#i usually brand myself as a corpse girl

[corpsegirl-sephie]

[systlinsideblog]

Part 3

The Great Crimes are as follows;

There are three Great Crimes, for which the punishment is death.

The first of the Great Crimes when, in cold blood, a person murders another who has offered no offence. The punishment for murder shall be death, the sentence to be carried out by the loved ones of the murdered or by one they give the right to in their stead.

The second of the Great Crimes is rape. The punishment for rape of another shall be death, the sentence to be carried out by the victim or by one the victim gives the right to in their stead.

The third of the Great Crimes is to enslave another, and hold them in bondage. The punishment for holding another in slavery shall be death…

-The New Laws, or The Change in the Laws of Gor, The Great Ubara Systlin Stellas, on the new laws of the land, speech given in the Throne Room of Turia, 0 AGU. Chiseled on a pillar before the Law Rooms of Ar in its entirety

 Kutaituchik, the Ubar of the Tuchuks, was dead. 

It had been a very brutal and confusing few hours. The strange woman had refused to show courtesy or deference. She had made no apology for killing Tuchuk warriors. She had not relinquished the slave girl clinging tight to her side, the one whose master she had killed when he moved to chastise his slave.

She had stood before the Ubar of the Tuchuks like a queen before her court, and had demanded. 

I pulled at the slave collar around my throat, and found it quite secure. 

I have seen many things in my day. Many horrors, and many wonders. But I have never before in all my days seen a horror like the one that the woman Systlin had brought to the wagons of the Tuchuk. 

I looked to the wagons of the Ubar. There was light within them, bosk-dung fires in braziers. The woman Systlin had claimed it for her own, and gathered all the haruspexes and soothsayers to confer with them. 

My leg throbbed. It had been set and bound skillfully, but the bone would take some weeks to knit. Until then, I could scarce walk, hobbling with the aid of a cane. 

The woman had not even touched me to break it.

Sorceress, I thought. I had not believed in such things, and would have attributed such powers only to the Priest-Kings. But I had seen it now, with my own eyes, the terrible power that woman held, the power to shatter bone and steel with will alone. 

The corpses of some of the Tuchuks who had risen in rage against her after she had slain their Ubar were still lying where they had fallen. I tried not to look at them, but found my eyes drawn. 

Shapeless things they were, only scarce resembling men. The bones, I gathered, were nothing more any longer but needle-like splinters. Those splinters had driven through flesh and vital organs, and once-proud warriors lay where they had fallen, shapeless piles of bloody meat. 

I had been fortunate that it was only my leg that had been broken. 

I shivered. My leg throbbed. And I wondered, what terrible force had set a terror like this woman loose upon Gor.

 The water was cold. 

Systlin hated cold baths. Cold in general, really. But it was, in this situation, useful. 

Her Power screamed and fought inside her, eager to be used again, and she wanted to. Oh, but she wanted to, and that was the danger of it. The cold water was a good distraction. 

She didn't know how many men she'd killed. Some with sword. More, many more, with her power for Breaking. And it had been good, it had been so good, to stand there untouchable and terrible, hearing their screams and seeing their terror, to walk among them like a terrible, unstoppable, untouchable goddess, tearing down everything in her path...

She shivered, and ducked under the surface of the stream. 

It was always...hard, after, and she'd let herself go further than usual this time, in her rage. She always felt brittle after, hollow, the desire to kill and kill until nothing remained clawing to be let out again. She'd be short now with people, she knew, and snappish. Easily irritated, even over trivial matters. Once you started to kill with the Breaking gift, it was so very easy to continue.

Breaking was a terrible gift. The seduction of the sheer power it gave, the delight in using it, were as dangerously addictive as poppy milk. 

To look upon a Breaker is to look upon a madman. She remembered hearing that as a child, reading it in books. 

Under the water, sounds were muffled. But she still heard the sound of footsteps on the stream bank, muted and distorted. She came out of the water in a rush, her hand landing on Ice's hilt, and the sword was half drawn before she realized that the intruder was the girl she'd rescued from being beaten. 

The girl cringed back, falling to her knees and prostrating herself in what was clearly ingrained habit. "Mast...mistress! I am sorry! I did not mean..."

A little of the brittle anger ebbed out of her. Systlin sheathed her sword. "It's all right. I've spent too much of my life with people trying to kill me, is all. You did nothing wrong." She stepped out of the stream, wringing out her hair and shivering in the chilly air. 

The girl looked up at her, eyes wide. It was...unnerving. Systlin was used to people bowing, but bowing and the groveling the girl was doing were two different things entirely. "I have not displeased you, mistress?"

Oh, tits. 

"No. And you needn't call me that." Systlin pulled her trousers back on, and the quilted silk gambeson that went under her scale armor. "My Lady' will work quite well. I'm not your mistress. You're a free woman. I've no interest in owning anyone." 

"My lady?"

"Please stand up." Irritation flared, but Systlin tamped it down hard; it was a bleed-over from the cold joy of destroying, nothing more. It was not her, and she would not acknowledge it. She reached a hand out. After a moment, the girl took it hesitantly, and Systlin pulled her to her feet. "There. That's much better." 

The girl blinked at her, eyes still wide, and Systlin saw a hint of awe there. 

The girl had, she noticed, fashioned herself rough trousers of hide, patterned much like Systlin's own. 

"What's your name?" She asked. 

"I am Sabra." The girl was still staring, eyes moving up and down as she took everything in. "You...you are very strong. I have never seen...I did not know a woman could swing a sword like a man." 

Systlin tugged her armor over her head and hopped a bit until it settled into place. "Swords don't weigh that much. Anyone can swing a sword with practice. The strength to do it well will come with time and training." 

Sabra's head came up a little at that. "Anyone?" There was a thin thread of timid hope in her voice.

Systlin smiled. "Yes. Anyone. You included. Would you like to learn?"

There was a long pause, and then a long, slow, genuine smile from the former slave.

“I….think so, Mi…my lady.”

“Well. Then you shall. You’re a free woman, and free women do as they like.”

“Free.” The woman echoed, as if the word wasn’t real. “Free.”

“Unless of course you wish to go elsewhere.” Systlin shrugged as they walked. “Have you a family anywhere? A home you were taken from?”

“I…a long time ago, I did. If I wished…”

“I would give you gold, supplies, anything you needed, and take you there, and wish you well.”

The look the other woman gave her was naked astonishment, and something like awe. For a moment she looked wistful, but then… “No. If I returned home, I could quickly be made a slave again.” She touched her upper thigh; Systlin had noted that many of the freed slaves bore brands of various types there. “I am branded as a slave; any man could take me and sell me or keep me and be within the law.”

Systlin saw red for an instant. “Then you will stay.” She ground out. “Until we pay a visit to your former home, and teach them the error of such ways.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Sabra breathed. “You would…you would do this? Free other places as you’ve freed us in this camp?”

“If the men of this world insist on being awful,” Systlin growled. “I will do as I must. Slavery is among the greatest crimes, and rape another. I will not abide either.”

“You were sent.” Sabra breathed. “I begged the Mother for aid, though I was beaten for worshiping false gods. Other women also begged the old gods for aid, I know it. We begged for mercy and help and here you are.”

For mercy.

Systlin tilted her head back and stared at the sky. There were three moons here, which seemed to fly across the sky quite rapidly. She picked out the largest nearly by instinct, and glared.

Mercy. Lady’s mercy. Fucking pits. Now it made sense.

Gods. Gods and their machinations. She scowled.

Well. At least she knew how she’d ended up in this shithole.

 ��Morning brought no greater comfort. 

The slave collar around my neck had been forged for a woman, and though it was the Turian style on me it was too tight, and bit into my flesh. I could breathe, but it was uncomfortable

Between the throbbing of my leg, the pinch of the collar, and the chill of the night, I got but little sleep. Inside the wagon, under warm furs, slept slave girls. Their collars had been removed, and many of the surviving Tuchuk men wore them as did I, bound wrist and ankle and neck. 

I wondered what had become of Kamchak. I had not seen him since the furor had begun outside the Ubar's wagon. 

My wrists were securely chained behind me. Bells jangled with my every move. The ground was hard, and cold. I wondered, for the first time, how slave girls could sleep this way. 

The night passed in interminable slowness and misery. There was movement, among the wagons, and the sound of men's angry voices and chiming bells from other poor souls so humiliatingly bound as myself. There were the voices of women, hushed, and often with a tone of disbelief. 

I heard women laughing. There was rather more of it than I was accustomed to. 

Twice slave girls had come to see me. They seemed to find the sight of a warrior in slave chains novel. 

"You must let me free," I had said, my voice stern and commanding. "You are slaves; you must obey." 

They had giggled, ignoring my words, and left. They were, I noted, no longer attired properly; their hair was bound back in plaits, and they wore leather blouses and had fashioned trousers, hastily made but quite obviously patterned after those of the vicious she-sleen that had brought this ruin and humiliation down upon us. 

At dawn food was brought, dried bosk-meat. I was fed, given water, and then left alone again. 

The chain that connected the rings on my wrists and ankles and neck was quite securely linked to the axle of the wagon. I had tried to loosen it with some vigor the day before, without luck. 

Some time passed. I pulled at my chains, for all the good it would do me; my leg was quite broken, and I could not flee even should I get loose. 

As dawn broke, the scent of charring meat reached me, and south of the camp I saw great plumes of smoke begin to rise. 

I had smelled enough corpses burn to know that the dead of the slaughter the night before were being burnt. 

As the sun rose towards mid-morning, I was approached. 

The she-sleen had chosen herself a fine black kaiila. She rode well; I could see that she was not quite used to the sleen, as she rode as one would an ordinary horse. But she sat well, and when she dismounted it was gracefully and with ease. 

She had shed her leather tunic. Instead, glittering in the sun, was armor formed from what looked like scales, each perhaps two inches long and half as wide. They were of many different colors, each iridescent and gleaming brilliantly in the sun. 

She looked me over. I met her eyes steadily; I was a warrior of Ko-Ro-Ba, and I would not be cowed before a woman. 

"Hm." She made a noncommittal noise at last. "You are not of these people."

I said nothing.

"No matter." She shrugged, and turned. A group of slave-girls were following her. All were collarless and had plaited their hair, and wore clothing of various types; some skirts, some trousers. All wore blouses or vests of leather or cloth that sadly covered their charms. "Take him." 

"Am I to be a slave, then?" I glowered at her. 

She turned her head to look at me again. It occurred to me again that had she been less mannish and muscular, she could have been a beauty. 

"I've no interest in keeping anyone as property." She said. "You are to be judged." 

"By what authority?" A girl wearing the long skirt and leather vest of a Tuchuk woman moved to loose me from the wagon. Her hair was plaited. I remembered, not two days ago, seeing her dancing in pleasure silks and bells for her master around his fire. 

I thought of breaking loose and overpowering the girl. But the woman Systlin was still watching me, and I saw her, as the girl chose a key and unlocked my chain from the wagon, curl her hand around the hilt of the long dagger on her belt. 

I am ashamed to admit, but it stayed me. I had seen flashes of the woman fighting, and though it pain me I would be forced to compare her favorably with the greatest warriors of Ko-Ro-Ba. In my current state, I had no chance. My hope for flight lay in my recovering and stealing a fleet kaiila, I knew. So, as the chain was loosed, I gave no resistance. 

"Mine." The she-sleen's voice was crisp. "Can you walk?"

Pride demanded no less of me. I am a warrior of Ko-Ro-Ba. By leaning on the cart, I managed to get to my feet. 

"Help him." She told the girl who held my chain. The girl nodded.

She did not say what would happen to me if I resisted. She did not need to. 

I was taken to the tent of the Ubar. Before it was piled many fine carpets, and cushions of silk and leather. On top of it all was spread a worn gray robe; it was this, I supposed, this simple garment that was the grey robe of the Ubar. 

