hand.

I looked up at Tasker, whose face was etched like a graven idol. "Looks like a man without a face."

***

Sergeant Donnell sat at his desk inside a windowed office that gave him the appearance of a dangerous animal in a zoo. I knocked on the glass. He waved me in without looking up from folder on his desk. Wadded gum wrappers littered the open leaf of the folder where his nose was buried.

"Any of the eggheads have anything to say about the writing on Courtney's body?"

The look he gave me wasn't a happy one. "Yes and no."

I cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, in that they are pretty sure it's a language. No, in that they don't have anything to say about it. None of them know what it is. They've called the university to see if anyone there can place it."

"What's got you sweating, Sarge?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Not sure what you mean, Sam."

"I mean you're going through gum like a chain smoker goes through a carton. You're also going over those close-up shots of Courtney's skin even though you can't read them. I don't have to be a psychic to know when someone's seen a ghost."

A joyless smile crested his mouth. "Shut the door, would ya, Sam?"

I did.

His chair groaned on rusty springs as he leaned his elbows on to his desk. "Take a look at these," he said, handing me the folder.

I realized almost immediately that what I thought were the photos from today's crime scene were actually photos of a different girl with the same inane scrawling slashed into her skin. The label of the folder read 'Diana Mueller'.

"One of the boys in research found that in our unsolved crimes files. Dated about twenty-five years ago."

I scanned the contents. Sprinkled throughout the report was the name of the acting detective Brian Ortega. He and his team hadn't even come close to sniffing a suspect.

"Ortega," I said, searching my memory for a name to go with the face.

"He was the lead detective here before either you or I joined the force."

"You'd think the name would have come up though," I said.

Mike nodded. "Normally, yeah. Seems as though Detective Ortega is a bit of a splotch on the department. See, after about two weeks of working on the case, he decided to take a bite out of a twelve gauge as a final meal.

"Bad way to go," I said.

"They assigned a young detective to pick up where he left off, but he ended up on the same intersection of Jack and Shit that Ortega did."

"Who was he? We can take a look at his reports. Maybe question him," I said before digging back into Ortega's case file.

"I think that'd be a good idea, Sam. I already let him know that you'll be stopping by."

"Thanks, Sarge. What's his name?"

"Roger Dale."

The photos and smudge type of the report suddenly became distant symbols and structures that no longer made any sense. Looking up at the Sarge, I said. "Roger?"

"I'm guessing he never mentioned the case?"

I shook my head and slowly lowered myself into one of the office chairs.

"Makes sense. The department likes to let cases of a seemingly occult and gruesome nature die off in the public mind when they go unsolved. It's likely that Roger's chief told him to keep it to himself when he hit a dead end."

"Why's that?"

"Crimes rooted in religious zealotry catch in the public mind like a thorn in a lion's paw. The thorn sits there too long and folks start to get a fever—a public hysteria sets in."

"I'll talk with Roger on my way home," I said, rubbing the fatigue from my eyes. The images of the ruined skin of both girls flashed in my brain.

"Before you do that," the Sergeant said as he pulled a fresh stick of gum from the pack on his desk. He unwrapped it, then folded it over once before adding it to the unsightly pink wad in his mouth. "I've got someone I want you to talk to. Sort of an expert on these sorts of things."

"One of the university profs?"

Mike shook his head. "Nah, a consultant I worked with a few years ago. Helped me and my old partner bust up a cultist ring just outside Detroit. He's an excommunicated priest. Name's Daniel. I called and left a message with his secretary. She said he's available at his office after eight. Might be that he knows something about the symbols. Talk with him before you bother Roger."

I nodded.

"Sam," he said, a small measure of his warm returned to his voice. "Cases like this take a toll. Do me a favor and keep it in mind that it's the job. I know how you get. Don't make it an obsession."

"I hear you, Sarge."

"Sam," his tone grew taut. "I mean it."

"I hear you, Mike."