There were other men, chained as I was, chained to the palatal wagon of the Ubar of the Tuchuks. I tried to estimate their number; a hundred and a half, perhaps two. 

This was all that remained of the proud warrior men of the Tuchuk. 

I am no stranger to death. But upon seeing this, and realizing the full scale of the disaster which had befallen the Tuchuk, I must admit that I felt a flicker of fear. 

What terrible creature was this woman, to slay three thousand strong men in a night? 

The she-sleen walked past the men chained to the wagon. Her back was straight, and her stride purposeful. 

I could not help but notice that, despite her too-strong build, she had what appeared to be marvelously shapely hindquarters. 

She did not hesitate for even a moment; she went directly to the gray robe, the throne of the Ubar, and seated herself upon it with all the air of one born to it. 

I heard a groan rise from the captive men, myself included. She sat cross-legged, a man’s stance, not a woman’s proper kneeling stance. Women who sit so are often ridiculed as wishing to be men, but everything about this woman was unnatural and wrong.

One man started up, and my heart leapt; it was Kamchak! 

His arm was splinted, as was a leg, much like mine, and his eye was black and swollen. He spit in the direction of the she-sleen on the throne of the Ubar, and cursed her. 

"You! Sleen! You say you wish to judge us? What right have you?"

Her head turned, very slowly, to regard him. Then she smiled, and turned back to look out at the gathered crowd. 

Around the throne of the Ubar of the Tuchuks, women thronged. Tuchuk women, some grim-faced and some smiling. Slave girls, by the hundreds. Many wore trousers. Most had braided their hair. 

Mothers were holding their children. Babies fussed, and were soothed. Some of the older boys looked angry. Some of the girl-children cried too. The elder of the girls, however, were smiling. 

There were many more smiling women than scowling women in the gathered crowd. 

"Tuchuk," said the she-sleen, voice unconcerned and even. "Who is Ubara here?"

The roar of voices was near-deafening. "SYS-TAL-IN!" The women, freewomen and slave girls alike, screamed it. Only a few of the dour Tuchuk free women refrained. "SYS-TAL-IN! SYS-TAL-IN!" 

Systlin looked back at Kamchak, and her smile was an unpleasant thing. 

"There you have it." Her voice, again, was mild, deceptively so.

"You cannot..."

"I did." Her voice rose above Kamchaks'. "By your own laws, it seems, might makes right. The strong triumph, am I wrong?" Her eyes glittered. "It appears, warrior, that I am stronger than you, for I sit here on comfortable rugs and you are defeated and chained to a wagon."

"You used sorcery!"

"Yes." She agreed easily. "Though your warriors were easy enough to defeat without it." A horrible grin. "But yes. I used sorcery, and however I did it one woman, alone, brought every one of your great warriors to their knees. The pyres for those I killed burn still. And now, you will be silent, until it is your turn to be judged." 

"WE HAVE COMMITTED NO CRIMES!" Kamchack's outraged roar drew cries of approval from the other shamefully chained warriors. 

Systlin's mouth...it was a full mouth, and could have been pretty, were it smiling...compressed into a thin line. She nodded to one of the girls standing near the throne of the Ubar, in a grotesque imitation of the honor guard of an Ubar. 

"Gag him," she said simply. 

To my astonishment and horror, the girl moved promptly to do so, with a cheerful and almost gleeful demeanor. 

Kamchak surged to his feet as best he could as the girl approached with a strip of leather; several of the bound warriors gave cries of encouragement. Systlin's head snapped around, fast as a striking sleen, and she was on her feet in a moment and at the girl's side in a moment more, that vicious sword of hers drawn. 

The tip of that blade was pressed close against Kamchak's groin, and the she-sleen kept smiling, even as he drew a breath, naturally alarmed by the sharp steel near his male parts. 

"Sleen." Kamchak hissed this, proud even in chains. "You cannot always be there, woman. Your unnatural sorcery cannot protect you forever."

Systlin laughed. A little huff of a chuckle, even as the slave girl bound the gag around Kamchak's mouth and head with every sign of enjoyment, which disturbed me. 

"I have had," Systlin said, "Far better men than you try to kill me." A wide grin, with all of her teeth bared. "Now be quiet, and wait your turn." 

She returned to the seat of the Ubar. 

"Bring forth the first prisoner," she commanded. 

It was done. A warrior was dragged, bound hands and feet so that he could not even stand, before the grotesque display, and forced up on his knees. He spit at the she-sleen on the Ubar's seat; she did not turn a hair at this. 

"Your name." She asked. 

"Sleen!"

"Your name." The same patient tone. 

Silence. 

She sighed, lifted her eyes. "Can anyone tell me the name of this man?"

"Braltak." A woman's voice. I did not see who spoke. 

"Braltak. Have you, Braltak, in your life, held women or men as property?"

Silence. Braltak looked down his nose at her, and spit again. 

"He has." The same voice. Female. There was a quaver to it now. 

Braltak spun, as best he could. "Kala!" His voice was furious. "Kala, be silent!"

"Come forward, if you would." The she-sleen's voice speaking to me and the warrior had been curt, cold, commanding. But to the girl Kala, it was softer, and gentler.

Timidly, looking always at Braltek, a girl stepped through to stand before the self-proclaimed Ubara. 

She was a lovely girl. Turian, I was certain, with golden hair and eyes as green as summer grass. Her figure was delicate and trim, though it was difficult to tell through the long leather skirt and baggy blouse she wore. 

"Your name is Kala?" Again, the softer, gentler voice, encouraging. 

"Yes, Ubara." The girl was still glancing nervously at Braltek. "And...before you freed us...I was his slave." 

The idea was hard to swallow, at first; every slave in the Tuchuk camp, free!

But she had, I had to admit, the right. She sleen she may be, but she had defeated the warriors, by sorcery or not. She had taken their slaves for her own, and had done with them as she liked. 

I did not like it, but it was fact. 

"He kept you as property." Systlin's voice was hard; her eyes were back on Braltek. "Did he, Kala, ever place hands on you against your will? Did he ever force you to pleasure him?"

"She is a slave! That is her purpose!" Braltek roared. 

"Ah. I have my answer." Systlin nodded her head, once. "By the law of my lands, such a crime carries the penalty of death. As the victim, you have the right to seek mercy. Do you desire mercy for this man?"

Kala's lovely green eyes fixed on Braltek. 

"You are mine, Kala." Braltek's voice went lower. "You are mine. I am your master, you know it."

The lovely girl turned back to the she-sleen on the robe of the Ubar. 

"I do not." Her voice was almost inaudible, but then she spoke again, more strongly. "I do not! I do not seek mercy for him!"

My mouth hung open. 

Kala was slave. A slave loves her master. It is what they are trained for. 

"I do not seek mercy for him!" Kala's voice rose, almost a scream. 

"Then I, Systlin Stellas, Queen of the Northern Lands and Ubara of the Tuchuk, proclaim this man Braltek guilty of the crimes of rape and slaving, and sentence him to die." The she-sleen stood, graceful, and picked up a quiva from among the rugs she had sat upon. She flipped the blade, catching it easily by the tip without looking, the motion smooth, automatic, and practiced. She offered the hilt over to the girl. "It is your right, as offended party, to carry out the sentence yourself, if you so wish." 

To my incredible shock, the girl Kala reached out a hand, almost tentatively, and took the hilt of the quiva. 

She could not do it, of course. She was a slave, and a slave belongs to her master, utterly. 

The slender fingers tightened on the hilt. She did not seem to know how to hold the quiva properly, holding it as if she were about to slice bosk meat for the spit. 

Her eyes turned to Braltek, and in them burned something like hate. 

No. She was slave! A slave serves her master!

"Kala." Braltek's voice sounded suddenly uncertain. "Kala, I have treated you well, better than most would..."

Kala screamed then, high and furious and long,  and flew at him. The quiva rose and fell. 

She was inexpert with the weapon. The blade hit Braltek's shoulder, and slid down, slicing a long cut into his arm. Blood flowed, and Braltek yelled in shock. 

The quiva rose and fell again. Again, again, again the girl struck, inexpert, but the wounds adding up one by one until Braltek lay in a pool of red-stained grass. 

Kala dropped the quiva, and fell to her knees. She was sobbing, great wracking sobs that shook her small frame. 

The she-sleen came down from her throne, went down to her knees beside the girl, and placed a hand on her shoulder. 

"It is all right." Her voice was soft, and Kala leaned into her blindly, as a child might seek comfort from its mother. "He cannot hurt you again." 

Some other girls came forward then; Kala was taken away with much patting of hair and comforting. 

The she-sleen returned to her throne of rugs, sitting down once more. She smiled then, as if nothing had happened. 

I, and the men chained as I, were silent. The shock had not yet sunk in. 

"Had he a wife, or any children?" Systlin asked. 

No one responded. 

"Then it is my order that all the worldly possessions of Braltek now go to Kala. They are hers, to do with as she will. Bring forward the next prisoner." The she-sleen commanded. 

[xhanisai]

Without you, what is the point?

AO3 / FFN

Summary: The relief was instantaneously doused with ice cold water, freezing Ladybug from head to toe as Noir asked the question that has been eating him away since he woke up. "I want the truth, and the truth only..."

.

"Who the hell was that white monster?"

( One second Ladybug and him were fighting a brutal akuma; a malevolent, broken person whose powers enabled you to experience the most traumatising memory the person closest to you have suffered (an absolute insane method to enforce empathy), the next second, he was...Here.)

A/N: Was inspired by this post on tumblr to write this up and the delicious angst monster inside me rose like a motherfucker, ready to wreck havoc. Now suffer :))))) (Takes place after the episode: Ladybug. So, canon divergent.) "Even if I cry, even if I smile, even if I hate, I'll live my life with love" Samurai Heart (Some like it hot!) - SPYAIR ~(x)~ . . . 'What...what is this!?' 

Chat Noir's knees buckled before he could comprehend, collapsing to the surface he was perched on, eyes wide open and lips parted in absolute horror. Icy, sharp shivers ricocheted through his veins, his entire body shivering as he frantically observed the dystopian element around him and choked. One second Ladybug and him were fighting a brutal akuma; a malevolent, broken person whose powers enabled you to experience the most traumatising memory the person closest to you have suffered (an absolute insane method to enforce empathy), the next second, he was... Here. The remains of Paris and its monuments floated like motionless corpses in the deadly sea, his paralysed body stuck to a stray beam belonging to the Eiffel Tower like glue. The moon was absolutely shattered and split into halves up above, answering his questions on why the sea level was so high but generating more worries about how the satellite managed to get into that state in the first place. Most importantly, he knows with all of his heart and soul that the person that he considers the closest to him was his Lady...so what on earth did she experience? And when!? What the hell happened to their beloved home??? "YOU'RE BREAKING MORE THAN MY HEART NOW, MARINETTE!" Noir took a double take, leaping to his feet by muscle memory and whipping out his baton in combat mode, ready to protect Marinette at all costs from the angry voice, only to pause and his body to become paralysed once more. His mind speeding faster than the speed of sound as the dread that rooted itself in his stomach started to build up and spread out like a plague, muscles twitching with the fight or flight response. "Ma...Marinette? This is...Marinette's memory?" His lips trembled as he murmured to himself, vaulting away from the area with his weapon and hastening towards the sound of the horribly familiar voice. The cogs were starting to click in his mind but the more he saw of the destroyed city, the more apprehension gnawed on the base of his skull, his brain screaming to get the girl to safety no matter the costs. His heart pummelling his chest as the jitters inside pressured bile to build up in his tight throat. By the time he reached the area, Chat Noir felt like his soul left his body, shackling his frame on a lone, abandoned pillar as his face blanched with terror and gutted him. "Give me a hug...MARINETTE!" Chat Noir couldn't do anything but blink as the stark, white...imposter attacked, his Lady (his princesse) scrambling to her feet in order to dodge the infinite amounts of ancient destruction that was headed her way. Alabaster discs of elimination barely grazing the surface of her suit... Blinding power surges of eradication decaying the area she was momentarily stranded in mid-run... Omnipotent beams of slaughter swallowing everything it touched... All the poor blonde could do was gape inaudibly, every attack his doppelganger threw and every aghast expression Ladybug made, branded to his brain mercilessly until all he could see... ...Was black. ~(x)~ "Chat Noir! Chat! CHAT NOIR!"