The office building was a three story derelict that looked like a little boy squished between two bigger, more professional brothers. I buzzed in and made my way to the second story. Years of rain and heat gave the long hallway a swampy aroma. The dark shoulders of closed doors ran the length of the hall. The overhead lamps had been put to bed and only a single rectangle of light threw itself against the wall at the hall's end.

I knocked on the glass and stuffed my hands in my pockets.

The door opened to reveal a gaunt, pale man whose eyes were a set of mismatched jewels hanging in dark sockets. His brow was lined with years of worry or sorrow often associated with men who saw time on the front lines of a war. He wore the familiar vestments of his trade, they weighed heavily on his bony frame.

"Can I help you?" It was an authoritative quality of sound he wielded, all big vowels and melodious baritone. Smoke curled from the egg-shaped pipe bowl clutched in his hand.

"Father Daniel," I said. "I'm Detective Maxwell. Sergeant Donnell let your answering service know I'd be coming by for a chat."

He nodded. "Come in." The priest stepped aside and gestured for me to enter. "I've just made coffee, Detective. Have some."

"I'm always ready for a cup."

Stepping inside I found myself greeted by the smell of books and ghosts of vanilla tinged soot. Scarlet rugs of an ornate pattern did their best to hide the creaking floorboards. The desk was a simple thing, as were the floral stamped lounge chairs tucked into a corner for consultation.

The lean man lead me through the stacks to a corner of the office where a wide-top drafting desk leaned. A percolator and white china cups rested on a small table behind the desk.

"Tell me how I can help you, Detective."

"Well, padre, to be honest I'm not sure you can, but Mike thinks you might be able to shed some light on these," I said, taking a folder out of the folio.

We swapped. He gave me a steaming cup. I handed him the pictures.

"Fair warning: those aren't family photos," I said, then sipped at my coffee, which was strong enough to chew.

He opened the folder.

Nothing.

Not an eyebrow tilt or an early wrinkle flattened in shock. His expression was as flat and cold as a nickel.

"The girl in the culvert was dis-"

"A moment, please," he said, then sat at the drafting desk, his hunched shoulders gave him the look of a looming vulture. He scooped up a pair of oval-lensed glasses and perched them on his nose. "Your men were unable to decipher the language."

"We don't employ many linguists, but we've given it over to the university for-"

"They cannot help you either."

"You have something against complete sentences?" I regretted the jab as soon as it came out. I hate being interrupted, like most folks, but the way he peered at me made me over the lip of the desk made me feel like a child who'd cut a fart in church.

"Time is a fire, Detective," he said, then went back to scratching his pen into the paper. "I am friends with most of the linguists at the university. They are quite qualified in Greek, Hebrew, Sumerian, and Proto-European languages, but what has been so gruesomely scrawled into these poor women falls outside their academic purview."

The ego that comes with expertise sometimes grinds my gears, but I let his tone slide. "Alright, I'll bite. What language is it?"

"Language is almost a word for it, Detective. It is a kind of conjuring via symbols known only to the narrowest of occult researchers and a wide array of demonic cultists. It is a written system of supernatural command."

"So religious quacks trying to bid for a Faustian bargain."

His mismatched eyes, one green and one ice blue, snapped up at me.

"Despite ignorant popular belief, Detective, the members of cults, be they demonic, pagan, or otherwise, are so many and varied that trying to categorize them all would be like trying to give every rat in New York a name."

I furrowed my disbelief at him.

"There are," he said. "hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of occult practitioners living in our country. They can be broadly identified by the kind of ritualistic symbolism they use; the group which uses this particular set of symbols is very old—patient, calculating, and most importantly, predatory."

I was getting tired of the lecture. "None of this helps me, Father. I don't need a history lesson. I need some direction."

He sighed, then ripped the sheet from his pad. He brought it over and handed it to me. He walked back over to the percolator and began to pour himself a cup of coffee.

I looked down at the sheet. He recited the text as I began to read.