A voice... "Chat, please wake up! CHAT!"

Her voice... Before the girl cradling him on her lap could breathe, Chat's eyes snapped open and the boy exhaled sharply, shooting up into a standing position and scanning his surroundings like a cornered, frightened animal. His ears, both human and feline, were deaf to Ladybug's queries as blood roared in the drums, almost didn't feel her hands clasping his forearms as he whipped his head around back and forth. The odd silent rooftop they were stranded on allowed him to scour the city, proving that Paris was still intact. The moon up ahead was still whole and luminous in the night sky- perhaps brighter than it usually was. No akuma around- most likely defeated by Ladybug solidarity. And... And, there wasn't a white cat in sight, much to his relief... "Chat, breathe." Finally, the teen clad in black acknowledged his Lady, the girl now cupping his cheeks, fingers digging through his blonde tresses and eyes both soft and wary. "You're safe now. I'm here." She added, knotting her digits into his strands with a sigh. Thankfully, the hero visibly relaxed, pupils no longer constricted to mere, dangerous slits and his erratic heartbeat was now simply an echo in his aching chest. He allowed himself to lose control then, pulling Ladybug into his arms despite her squeaks and hiding his face in the crook of her neck, the shock and confusion from the event that just transpired mere seconds ago like a nightmare ravaging through his flesh. The hair on the back of his neck stood up on its ends and his sentient tail wrapped around them both like a ribbon, bringing them closer and closer. Chat didn't even note the soft purr that escaped his body, a defense mechanism that he was usually absolutely embarrassed about. Ladybug let out a softer sigh this time, body losing tension as her lashes fluttered shut and she inhaled his familiar, fresh scent to keep her grounded. His soothing purrs contributed to the break down of intensity. She felt goosebumps rise under her suit as his claws tentatively combed through her twin tails, tangling up with her raven locks and his soft lips parted open and shut against her neck, his breathing still coming out fast and unsteady. Despite her attempting to make him feel safe, she in turn felt like it was him trying to protect her, the anxiety and questions that she tried to push away flaring inside her body like a bomb. Yet, the way his figure perfectly curled around hers like a weighted blanket and the way his strong, toned arms pressed her against his chest, his heart beat drumming against her heart, allowed Ladybug to drop all her guard and simply indulge herself in his warmth. A selfish luxury that she tried her best locking away in the deepest crevices of her heart and swallowing the key. However, just one raw touch from her partner, one moment of weakness and the Pandora's box was opened, a waterfall of emotions and feelings seeping out of her pores with relief. . The relief was instantaneously doused with ice cold water, freezing Ladybug from head to toe as Noir asked the question that has been eating him away since he woke up. "I want the truth, and the truth only..." . "Who the hell was that white monster?" His face remained hidden under her jaw, his arms locked around her torso so that she couldn't escape. Not this time. He felt the way her form tensed up again, her breathing quickening and her lashes brushing against his suit wildly as she blinked her eyes open in shock. 'No...no! He couldn't have...he SHOULDN'T have seen THAT.' Ladybug screamed internally, panic welling up in her throat, causing all words to die on the tip of her tongue and replace it with a weight, her eyes quick to water with anguish. She shook her head, digging her fingers into his shoulders, physically begging him to let it go. "Y-You..." She sniffed, looking away to the side, guilt plastered all over her face and unable to meet the heated glare her partner directed when he pulled his head away to confront her. His arms remained an iron cage, one his Lady could break out of if she really wanted to but she remained limp in his hold. "You should forget about that..." She answered weakly, still avoiding eye contact. "Nothing good will come out of knowing-" Anger ripped through his body and Chat Noir's jaw clicked from the intense way his teeth grounded themselves against each other, his tail snapping against the floor with outright rage and his eyes as venomous as a predator's. "I'm not going to repeat myself again, Marinette." His steely hiss was a sudden, harsh blow against her screaming heart, the girl's eyes widening as she faced the pissed off boy, lips parted in a gape. "Who the fuck was that!? And when?? When did THAT happen!?" She shook her head again, prepared to counter back and deny everything he said no matter how foolish it was, only for her world to spin as he instantly swept her up, bridal style and took off with outstanding speed. The force of his enhanced power boost against the rooftop caused an explosion of cracks in the concrete and slates, his body like a bullet as he manoeuvred from rooftops to streets and lamps with leaps, twists and turns. The cargo in his arms doing nothing to hinder his speed and strength as the elusive black cat darted to his destination like a shadow ninja and almost invisible to the naked eye. Ladybug couldn't do much but keep her face pressed against his throat, her arms around his neck like a vice, her heart still clenching and unclenching under her ribs at the sudden revelation. He knew now... He knew who she was! She tried so hard to keep it a secret, so hard to protect him! Yet, just like everything else in her life, it blew up in her face! Tears streamed down her cheeks without permission, her mind anticipating a sudden visit from a disappointed Bunnyx who would undoubtedly berate her for destroying the future again and causing her partner's ultimate demise once more. What the hell did Maître Fu even see in her anyways??? The right thing to do now was take away her miraculous here and there and never let her come across her Chaton again! Not after knowing the pain that she will bring to him in the future. She would give up everything in the world if it meant that her partner could live a happy, safe future. Even if it's without her by his side. Suddenly, Ladybug felt her surroundings halt to a slow but steady stop. Experience with running at inhuman speeds allowed both heroes to polish off their sprints and landings- otherwise the heroine would have definitely been shot out of his arms the minute he braked. She tensed as her body was brought back to its bearings, her ears now hyper-aware of his thrumming heartbeat and her feverish face sensitive from her tears and Chat's body heat. With tenderness, a juxtaposition from his momentary frustrations earlier on, Chat Noir deposited Ladybug on her feet, his eyes hidden under his fringe and his frown breaking her heart into two. He kept his distance, perhaps a metre or so away from her, leaning against what she recognised as the railings of her humble abode's balcony. The teen girl swallowed, the sight of her home cementing the fact that her partner unquestionably knew who she was under the mask. And he absorbed the idea as naturally as breathing. As if it was no surprise that the girl behind the impenetrable mask was none other than herself. No questions, no double takes, like he knew all along... Tikki, despite Ladybug's lack of willingness, unravelled the transformation on her own, her charge frozen on the spot completely as if she was stark naked, hugging her body to herself. "T-Tikki!?" Marinette rasped, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed with slight betrayal. The little Goddess only sighed and delivered a comforting smile, stroking the teen's cheek. "You need to tell him everything. Don't worry anymore. I...I think it's time." "It's...It's time...? You- you don't know that! What if it's not!? What if Bunnyx pops out of nowhere right now and says otherwise!? What if another disaster happens!? What if-" "Marinette. Please. Trust me and talk to him." The kwami directed Marinette's chin to her partner who was yet to move a muscle, eyes still shadowed by his unruly locks and knuckles whitening under his suit from the tight grip on the railings. The French-Chinese couldn't help but shiver. Why couldn't things just be swept under the rug for now? Why couldn't things go her way for once in her life? "You don't need to be so tense." Chat's sudden words sent a jolt down Dupain-Cheng's spine, arms now folded behind her back as she nervously bounced from one leg to the other, bottom lip worried by her teeth. "I'm sorry for blowing up on you like that. That was such a dick move of me." He tilted his chin up, eyes now visible and gleaming with such melancholy that Marinette wanted to do nothing but envelope his sad little face into her arms and soothe his pain away. "I just...I need to know, Marinette. What did I see? What did you go through?" A beat of silence went by, sombre greens gazing into empty blues. The wind was almost silent and the arrondissement was asleep for the night, giving the two more privacy than they could ask for. Taking a gamble, Chat pushed away from the railings, approaching the girl hesitantly and decreasing the distance between them both. "This isn't something that can be forgotten or unspoken about forever, Princesse." His eyes were pleading, faux ears drooped against his blonde hair and tail slack against the floor. The glow of the moon and fairy lights made the scenario quite dreamlike and hazy but the feel of his clawed fingers entangling with hers indicated that everything was very much real. "I...I'd rather hear it from you than try to piece it together by myself. I don't want to jump to the wrong conclusions and I don't want anymore misunderstandings between us...no more...no more secrets, please." His eyes bored into her very being, heightening her nerves but at the same time, she wanted the very dams that were holding her back to finally break and bestow everything her partner deserved. She decided to take Tikki's advice, the little ladybug in question hidden away to give the pair some confidentiality. "Before I do," Marinette began quietly, rubbing a circle on the back of Chat's hand and peering to the side momentarily below her lashes and then back at him again. She bit her bottom lip, debating internally whether she should go with what she had in mind or not. "Can you promise me one thing?" "Anything." The boy replied without a beat, face intent and serious. Marinette nodded, as if to reassure herself first, squeezing his hand and her heart skipping a few beats when he squeezed back with much gusto. "Promise me that you'll still fight by my side, no matter what." "W-What? I mean, obviously I will! I told you many times, it's me and you against the world-" "Promise me!" The designer demanded, her face ambitious despite the way Chat almost jumped out of his skin. Her eyes were now pained and stormy but it was also determined and raw. The windows to her soul. "Yes...I...I promise." He squeezed her hand tighter and then grasped the other one with his spare hand, bringing both of them to his lips so that he can deliver a chaste kiss against the knuckles, his emerald crescents never leaving her gaze. He also smiled sadly, ears lowered in submission, knowing that what he will hear from now would make or break him. Letting out a shuddering exhale, a breath she didn't know she was holding, Marinette beckoned him to follow her to the back of her balcony so that the two could sit down against the wall. Originally, she was attempting to sit by his side, only for him to grab her waist and settle her on his lap, resting his forehead against her shoulder from behind and interlocking his hands with hers. If her silly partner pursued to make the same move a long time ago, before the events that occurred after Bunnyx pleaded her to save the future, Marinette would have pushed him away with jest and reprimand him for his lack of personal space. Now? Now she craved for every source and warmth from him. Now she indulged in every touch and smile he gave. Now she relished the way his heart beat in sync with hers and fit perfectly with her body. "Whenever you're ready," Chat prompted, the heat of his form setting fire in the pits of her stomach yet alleviating all the heart ache and suffering she endured for the past lonely, long months. She stared up at the night sky, leaning her head back against his shoulder, her blues then peering to the side at the golden strands that took over her vision as the hero remained with his face hidden. She played with his fingers and began to recall everything to him. ~(x)~ "...No..." His first word after she recited the entire event was no more than a breath. The boy was on his knees, sitting parallel to Marinette now as he couldn't stand being able to freely touch her, knowing what exactly he was capable of. "Chat?" Fear exploded in the girl's chest, her heart swelling with apprehension as she watched Chat tremble and eye his hands with indescribable hate. "...Chat Noir?" Regret was evident on her face, the loud, pessimistic persona inside slapping her for not keeping her mouth shut. "...I...I..." Immediately, the images of Marinette's memories that he stumbled across earlier on barrelled into his mind without grace, stabbing his brain with all the harsh truths and the utter devastation that he caused with one hand. The miraculous on his horrendous finger suddenly looked vile and disgusting, weighting the digit like a burden. A miraculous with a power like this does not deserve to exist- no. A monster like him does not deserve to exist. "I can't do this." The boy didn't dare to look at his partner, swift to twist the ring off his finger but was met with a strong lunge and wail from his companion before his detransformation could settle. "No! You promised!" Marinette cried, face hidden into his now, cotton shirt and shaking her head over and over again, repeating her words. The ring merely laid a few feet away from them, Plagg unable to eject himself from the jewel as the miraculous itself was rejected by the boy. "Marinette- how...how could you want me after all of that!?" His hands were on her shoulders, trying to push the distraught girl away but she remained persistent, latching on his shirt and refusing to see his face, his identity. "I destroyed the world! I-I-I destroyed our home! Our friends! Our family! You!" His words trailed into a sob and his voice cracked, tears cascading down his eyes. "I don't care...you promised! You're not allowed to break them! I won't let you!" Marinette's arms interlocked around his torso like an iron cage, body shaking with pure heartbreak. "You promised...you promised..." She chanted like a mantra, his shirt now saturated with her tears. Yet, Adrien couldn't help but be overwhelmed with not only her affection, but also his for her. Finding out that his Princesse and his Lady were one in the same was like a priceless wish granted by the most benevolent of Gods. Of course the girl he loved turned out to be his other half, his partner, his life. Of course the girl he loved turned out to be sweetness incarnate, a bundle of selflessness, his everything. But now knowing that he turned the very same person into a gaping corpse under the sea in an alternative timeline? "You deserve better...so much better..." Adrien whimpered out, ceasing his struggles to get out of her hold and giving in to his selfish desires, cradling Marinette against him with his arms. "You deserve someone who would never, ever have the power to hurt you. You deserve someone who can make you happy. Someone who you won't fuck up everything for you-" "Shut up! I don't want anyone else! I want you!" As if to emphasise her point, she headbutted his chest, earning a surprised grunt from him whilst her nails dug into his skin through the cloth. "And if you leave without the ring tonight, then I will no longer be Ladybug..." Her muffled threat was like a slap across the model's face, the boy pulled away indignantly, grasping her shoulders so that he could see her face. Marinette on the other hand, kept her eyes stubbornly closed, fingers still grasping on his shirt so that there was still very little distance between them. "Don't be stupid Marinette! Dieu, you are the most smartest girl out there- you shouldn't be spouting such ridiculous bullshit! Paris needs YOU. You're the only one who can do the damn job right-" "And Paris needs you too!" The bitterness and heat in her face then subsided, her shoulders slouching as Marinette hung her head low, exhaustion weighing on her soul. "I'm the one who messed up...I'm the one who caused the future..." "I'm the one who destroyed it! I don't see how any of this is your fault Marinette!" "But it is, Chat! I fixed it by undoing the stupid mistake that started all of it! But now, now? Everything...everything is ruined again! You're leaving me...alone..." Adrien felt his heart shatter at the way his love curled in to herself, her slender digits slipping away from his shirt to cover her face, her knees tucked against her forehead and her broken whimpers ransacking her body. Guilt, self-loathing and self-hate devastated his body to the point where he was choking on his sobs, his grip only tightening on her shoulders as his body shook with tears. He did this. He turned her into this. He's nothing but despicable, atrocious, monstrous- "Marinette! Adrien! Watch out!" Tikki's alarmed cries snapped the two out of their state, the former feeling the breath knocked out of her lungs at the sudden revelation of who exactly her partner was. The feeling was then replaced with ten times more pressure when she allowed her eyes to rest on his figure, more than enough evidence that the boy truly was her other half. Her body froze. Agreste on the other hand gaped at the fluttering akuma butterfly that made way towards them, grabbing Marinette instinctively against his chest and spinning them around so that his back was facing the detestable creature. "Adrien!?" Mari gasped against his shoulder but the boy only replied by pressing her closer against him, one hand cradling her neck whilst the other clutching the fabric on her back, a defeated smile resting on his lips. "No matter what, no matter the circumstances, you cannot be akumatised. If me alone managed to do what I did in the future, then the world would be absolutely doomed if you were to be under Le Papillon's control." His never ending tears kept falling, dripping into her hair as he inhaled her sweet, vanilla scent like a soldier going to war. As if this was the last time he was going to see her. "You. Idiot. STUPID!" Marinette tore herself away from him, slapping her hands against his dumb face and bringing it towards hers aggressively, a tiny part of her inside cackling at his bewildered expression. "Neither of us will get akumatised! Not now, not ever!" With that said and done, gaining a hopeful glimpse from her Chaton's eyes, Marinette slammed her lips against his, swallowing down his gasps as she attempted to give him the most passionate, meaningful, desperate kiss she could ever muster. All her feelings, her thoughts and wishes were poured into this one, singular, press of lips. Her soft, chapped pair bruised clumsily against his confused but sweet pair. Their inexperience and befuddled emotions made the kiss sloppy and painful, teeth clicking against each other and noses knocking with one another from time to time, the exhales from their noses causing their faces to tickle uncomfortably. The upcoming akuma was soon pushed to the back of their heads as the pair relaxed, Adrien tilted his head to a slight angle, reciprocating the kiss with more instinct and capturing her bottom lip, feeling Marinette shudder under his touch as his experimentally traced the seams of her lips with his tongue. She in turn pulled on his upper lip, slipping her hands away from his face and trailing them down his shoulders, resting them there and letting her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. Their hearts pounded in sync, what seemed like years of unrequited pining turned into heat and more under their skin, swallowing each other's sighs and gasps. Their selfish desires, their yearning wishes, all granted into this collection of intimate kisses that only stole their breaths away over and over again. "Adrien, mon Adrien," Marinette couldn't stop the sweet little whisper that left her lips, brushing his. Her already rouge tinted cheeks simply reddened in full force as the boy gazed at her with so much love and so much admiration, it hurt. His response was to kiss her again, boldly slipping his tongue fully into her mouth as he pushed her down to the ground, one hand tearing off the ribbons in her hair so that they can comb through the silky tendrils and the other clutching her upper back, their legs entangled in a way that one wouldn't know where they started and where they ended. Marinette never felt such heat, such passion, such love in her life, ever. She let herself go, pushing away all logical thoughts and queries as she let herself sink into this wonderful feeling. Her mind rebooted every second, every moment as the duo explored each other's mouths and lips, noting down the silky feel of the flesh and the sensitive points. Adrien felt his heart swell to the point where he couldn't breathe. If being able to kiss Marinette like this forever was possible, he'd have definitely stayed like that. "Stay, Adrien. Stay..." Cheng breathed out, slowing down the kiss to a lazy, softer pace. Her request halted the boy in his movements, his lips which were puckered against her cheek tightened into a grimace. This time, Marinette cupped his cheeks with more softness and sweetness, her lips curling up into a timid, rosy smile. The strawberry complexion in her cheeks brought out the blue in her eyes, making them glitter under the moonlight. Slowly, Adrien took one of her hands off his cheek with his own, never breaking eye contact as he rubbed circles in her finger-bones and then applied sweet, feather kisses along the appendage. He let out an exhale, his lips carrying a bittersweet smile as he tilted his head to the side. He searched for any doubts, any distrust in her eyes but all he saw, much to his ecstatic boyish joy, was her never-ending love for him. Her doubtless trust in him. Like they were soulmates. "Are you...are you sure? That you want me? Even though I'm...me?" He wasn't used to such raw, positive emotions directed towards him. He has been abandoned, neglected and scorned at for so long in his life that the idea that such an incredible, wonderful girl wanted him of all people was unimaginable! Yet, this was his reality. And she kissed him...she kissed him like that. Like they were made for each other. Though, this in turn got him thinking about something else, confusion now printed on his face. His heart scowled, threatening him at gunpoint if he dared to ask the burning question. "Wouldn't...wouldn't you prefer to have the boy you like as your partner?" His question was met with a mischievous smile, an attractive raised brow. Marinette simply tugged his face closer to hers so that their noses shared a gentle kiss, her smirk widening. "Bold of you to assume that he already isn't." For the umpteenth time, Adrien found himself rendered speechless by his Lady, the redness in his cheeks blooming by ten folds as the puzzles and bridges started to connect in his mind. Albeit it took a while but in his defense, the hot kiss which should have been evident enough of Marinette's feelings for him, turned his brain to mush. "M-M-Me? All this time...I was my own rival???" His look of awe and shock then switched to deadpan and annoyance. Adrien groaned, shoving his face into Marinette's hair and wrapping his arms around her body. "I've been cockblocking myself..." "So have I," Mari stroked his hair, eyes closed with contentment and body completely knackered from the roller-coaster of emotions she's gone through. "I tried to set you up with Nino." His tone was dry and beyond done. The boy was so done with life. "And I fixed that by setting him up with my best friend~" "I rejected you for you and got M. Dupain akumatised-" He then shot up, incredulity plastered on his face, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. "Wait a minute. Wa-aaaaait a minute." Marinette gulped under his scrutinising glare. "What was with the whole 'I'm in love with you Chat Noir' thing???" "Let's just say that I come up with the most dumb things on the spot when I think someone's connecting the dots to my secret identity..." "No no no, you are not getting off THAT easily-" "Ehem," The pair paused with their bickering, spotting Tikki who was watching them with an amused smile whilst one of her hands kept the akuma restrained by the antennae. "Maybe get rid of this first before you both get too deep into the flirting?" The little Goddess kept in a shit-eating grin as both teens bursted with red, fumbling to their feet and awkwardly looking at anywhere else but at each other. They couldn't believe they forgot about the akuma entirely! Not wanting to waste anymore time, Marinette transformed into Ladybug, quickly purifying the butterfly and watching it fly away with a soft smile resting on her lips. She wasn't blind to the wonder and astonishment Adrien had on his face, as he took in the entire scene with much pleasure. Ladybug sunk down, picking up the ring that Adrien threw away, rolling the jewel in her palm and then clenching it tight in her fist. She then faced the boy again, the latter looking away as fear still lingered on his body. He bit his lip, peering at her fist below his lashes and rubbing his arm self-consciously. "Adrien?" Ladybug rested her free hand on his, bringing it to her heart, smile never leaving her face. "Will you?" The model's face exploded with red. "H-Huh...?" "Will you be my Chat Noir again? Please?" She spread his hand, stroking the finger that was usually adorned by the powerful mantle. Mimicking his alter-ego's actions, she brought his fingers to her lips, kissing the calloused tips and trailing her soft, kiss-bruised mouth down the palm till it reached the inside of his wrist. She placed an open mouthed kiss, eating up the way he jumped slightly at the sensitivity. "I do! I-I-I mean!" He gulped, embarrassed by his ultra eager response, trying not to jump the girl into another kiss. It's not his fault that this felt like a marriage proposal. "If...if you think it's the right thing...me being Chat..." "You being my Chaton will always be the right thing, Adrien." His Lady smiled so wonderfully, slipping the ring on his finger in a manner that caused his heart to expand and explode on the spot. But then, then, she kissed him again. A saccharine, soft press of lips, the two teens grinning too much for it to be a proper kiss but they didn't care. It felt perfect. It felt amazing. It felt like right. "So is anyone gonna tell me what the fuck just happened???" The heroine and boy parted with a surprise, darting their eyes to the confused dark kwami who darted his head between them both frantically in return. His acidic green eyes then widened and his jaw dropped. "Don't tell me..." "I MISSED THE REVEAL!? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...." . . . ~(x)~ A/N: 6PM me - "Oooo I'm going to make this super angsty and short so that I can do my homework later on!" 10 hours later... 4AM, sleep deprived me - "Hahahah...no UwU" I'm not proofreading till tomorrow. I'm gonna do my homework now. Bye hoes.