"They arrived at the place Molech described to him. Cain built an altar there and set the stone table as it had been apportioned to him. He tied up his daughter Rachale and laid her on the altar, naked on the stone. Then Cain stretched out his hand and took the copper knife to kill his daughter as a sacrifice. Molech then appeared before his servant and said. "Apportion your child. Do not hold back your wrath; for with it, I will make your name great among all the nations."

Something cold curled up in my stomach.

"You are familiar with the story of Issac and Abraham."

I shook my head and set the paper in my lap. "Never really cared for Sunday School fairy tales."

"In the Torah, Yahweh," the priest said, while making a strange sign with his right hand. "commands Abraham to take his only son Isaac to the hill of Moriah and sacrifice him. However, God stops Abraham before he can commit the deed. Many scholars believe that this story was included in the Old Testament as a way of showing the Hebrews that their God was not like the Canaanite deity Molech—for Molech delighted in human sacrifice."

"I'm guessing what's written here is Molech's version of the story?"

"Indeed. Cain--cast out of paradise for killing his brother Abel, was exiled from paradise, given over to the rest of the unclean world. It was there that he was chosen by Molech to build a world quite different than the one promised to Abraham and his people."

"I'm no Christian, but I'm pretty sure that isn't in the Bible."

"Not in any bible you've ever read, Detective. What is even more ghastly is that after Cain has slaughtered his child like an animal, Molech has him remove his daughter's face, telling Cain that this is done because no human visage is worthy of setting its face against Molech's sight."

Father Daniel sat back down at his desk, his countenance dimmed further. As if a pile of worry had been set on his shoulders. "There are still people who follow this horrid belief system. They call themselves the Faceless Children."

"They use flat masks to hide their features, I'm guessing."

He looked up again, a measure of surprise dawned on his face. "Yes. How do you--"

"Saw one of them this morning inside that culvert." It felt good to cut him off for a change. "He was watching us examine the body. Likely admiring what he'd done. Psychos do that."

"It's dismissive to call him psychopathic, Detective," he said.

"Look at those pictures, Father. Her name is Courtney Marie Davidson. Is, not was. She has a name, she had a father and a mother who loved her just as much as you or I will ever love anything." I'd worked myself into a lather. "Any human being who would do that to someone else gets relegated to the status of a psychopath in my book" I stabbed a finger at the photos in his hand. "And with all due respect, Father--When it comes to understanding the criminal mind, my book is a lot thicker than yours!"

The priest was still, his face placid. "Forgive me if you thought I was calling into question your authority, Detective. That was not my intention. What I was trying to explain is that the mind of the religious zealot doesn't always intertwine with criminal intent. You see, these people, the ones who desecrated the body of Ms. Davidson, they do not carry with them any kind of remorse or criminal regret that we can associate with normal people. They live in a world where Molech's law holds primacy over Man's. They believe that they are wholly superior creatures who serve a wholly superior deity." His head craned forward where it swayed slowly from side to side. "So no, Detective, they are not 'psychos', they are quite mentally able and deeply convicted in the rightness of their action."

We eyed each other for a moment. A line of quiet drawn taut between us. Neither of us quite sure how to measure the other.

The beleaguered priest sighed as he stood up. "I have a consultation in Chicago in two days, Detective." He reached for his hat and coat off the rack next to the small coffee table.

I wrinkled my brow at him, confused. "Which you have to leave for all of a sudden?"

"No, of course not," he said. He wrapped his hand around the handle of black leather bag. When he lifted it I could hear the sound of clinking glass and metal inside. "It means that I'm accepting your offer to consult on the case."

"Wait a min-"

"I have one flat fee that I charge, but in this case, I'll be remitting it entirely. Your fervor for justice on behalf of Ms. Davidson showed me something I don't see much anymore."

"But I didn't ask you to consult-"

He slipped his hat on, then slapped a hand on my shoulder. "You have conviction, Samuel. Conviction is the lifeblood of good works." His voice was warmer now, and it felt like something more than a priest's bedside manner. "Let me help you with this good work."

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