[vtscasefiles]

Case File # 321-5

Trigger warning: blood, gore, violence, death, firearms, injury, rape mention

Case begun: 5/09/20**

Case Concluded: 5/11/20**

Case Locale: [REDACTED], Florida

Marked as Closed

I arrived in Florida, the humidity already fucking with my sinuses. How anyone can live in this swampy shithole I will never understand. But I was offered a job, and my bank account was practically beating me over the head with it’s need to be filled. The pay was too good to turn down, so I loaded up my gear and headed out.

What I wasn’t expecting was a fucking ghost pirate. I mean, of all things, how fucking cliché can you get? The client, Rosie [REDACTED], welcomed me with that famed “southern hospitality” that I’ve heard so much of.

“You the girl with the gun? I expected you to be bigger.”

Fuckin’ peachy. “Yes. I’m the girl with the gun. You got a haunting problem?” I replied, trying not to let my irritation get the better of me. I’m fucking 5′9″. I’m not that small. For fuck’s sake, I can bench two hundo with no problem. Why the -- 

[Editor’s note: this continues for fifteen minutes. For your convenience I have removed VT’s rant.]

After getting a brief rundown of the case, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Everything pointed to a simple haunting, it wasn’t something I was considering a challenge, or even something that’d take longer than a few hours.

After doing this job, you think you’ve seen just about all the SC* has to offer. My two best friends are a lich and a witch. Yes, they rhyme, shut up. Point being is that I have never seen a haunting manifest on such a massive scale. Usually it’s restrained to a building, or a patch of land, but this...the whole fucking coast line was haunted. It wasn’t even a Cluster**, it was one. Singular. Spirit.

My first day, as the usual, was spent at the library. The spirit in question, one Captain Fresni, was an infamous pirate in the seventeen hundreds. Played a role in the American Revolution, albeit a small one. According to the books I’d found (mostly useless, but I did manage to glean some insight), his ship The Crooked Jess, was riddled with canon fire by the British. Captain Fresni, a violent fighter if ever there was one, realized there was no way out...lit every barrel of gunpowder he had on board and rammed his ship into the oncoming fleet. The following explosion wiped out three ships, packed with soldiers and set fire to another six.

I was impressed. If the spirit was Captain Fresni, as Rose claimed, then it could simply be a case of the body dying so suddenly and violently that the spirit didn’t realize he was dead. There was one passage that stood out, I won’t repeat it due to it being hella long, but in summation it stated that near the southern tip of Florida there was a hidden cove that served as the pirate captain’s base. Might as well start there.

It was around 9pm on the tenth before I even stepped foot in the cove. Immediately, the air changed. Despite it being disgustingly humid, the air turned frigid and dry. I walked up and down the coast to find a spot that wasn’t freezing, but to no avail. The whole place was a spook zone. We’re talking a good three hundred acres of land completely under the spirit’s influence. Even by a Cluster’s standards, that’s a massive area.

This area was mostly undisturbed, being a historical site. Being in the profession I am, meant that didn’t mean a roasty pile of dogshit. If I got caught disturbing anything here, it only meant one thing: prosecution, if not a bullet through my head. I’m aware of what my ethnic background means; prejudice, racism, outright hate. Hell, it’s dangerous to drive, let alone stand somewhere that I shouldn’t. So I try to be subtle. Try not to pack too much ordinance. Today I only had my duffel bag full of Elinor’s*** special ammo. I’d say it “kills” ghosts, but you can’t kill a spirit. You can however, force it to reconcile with it’s past.

The worst part about this job was I was going to wind up in the water. I hate swimming. Forget what chlorine does to the dye in my hair (red. Blood red. Always.), but just the thought of driving across the country with my clothes soaked in salty water was already putting my teeth on edge. Looks like I’d be hitting a thrift shop on the way home.

I dropped my duffel bag on the beach and sat in the sand next to it, pulling off my dad’s old combat jacket and stowing it inside. I did a quick inventory. I hadn’t brought anything major. Salt. Blessed water (courtesy of Ramona****). A black beeswax candle and, my trusty companion, Peace.

Peace is the name I’ve given to my custom-made revolver. All together, the setup weighs about three pounds. Each part bears a custom engraving that’ll combat just about any supernatural force...even so, there are some things that Peace can’t solve...even with the right ammo. But I had one solution sitting in the backseat of my car: a can of kerosene. If bullets don’t solve the problem, a liberal application of fire will.

The time was midnight, the opening of the “Witching Hour”. I had until 3am to get something. Anything. The spirit wasn’t answering to any of the usual callouts (their name, questions, requests for an audience), so I settled in on the beach to doze. Wasn’t much else to do.

Mother fucker, I wish I hadn’t.

When I woke up, it was to the freezing cold iron around my wrists. The bob and weave that told me I was on the sea. The air smelled of something...something that every fucking time I smell it, I almost lose my lunch.

Corpses.

The deck outside my cell was slick with blood and viscera. I’ve seen my share of gore, don’t get me wrong, but this was a massacre. What was worse...it looked (and smelled) fresh. The good captain had been busy, it’d seemed. What began as a simple haunting was quickly turning into something more sinister. Rosie hadn’t mentioned that the spirit was violent...though I should have assumed, given the amount posted on the job. Even still, this was...a little more than I’d prepared for.

But first there was the matter of the shackles on my wrists.

Lockpicking is an artform that every PE invests time in learning. But that’s usually deadbolts or doors made post 1970. The manacles on my wrists (though they looked brand new) were easily something seen in the eighteenth century. There was even a maker’s mark next to one of the keyholes. I’ll spare you the details on how I got out, but my thumbs ache to all hell.

The second I laid hands on the bars to my cell, they swung open...I’d never been locked in. This worried me. The spirit wanted me free...the manacles were just a precaution. Each step I made was met with the squishy splort of combat boot on viscera. I took my time, as I didn’t relish the thought of slipping and falling into the mess beneath my boots. Proud to say that I didn’t fall. Not once.

[Editor’s note: judging by the stains on VT’s clothes, she fell.]

As far as I could tell, I was on the lowest deck. The stairway didn’t lead up into the fresh air of day, but rather into what I assumed was a galley. Tables and benches had been scattered, and cooking implements rusted on their hooks. Dangling from one of those hooks was my firearms...just waiting for me.

I expected a trap, I anticipated the trap. By that I mean I picked up a piece of busted bench and hurled it at my gun. It fell off the hook with a loud clatter which had me willing myself to fade into the shadows. Nothing. Nothing but the creak and groan of the ship.

Well, I say nothing, but I distinctly heard laughter from the top deck. Feminine, bright laughter. I picked my gun up off the floor, holstered it and climbed the stairs.

There was no ghost crew, as I’d anticipated...but at the helm was a sight that still gives my heart a jolt. It’s no secret that I’m gay. I love women. But what I saw at the helm...fuck me, sideways. She was tall. 6′6″ if she was an inch. Her raven hair captured the moonlight and practically sucked it in. Her breasts were bared to the wind, heavy tattoos that seemed to glow covered just about every inch of bared flesh. I’d have thought her living if not for one thing: her eyes. Pitch black like the void.

“Ahoy, mate.” she purred, setting my teeth to clench. “Found you on my little hideaway, snoozin’ like an infant. Come to join Captain Fresni’s crew, little pet?”

“I ain’t your pet.” I snapped, glowering up at the spirit. “You’ve been killing people, Captain...and everything I’ve read says that you’re a man. Are you actually Captain Fresni, or is that just some title you picked up?”

“Funny how men’ll give the most vicious fighters a cock in death that they never had in life, hm?” the pirate snickered. I took notice then that her arms were like two thick pythons that, any other time, I’d like to see just how much weight they could hold. “I offered my services to old Georgie and he thought me funny. At least until I broke his nose.”

“Georgie? As in Washington?”

“Ye know of him? Interesting. He refusing the afterlife, too?”

Everything I’d assumed about this spirit was wrong. Captain Fresni wasn’t a man, for one. Not to mention she knew very well that she was dead. That still didn’t answer the most pertinent question on my mind. “The bodies...or what’s left of them. Was that you?”

“Aye.” she smiled, wickedly, but offered no further explanation. I was being baited.

“Can I ask why?”

“Ye just did.” a hard spin of the wheel almost sent me tumbling. “But I suppose I can oblige a pretty little thing like you.” I fucking hate being demeaned. And all attraction for this undead bitch was flying out the window faster than you could say “eat my ass”. 

I can’t remember most of her explanation. Looking back, now...it’s like the whole of that night is just a drunken fever dream. What stands out to me is her reasoning. “I only murder the dregs, girlie. Rapists, mostly. Kidnappers. Violence done to women is met with brutal retaliation. It’s the simplest way to clean up this world, savvy?”

Oh, I was savvy. Quite savvy. If anything, I agreed with her and her method. Trash like that shouldn’t be allowed to breathe, let alone exist. “If that’s all you’re doing, Cap, then I see no reason we shouldn’t go our separate ways. You have your work and I have mine.”

“Aye? And just what is your work, lovely?” I didn’t detect any further demeaning playfulness...only curiosity.

“I’m a PE. A Paranormal Eliminator. Usually, I’d have to ask or make you pass on, but as it stands...I think we can say live and let live. Well...live and let un-live.” she’d laughed at that. A warm sound that had my guts twisting around my stomach like some sort of horny serpent.

“So, you came out all this way to end the dread Captain Fresni...only to find a kindred spirit, is that what I’m hearing?” she asked, grinning like the Cheshire Cat with a Glasgow grin. “And now you want to leave, just like that. Don’t a get a kiss or a nice romp? I think I’m owed something after all. I didn’t kill you for trespassing.”

That raised my hackles. Again, this pillar of muscle was underestimating me. What I’d fought, what I’d killed. For fuck’s sake, I’ve killed enough Wendigos to put half the men in my profession to shame. There was that weird case where the woman who hired me was fucking the Wendigo, but...that’s another story for another time.

[Editor’s Note: We’ve never discussed the Wendigo-coitus case. I sincerely want to hear it.]

“Fuck you. You got the drop on me, like a coward.” I regretted the words the instant they left my mouth. I was on her ship and at her mercy. She could sink this ship and I had no idea which way shore was...let alone the hazards that went with swimming in open water.

Instead she’d only laughed. “Little girl, I’m a pirate. I’ve no intent to fight head on when I can sneak up on someone. Honor is a man’s game. It’s what gets them killed, more often than not.” Again, I agreed. I’d put enough bullets in the back of a head to know that stealth is preferable than a face-to-face fight.

“Look, I lost my temper. Can we just...end this and I can go home? We both agree on your method, and I see no reason to stop what you’re doing. Sure, the “authority” of the living world won’t like it...but no one likes them, so they can eat a steaming pile of shit.” I said, frowning. “I don’t want a fight. I just want to get paid and go home.”

The look about the spirit changed, marginally. The tattoos seemed to be rippling along her flesh(?) and her smile faded into a frown. “Missy, we still have a glaring problem we’ve yet to address. I’m one woman...and I need a crew. So, unless you’ve got a solution to that particular snag, you’re it.”

All my like for this spirit (begrudging as some of it was) vanished in an instant. “So I’m being kidnapped.” I responded, feeling my heart start to hammer in my ears. “Just like those men you killed. So, what I’m hearing is, you’re no better.”

“Watch your words, girl. Your pretty face won’t save you from my blade.” she’d snarled. It took all that was in me not to balk, though my teeth desperately wanted to chatter.

“I’m using your own words against you, Captain.” I responded, hoping I sounded calmer than I felt. “Don’t blame me if they don’t line up the way you want.”

“One more word out of you -- “

“I’ll give you two: get. Fucked.” that had torn it. The rippling gave way to something that I’d come to expect. This was no run of the mill spirit: Captain Fresni was either a wraith or a revenant. The only real difference between the two was the level of violence capable. A wraith tends to hunt one person, or their family. A revenant hunts whoever they want...and now I was on the list. I couldn’t fight her here, not out in the open. She’d tear me to shreds. Already her jaw was gaping, revealing razor teeth. Her nails, cut short, were lengthening into something akin to talons...and believe me when I say those things hurt. 

I feel no shame in saying I sprinted below deck and ducked into the galley proper. I wish I hadn’t. She wasn’t just killing people, she was eating them. Body parts, half chewed, dangled from the ceiling and littered the ground. My hand clapped over my mouth and nose to keep the smell out and my dinner in. I heard her footsteps and, as silently as I could manage, I checked my firearm. Peace was still locked, cocked and ready to rock. Well, not cocked. Gun safety, kids.

I pulled one of Elinor’s special bullets out of the cylinder. What made these so special is that, instead of lead, bone served as the projectile. The easiest way to deal with something dead is by using something dead against it. I don’t ask where Elinor gets her bone, and I think I’ll be perfectly happy to continue not knowing.

[Editor’s note: I know. It’s horrific.]

“Little pet, little pet, where are you?” she crooned. Well, I say crooned...more like...rattled. A revenant’s physiology is strange, but once they reveal their form it’s almost as if their bodies begin to decay. I peeked around the corner to see her back facing me. I took aim and...nothing. My gun clicked loud enough to sound like a scream in an empty hallway, but no roar of igniting gunpowder. She turned and...smiled. I think. “There you are.”

“Here I am.” I responded, standing on shaking legs. “Soup’s on, Captain.” she ran at me, talons held out at her sides like sabers. I did the only sane thing I could think of: I ducked as she swung. Luckily, the big swing didn’t hit me. Unluckily, she had another hand. Claw. Whatever.

So, there I was, a talon embedded in my shoulder and blood gushing from the wound like a waterfall. A little known fact about revenant wounds: leave the talon in. If it’s withdrawn the wound will immediately fester and become gangrenous. A lot of PEs have died that way.

I slammed the barrel of my gun against the base of her claw and it snapped off. She screamed her pain and rage and took another swipe at my torso. I barely managed to get far enough back in time. The fact I had to compensate for a long talon still imbedded in my shoulder didn’t mean much, as I was operating off a cubic fuckload of adrenaline. She did however manage to shred my tanktop. Which sucked, because I loved that thing. Said “Boss Ass Bitch” on it and everything...I guess I could see if Ramona would make me another one...

[Editor’s note: RIP tank top. Ramona is making another one at the time of writing.]

I sprinted past her, she’d over balanced and given me time to escape. I went down, back to the cells. I was soaked in a cold sweat by now and thankful that my hair tie had held, despite my panicked movement. I smoothed the strands away from my sweat soaked face and looked for a place to hide. Nothing was presenting itself...but an idea struck. It was a stupid idea. A terrible idea. I ran into a cell and pressed my back to the wall.

When Fresni reappeared, she was smiling. “Ran out of room to run, little rat?”

“Seems that way.” I panted. My head was spinning from the loss of blood. Thankfully, that brief moment I spent pressed against the wall had redoubled my courage...and helped me remember one little fact. “Look, Cap...I’m dead. We both know it. The second this talon is removed, my life is over...so...I guess I’m askin’ if that place on your crew is still available.”

That shocked her, if only for a moment. “You can’t lie your way out of this one.”

“No lie. Kill me now. I’d rather just go ahead and get it over with, thanks.” I said, praying that this would work. If it didn’t well...you wouldn’t be seeing this, would you?

She approached, brandishing those eight inch talons. She clicked them together, thoughtfully. “Stand still, then.” she snarled as I held my breath. “One through the heart, and it’s all over.”

Three more steps. Two. One. I stepped in and latched onto her arm, and...I bit down. I felt fetid blood fill my mouth and choke me. I immediately began to gag and then...voided my stomach, all over my aggressor.

A revenant’s true power isn’t from the change they make, though it definitely looks it. A revenant is best known for it’s insidious way of making the unreal real...so long as its concentration remains undisturbed.

When I finally finished tossing my cookies, I looked up. No ship in sight. Just a revenant, me and glorious land. The sand was disturbed, probably from all my running, and my blood left trails showing my passage. I’d been running in circles for the last hour...while she just watched.

“Shouldn’t play with your food.” I coughed, wiping my mouth. “It’s how you get killed.” she screeched in rage, her partially coagulated blood oozing from the bite mark I’d left. The talon was still lodged in my shoulder. I reached for my gun, ready to put an end to this only to pull out... “A fucking banana? Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

She roared and charged. My weapon, my baby was strapped to the rotten leather of her belt. She’d touched it. No one touched my weapon except Ray***** and myself. Not even Ramona. 

That pissed me off in a way that nothing else does.

Naturally, I charged straight for her. She took a swipe with her injured arm, but instead of dodging out of the way, I leapt into it. She made contact, but only with her palm. I felt one of my ribs crack and gasped in pain, pure instinct was the only thing that drove my fist into the shredded flesh on her arm, courtesy of my teeth. She balked and I snatched.

Peace was in my hand, albeit barely. She noticed and lunged again, sending us both into the sand. Her pirate nature showed in the way her head collided with my nose, sending fresh gouts of blood over the both of us. She thought me stunned. An easy kill. She thought wrong.

“Any last words, my pretty?” she cackled, her maw open wide. She wasn’t just going to kill me...I’d pissed her off enough that she was going to bite me. My death wouldn’t just be painful, but slow...and my soul would erode right along with my body.

“Yeah.” I croaked, feeling the end of my stamina quickly approaching. “Choke on it.” I rammed Peace as hard as I possibly could into that gaping maw, hearing her gargle in rage around it. My wrist jerked as I fired once, twice, three times. Bam. Bam. Bam. A faint gargle, a twitch...and about two-hundred pounds collapsed on right on my cracked rib, finishing the job her arm had started and broke the damned thing.

I wheezed beneath the re-corpse for...ten, fifteen minutes? When I finally managed the strength to push her off of me, I immediately emptied the last three rounds into the ruined mess of her skull. Say what you will about my methodology, but I like to be thorough. 

It wouldn’t have done just to leave her body there, for a mundane to see. The SC likes it’s secrecy and to risk exposing it? There was no faster way to end a career than to leave a loose end behind. I made the long trek back to the car and returned with the kerosene can. I stood by the raging fire until there was nothing but ash and blackened bone...though I know a certain lich who could make use of revenant bone.

All in all, a happy ending. Had a vampire doc fix up my shoulder to avoid dying of infection. Rosie paid me what I was owed and Elinor bought the bone off of me for further profit. Sure, my shoulder still hurts so damned bad that I can barely lift it, but...thanks to Ramona, it’ll be healed up in no time. Probably.

Yo-ho-ho, mother fucker. Case closed.

Editor’s farewell: This is the first case file VT asked I upload. It’s one she’s particularly proud of and one with a satisfactory ending. There may be names or terminology that you are unfamiliar with, but I have taken the time to star each of them as to explain. They are as follows:

SC*: Supernatural Community. This is self explanatory. Includes all beings, regardless of death, undeath or birth. IE vampires, ghosts, revenants, werewolves

Cluster**: A colloquial term amongst PEs. Used in reference to a small locale with a massive collection of spirits. Usually all working as a coordinated group.

Elinor***: Elinor Lyktor. Lich. Proprietress of Ellie’s, a shop frequented by PEs for their gear. Specializes in Osteomancy.

Ramona****: Ramona Torrez. Witch. A close friend of VT’s. Offers support, healing and consultation. A good 75% of VT’s equipment is blessed by Ramona.

Ray*****: Raleigh Kane. Gunsmith. Took the name Ray from her father, proprietress of Ray’s Armory. Forced into the Supernatural Community by VT during a case. Since, she has dedicated her craft to making weapons to deal with the malignant forces that threaten the community as a whole. Extensively researches customers and will not sell her works to those she does not trust.

[fakeplasticsims]

Jane Doe for @eeriesims The Many Suitors of One Clary Wiggins

Name: Jane Doe, or at least that was the name on the toe tag Birthday/Age: She isn’t actually sure, but the autopsy report said she was between 22 and 28, so probably somewhere in there. Her body was found on April 6th, 2011, so she’s technically only 9 years old Species: Formerly human, currently a revenant Height: 5′4″, although one leg is slightly shorter than the other so let’s average that out to 5′3″ Sexual Orientation: Anyone that doesn’t mind that she’s basically a corpse, honestly Gender/Pronouns: Female, she/her Nicknames: Janie, which she prefers. Differentiates her a bit from all the other Jane Does in the morgue Occupation: She runs Glimmerbrook Farms, the local plant and flower nursery. It’s also the pumpkin farm and apple picking orchard in the fall.

𝕗𝕦𝕟 𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕤

“So I’m kind of… dead. Is that going to be a problem for you?” Jane, as her name might imply, is dead. Or rather, the reanimated dead. Nine years ago, she woke up screaming on the cold metal table of the local morgue, thereby causing all the coroners to also scream and very abruptly end the ongoing autopsy. She doesn’t remember anything about her life from when she was alive, which makes sense as her body seems to be stitched together from the disparate parts of several different people. She has a large collection of fancy ribbons to hide the fact that her head appears to have been stitched onto her neck. She is essentially a walking corpse–she doesn’t produce body heat, she can’t digest food, she doesn’t bleed or feel pain. Also, she may have gotten a few new stitches since waking up after accidentally dismembering a limb or two. On the plus side, she doesn’t rot, so she’s got that going for her.

“You’ve got to look on the bright side!” For being dead and all, Jane is surprisingly cheerful and upbeat! She’s always ready with a smile and a pleasant word. She’s, somehow, a beacon of unshakable positivity.

“My azaleas are really blooming this year.” Jane’s grey thumb is actually pretty green. She’s a master in the garden, from vegetables to flowers to the humble costa. She opened a local plant nursery five years ago and is Glimmerbrook’s one stop shop for all of your gardening needs.

“Oh, I don’t drink it. I just like to hold onto it, for the warmth.” Jane is literally always cold. It doesn’t bother her, but being warm does feel very nice. She gets warmth wherever she can get it: ordering hot drinks that she just holds onto, running her fireplace year round, and, boy, is she a cuddler.

“Is this scent more like white gardenia or rotting sepulchre?” Jane is... a little self-conscious about how she might smell. Given that she’s not actively rotting, she smells just fine, but there’s a certain stigma that’s clung to her nevertheless. She slightly obsessive about bathing and collects a wide-range of perfumes to hide the honestly non-existent odor... which then sometimes has the opposite effect.

“The correct term is revenant, thank you very much.” Jane is generally a bright and sunny person, smiling in the face of all opposition and unpleasantness... until you call her a zombie. She is not a zombie, and if she were, you’d still be safe because clearly there’s no brain in that head of yours to consume.

“Did that bush just move or am I imagining it? It’s not big enough to hide a necromancer, is it?” Clearly, someone made Jane. Nobody takes the time to stitch a bunch of body parts together and reanimate them just to leave them all alone in the world, opening gardening centers and being suitors. Jane doesn’t know anything about her origins, and she’s maybe a little paranoid that some necromancer or dark wizard and evil scientist might come knocking to claim her someday.

𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤

How did you meet Clary? “At the nursery! Miss Etheline has been coming to the shop for years. When Clary moved to town, she stopped in with her grandma. I was so stunned I almost tipped over a whole wheelbarrow of manure! That would’ve been quite the first impression, wouldn’t it? Since then Clary comes by every now and then to pick up some things for Miss Etheline’s garden.”

What was your first impression of Clary? “That she seemed a bit sad. And then that she was very beautiful, and how much I wanted to be a little light in her life, if I could. I told her I liked her hat, and she smiled–politely. I was so nervous! I’m usually not like that, you know. Also, Clary seems like she runs hot, which I find very attractive.”

What is your ideal date? “A walk through the botanical garden (I helped establish that too, you know!) and then lunch at Dino’s, where I’ll watch you eat. Dino’s brews the hottest coffee in town, so it’s my favorite spot.”

What’s your ideal relationship? “Sustaining, respectful, accepting, warm. I want love to be like a thick blanket that envelopes you, keeps you safe and happy. I know that I don’t have much to offer anyone, but if there’s anyone who is okay with loving a dead girl, that’s a soul that I want to know.”

What’s your personality like? “Ooh, tough question! I don’t know… bubbly? Cheerful? I like to make people smile. Waking up on a cold coroner’s table, about to be cut into for the umpteenth time, that’s a darkness that I’d rather forget. I try to bring light to any space that I inhabit. Some people find that off-putting, I think, but you can’t please everyone, right?

I’m still curious, about everything! I remember most things, like how to walk and talk and to look both ways before you cross the street, but some things, things that I don’t always expect, are brand new. I still remember the first time I saw a toaster pop out toast. I may have made Dino go through an entire loaf of bread that day.

As much as I love brightening up everyone else’s day, some time to myself is good too. I try not to dwell on what my old life… lives, may have been like, but sometimes it overwhelms me. Those are days I’ll spend in the nursery, surrounded by life that I helped cultivate. And then I get to share that life with the people that have become important to me.”

[timeagainreviews]

“The Faceless Ones” gets a facelift

Back in 2011 when I was first getting into Doctor Who, I managed to track down the Loose Cannon Reconstructions of the missing Doctor Who episodes. For those, like myself, who did not grow up on Doctor Who, classic Doctor Who can be a bit of an adjustment. The editing is slower. The dialogue is closer to theatre than television, and there is so much padding. That being said, over time I grew to love classic Doctor Who and rewatch it more than I do the new series. Regardless, the reconstructions have always been a bit of a slog to get through.

Watching a reconstruction is tedious, even with good writing. The fleeting moments where some fan shot a four-second clip pointed at the television are like small oases of movement in the desert of static imagery. Despite the valiant efforts of some truly talented fans, nothing will ever beat the real thing. So whenever a new animated remake of a missing Doctor Who episode is announced, I get excited. The opportunity to see these static images once more brought to life with movement is always good news. Except maybe when that announcement is "Fury From the Deep," when clearly "The Evil of the Daleks," is next in line, but that’s a gripe for another review.

For my review of "The Macra Terror," I watched the colour version of the story. However, this time around, I decided to stick with the classic black and white, which I found I much prefer as it feels appropriate to the storyline. I almost feel like the colour versions are an attempt to rope a younger audience into watching something old. As these animated reconstructions go, I feel as though the animation has gotten increasingly better. However, I can’t exactly say that this time. I will go into it further but suffice it to say, I feel as though some corners were cut. That isn’t to say that there aren’t moments of brilliance. For instance, the inclusion of the mugshots of both the Roger Delgado and Sacha Dhawan Masters into the background was a clever little easter egg.

"The Faceless Ones," is a bit of an odd story from beginning to end. Frankly, it’s overly long and a bit clunky, but at its heart is a mystery that keeps you wrapt with anticipation. It starts with the Doctor and his three companions- Jamie, Polly, and Ben landing the TARDIS at Gatwick airport. It’s a strange bit of storytelling from the outset as the primary source of conflict comes from the fact that the Doctor and his friends are trespassing where they shouldn’t be. The Doctor basically says "Cheese it, the fuzz!" and they scatter, running away from the police. The true point of this sequence is to split the group up. While running from the police, a strange group of mystrerious men load the TARDIS onto a flatbed and drive it away. Polly wanders into a building with a chameleon logo, where she witnesses the ray gun murder of a nosy inspector. Now the story has focus, we now have a mystery.

The Doctor and his pals go in and out of states of capture at the hands of airport security with such regularity that it begins to become laughable. Having no passports, the Commandant wants to keep the Doctor and Jamie for questioning, but the Doctor insists they look for the body of the man Polly saw murdered. The airport’s Commandant fills the role of the insufferable prick trope just long enough to draw the proceedings out into a proper six-episode runtime. I understand the need for a character’s refusal to believe in aliens as a reasonable reaction, but it becomes repetitive after three or so episodes. Luckily, the man actually proves to be rather useful further down the line, which is a nice break from the usual trajectory of such characters in Doctor Who which is usually one that leads to their and/or others’ demise. He does eventually acquiesce and go looking for the body, but they find nothing.

We learn that the man murdered was an inspector by the name of "Gascoigne." The men responsible for his death, Spencer and Blade, believe he may have been sent by the parents of one or more missing people. There are a few pieces to the puzzle early on. We’re shown a collection of postcards, over which Gascoigne was murdered. There also is the case of this strange organisation- Chameleon Tours and their collection of unused foreign stamps. We know the two things play in together, but how exactly is unknown. All the while, Ben seems to bumble from scene to scene with not a lot to do other than save people at the last moment, which seems to be all he’s ever really good for. As final stories for companions go, "The Faceless Ones," does a great job making a case for the departure of both Ben and Polly. As opposed to going out on a high, Ben and Polly’s own uselessness is highlighted here as they almost seem like an afterthought.

This is made even more painfully obvious when the brand new character of Samantha Briggs is given more prominence and agency within her first scene than Ben or Polly get in the entire serial. We learn that Chameleon Tours is some sort of front for a shady bunch of aliens that replace people by taking over their identities. Polly, having been kidnapped is replaced by a body double, pitting her against the Doctor and Jamie. Acting as though she’s never seen the two, she goes off to work at her new job as a receptionist for Chameleon Tours. This is where we meet Samantha, a young girl from Liverpool searching for her lost brother. All she had to go on was a postcard from her brother sent from Rome. Polly’s double benefits in no way by helping her learn the truth, so Samantha’s enquiries are deflected.

Around this time, Inspector Gascoigne’s partner, Inspector Crossland, has gone looking for him which leads him to the Commandant. He informs him that he’s there investigating his missing partner and looking into the activities of Chameleon Tours. Throughout this bit of the story, I honestly couldn’t tell you what Ben is up to. He’s a fart in the wind as far as the story is concerned. Other than being sent off to investigate, there is very little for him to do. The fact is, this is the Doctor and Jamie show at this point. The Doctor once again tries to plead with the Commandant, and once again runs away feigning a bomb with a bouncy ball. Jamie goes off to eavesdrop in the waiting area outside Chameleon Tours, which is where he overhears Samantha talking to fake Polly.

All the while, the baddies have a mole in the air traffic control room in the form of Meadows, a man replaced by a chameleon body double early on in the story. Because of this, they know the Doctor is a threat. While Jamie and Samantha flirt and compare notes, the Doctor heads back to the Chameleon Tours hangar to seek out Ben and further answers. There he discovers a penlike device which was used earlier to kidnap Polly. The Doctor pockets the device and continues his investigation. It is at this moment when the Doctor discovers the original Meadows in a crate, unresponsive, but seemingly alive. Spencer watches the Doctors activities over CCTV and draws him into a room which he proceeds to fill with cold gas. After a struggle, the Doctor plugs the gas nozzles with rags and covers the camera with his oversized coat. Upon arriving, Spencer finds the Doctor, seemingly unconscious, that is, until the Doctor springs awake and sprays Spencer in the face with the pen device and makes a break for it.

Jamie and Samantha have pieced together by now that Chameleon Tours give their young passengers pre-stamped postcards ahead of their flights. Their claim is to save the travellers time by posting the postcards for them, but in actuality, this is to dupe their families into believing they made it to their destinations. It’s a rather sinister plot which still leaves quite a few unanswered questions. Namely- if the passengers don’t arrive at their destinations, where do they end up? It’s enough for Crossland to consider a lead which he brings to the Commandant’s attention, but they’re afraid to tip their hand too much. If they halt the Chameleon Tours flight to Zurich, they may never find the answers or evidence they’re looking for.

The Doctor finally wins the Commandant over to his side by showing him the pen device can freeze fake Meadows’ tea instantly. At first, I thought the Doctor was antagonising Meadows, but it turns out, he simply didn’t recognise his face from the catatonic man in the crate earlier. It’s funny to imagine this, as modern Doctor Who would never allow such a lapse in the Doctor’s memory, but it’s part of why I love the Second Doctor so much. You can buy that this man is simultaneously the smartest man in the room, while also believing he would forget such an important face. There’s a sort of effortless absent-minded brilliance to Troughton’s performance that I just find utterly charming. The point is driven home by a small little one-off line where the Doctor asks Meadows if they have met before. Villains are left to wonder just how much the Doctor knows, up until he’s standing over their smouldering corpse muttering "Oh crumbs."

After the Doctor’s display, and Crossland’s encouragement, the Commandant gives the Doctor free reign of the airport for twelve hours to investigate. At this point, Jamie and Samantha arrive with the envelope of postcards giving Crossland enough cause to go question Blade. The Doctor, Jamie, and Samantha head off to look into the room where the Doctor was gassed. However, as the Doctor is leaving, Meadows plants a device on his back. Crossland finds Blade aboard a flight but discovers the plane is not a normal plane at all. After serving the passengers food and drinks, the stewardess seals them behind a giant vault door. I got a kick out of this bit as the animators were clearly having fun designing hip '60s inspired passengers on the plane. In fact, some of the background character designs throughout most of this serial range from inspired to questionable. Either way, it was nice to seem them at least trying, for the most part. The plane disembarks with Crossland aboard. Blade encourages Crossland to watch on a screen as the passengers vanish into thin air.

Meanwhile, the Doctor, Jamie, and Samantha go back to the hangar to try and find the command centre of the Chameleons. While searching, they discover a monitor showing a live feed from the room where Meadows was copied into fake Meadows. However, before they can go search for the room, the device on the Doctor’s back is activated, knocking him to the ground. Spencer emerges and renders them unconscious with another pen device. Upon waking up, our three heroes have discovered themselves unable to move, and in the path of a laser, very slowly creeping toward them, or at least Jamie or maybe Samantha. Either way, someone is going to die if they don’t work fast enough. This is such a cute moment in the episode as it’s like something from a bad James Bond film or Austin Powers. The villain leaves the heroes unattended while a laser slowly inches toward them. Classic.

It’s moments like these that really make me sad the episode is missing as I would have loved to see the faces Patrick Troughton pulled while struggling to move. Jamie and Samantha are able to move just enough for Jamie to use Samantha’s compact mirror to deflect the laser back at itself. Having destroyed the machine, the trio is suddenly very much not paralysed as they all stand up, good as new. Adorable. It’s a great little slice of campy goodness that is pure genre inspired fun. I’m all about it. All the while, Blade informs his director that he has an "original," in the form of Crossland for him to possess.

The Doctor and his friends find the conversion room where the airport medic, Nurse Pinto, is helping convert another Chameleon. The conversion involves attaching what looks like a Wiimote to each subjects’ forearm and transferring the biological information of the human victim to the Chameleon. After some adjusting, they’re able to talk like a human and even recall the memories of their original. In this case, it’s Jenkins, one of the immigration officers at the airport. I rather liked a small detail here that Jenkins still lived with his parents. Call me crazy, but it was a bit of character building that made you feel for a guy. Classic Doctor Who is full of those moments if you know where to look for them.

The Doctor and Jamie pretend to be a doctor and patient as to throw Pinto off their scent. But even if she believes their story, she’s still not going to allow them into the X-ray room where she performs her vile conversions. Jenkins and Spencer watch from a monitor, angry that their enemy has once again escaped his fate. But they let the Doctor leave as they have bigger plans and will let him come to them in his own time. Upon returning to the control tower, the Doctor learns that Crossland has been unheard from in quite some time.

At about this time, the crew of the control tower really begins to take shape. The secretary, a woman named Jean just kind of comes out of leftfield as MVP. First, she drops the bomb that not a single airport has reported ever receiving passengers from a Chameleon Tours flight. And then even further, allows herself to act as a decoy long enough for the Doctor to go root around in the X-ray room. Jamie goes off to find Samantha who has bought a ticket on the next Chameleon Tours flight in an attempt to take the investigation of her missing brother into her own hands. It seemed a bit weird to me that she would do this, seeing as they were already uncovering a huge chunk of the mystery at this point, but I guess the writers needed a reason to thrust Jamie into the action as he pockets Samantha’s ticket and goes in her place. That is, before stealing a rather saucy kiss from the precocious lass. Seriously, why was she never a companion? Samantha was awesome. Samantha 2020.

The Doctor finds two of the Wiimotes and completely misses the original Nurse Pinto propped up in a closet behind him. Once again, the brilliant imbecile misses the biggest clue right under his nose. Hoping to call Meadows out, the Doctor returns to the control tower again. But he’s not there. This is one of the most frustrating elements of this story- the constant back and forth between locations is enough to give you whiplash. On top of that, there is the constant cycle of capture and escape, capture and escape, capture and escape, that really bogs this story down. I wish it could have been more streamlined because as you may guess, they end up back in the X-ray room shortly after. Agh! Pick a fucking location and stick with it! Honestly, it’s writing like this that loses me the most and is why I couldn’t tell you where Ben is at this point in the story. Seriously, where is Ben? I don’t even care anymore.

Jamie gets taken onto Samantha’s flight in her stead. Only when the food and beverages are served, Jamie is off to be sick in the loo. He was referring to aeroplanes as giant metal beasties in the first episode, and now he’s flying in one. The dude may be made of sterner stuff, but even the best of us get airsick. Due to this, Jamie doesn’t disappear like the other passengers. Must be something to do with the food and drink, huh?  Having realised Jamie took her ticket, Samantha becomes irate, but the receptionist guides her to Jenkins who of course pulls a ray gun on her. Another ray gun. Another capture. Woof.

The control tower tails the Rome flight with Jamie aboard with a small fighter jet, which honestly is a little weird. Did they just happen to have this fighter jet and pilot on hand? Is this a thing airports usually have? I honestly don’t know. Either way, the sequence doesn’t make much sense other than maybe they had some stock footage of a jet they kind of thought was cool. It’s funny then that the footage should now be missing and thus needs to be recreated by a computer years later. What was probably ten minutes of film splicing back in the '60s is now hours of rendering. These CGI plane shots are honestly one of the few times where the animation is more impressive than live action. So kudos to the animation department as those shots are genuinely cool.

Despite their cool rendering, the fighter jet is no match for Blade’s lasers as it is quickly shot out of the sky. It is just around this point that the Chameleon flight must have also crashed as it too disappeared off the radar. However, the Doctor believes that as opposed to going down, the plane actually went up- into space.  Of course, the Commandant gives this theory zero credence. But the Doctor is absolutely correct as we see the plane’s wings fold back like a rocket ship and thrust higher and higher into the sky until it approaches a large black satellite orbiting Earth. This is once again one of those moments where I am cursing the lack of footage as I would relish the ability to see the models built for this sequence. I will say however, this is, once again, a crowning moment for the animation department.

Now aboard the satellite and unaffected by the plane’s vanishing trick, Jamie discovers drawers full of what appear to be small people lying unconscious. At this point, the plot still hasn’t really come fully together, so seeing tiny people in drawers is just mind-boggling. You think you have some idea as to how or why these bodysnatchers are doing what they’re doing and the story throws us this brain bender. Hats off to the writers because I challenge anyone to say they saw this bit coming ahead of time. As it turns out the passengers didn’t vanish, so much as they were shrunk down into tiny people. The reason why? Because the satellite wasn’t big enough. Which actually makes a lot of sense in some ways. Terry Pratchett once wrote that a gnome character of his was the richest man in Ankh-Morpork, by ratio. If his resources stretch further, then a dollar buys him more than it would a full-sized man. Brilliant.

After discovering the jet pilot was electrocuted (by lasers somehow), the Commandant is beginning to soften to the idea that the Doctor is onto something with his spacemen theory. After confronting Meadows with the Wiimotes, our MVP Jean stops his ass with a rolling chair. Seriously, I love Jean. Jean 2020. At this point, Meadows just kind of becomes their bitch and totally spills the beans about their plans. How their planet faced a catastrophe and how they needed new bodies, new faces. He even gives up the satellite position and the fact that they have some 50,000 young people on board, ready for conversion. He even leads them to where the real Nurse Pinto is being held. I think if they’d have broken out the thumbscrews he would have copped to kidnapping the Lindbergh baby. What a chump.

Around this time in the story, the animation begins to take a serious nosedive. Nurse Pinto kills a policeman with a ray gun, and I swear to God that the policeman has a partner that looks exactly like him. Now, I know this is a story about body doubles, but reusing the same character design on two separate human characters in the same scene is just lazy. I thought at first that perhaps the actors in the original version were twins. But then, later on, you see two of the same faced cops in a scene together again! So it’s not just twins, it’s triplets, evidently. And they all grew up to be coppers on the same beat. Sorry animators, but you’re nicked!

Shortly after, the link between Nurse Pinto and her original is broken and fake Nurse Pinto turns into a pile of clothing and some sort of amniotic fluid. Her water just broke in the worst way possible. I’ve said it before, but part of me wishes they would improve upon some of the foley in moments like these. Mark Ayres does a great job mixing and remastering what was already there, but would some sound effects be completely out of line? Some squidgy squashy mess would have gone a long way to sell this moment. I figure a seasoned Doctor Who pro like Ayres would really be able to deliver such a thing. Also, if you ever get curious to know what Mark Ayres looks like, I’ll save you a google search and just say- he looks exactly how you picture a guy named Mark Ayres to look. Just a little fun fact there.

The real Nurse Pinto and the Doctor decide to pretend to be chameleons at this point so they can infiltrate the satellite. However, Spencer’s not having it as he’s onto them, but he allows it because he has plans to take turn the Doctor into an original for yet another Chameleon. Upon arriving on the satellite, the Doctor discovers Jamie has been turned into a Chameleon as well, which is rather funny as the Doctor laments the loss of Jamie’s charming Scottish accent. Those two, I swear. It’s as Frank Rossitano from 30 Rock once said "I’m not gay gay. I’m just gay for Jamie." Before they can turn the Doctor into one of their ilk, the Doctor destroys their machine buying the Commandant down on the ground some time to find the originals the Chameleons were linked to.

All the while, the Doctor is sowing seeds of doubt among the Chameleons that their director, in the form of Crossland, only cares for himself. That he wouldn’t care if he endangered them into becoming puddles themselves. He drives the point home by bluffing that they have found the locations of the originals. It’s a gambit that actually seems to work as Spencer and his men begin to question their director. The Commandant, on the ground level, is still plugging away, trying to save the day from his end. I kind of love the Commandant for following through with the Doctor’s bluff, and with such gusto. As I said, he really comes into his own by the end of the story. It’s kind of a shame that the guy never got a name. In the same vein as Counter Measures, I could see him, Jean, and maybe even Crossland in their own spin off adventures. They’re really a great group of one-off characters. Nurse Pinto and Samantha can come too.

It’s rather weird to me that the Chameleons opted to hide the originals as opposed to just taking them with them in the first place. After Samantha and Jean discover 25 cars registered to Chameleon Tours, they set off to search the car park. We find out that the catatonic originals have been stowed away in the cars to slowly die while the conversions complete. This may seem like a really dumb place to stash a body, but it’s not exactly unheard of. The airport of the city I’m from actually missed a truck containing the body of a man for eight months. Either way, it’s an odd little plot hole that exists mainly to give the Doctor something to hold onto and create dissent within the ranks. There is literally no reason not to take the bodies until the process is done. But ok.

Seemingly out of nowhere, the great stool pigeon that is Meadows, grows a pair and escapes from his guards. This is where the animation gets really ropey. I don’t know if it’s because the black and white versions are a 4:3 aspect ratio as compared to the 16:9 ratio of the colour versions, but as Meadows wrestles free, his body proportions are comically incorrect. His arms look about several inches too short, and they are positioned in such a way that the shoulders are set far too high. My guess is that the animators originally made this scene for the widescreen ratio, and merely squashed the image, thus shortening the arms for the black and white version. As opposed to, you know, bending the elbows. He tries to subdue Samantha but eats pavement. Slow clap for Meadows. Meadows 2016.

To prove they aren’t bluffing, the Commandant removes the link on Jenkins arm which turns him into a puddle aboard the satellite. This sends the Chameleons into a frenzy and they shoot their director, killing fake Jamie in the process. The Doctor negotiates with the remaining Chameleons to return all of the missing people and even agrees to help them find a cure for the catastrophe that set them on this path in the first place. After finding Crossland stuffed in a locker like a high schooler, he and Jamie go back home.

Down on the ground level, Jamie parts ways with Samantha, which is really kind of sad considering what a great character she turned out to be. What's even worse is that with Ben and Polly up and deciding to stay in 1966 London for basically the most boring of reasons, there was definitely a vacant spot for her to fill in the TARDIS. I would have really liked to see her as I instantly identified with her plight to find her brother. My family has experienced the disappearance of a loved one, and I know exactly how that feels to not know whether someone you love is alive or dead. They absolutely nailed that part of her character, and it was great to see it portrayed accurately. She could have been great. Instead, she stays behind and Jamie continues onward with the Doctor. However, the episode ends on a note of mystery- the TARDIS appears to be missing! Hopefully one day I’ll be able to follow up on that mystery with yet another animation to review, but until then, you’ll just have to wait! That is unless you already know.

All in all, the Faceless Ones is a pretty cool story with some rather lousy execution. There are quite a lot of moments that work to its benefit, but it’s marred by it’s bloated runtime. This story could have easily been told in four parts, and I feel as though it was a perfect candidate to be edited down into a single movie à la "Planet of Fire," or "Terror of the Vervoids." The strongest elements are the characters. And another bit of praise is that it was a slight departure from the base in peril episodes that dominated the Second Doctor Era. I do rather like Brian Hodgson’s score as it was genuinely creepy at parts. It evokes memories in me of the Woodsmen in Twin Peaks dancing to the impossibly slowed sounds of Beethoven’s "Moonlight Sonata."  

Regardless of any ropey bits of animation, I absolutely admire the work and craft of the animators involved. The character likenesses were an improvement upon "The Macra Terror," (especially Polly). There are points where you know the production team had to invent shots from thin air to fill the gaps that existing tele-snaps and sound simply weren’t illustrating. There’s a lot of creativity involved that evokes a lot of the same spirit of the original series. There’s also those really fun opportunities to retroactively tie the old series to the new. Such as the Dhawan Master, or yet another Magpie Electricals reference. Although they are far from my favourite companions, it’s also nice to finally see Ben and Polly’s send off in proper motion. As always, it’s the next best thing to the original.

[dialux]

dawn is coming, open your eyes

Inspired by this picset, from ages and ages ago.

But where, exactly, this story comes from is very strange. It’s... a very long and very winding story into a Percy Weasley after the war, figuring out his demons and fighting past them and learning to be happy in his own skin, which... might or might not hold some personal demons.

Warnings for familial issues! Death also features prominently because it’s immediately post-war! And politics, as per the usual, because this is My BrandTM. Hope y’all enjoy!

...

there is a kind of love so filled with rage that i can’t even look at your face even as it exists in my mind.

...

“Hello Percy,” says Luna.

Your eyes are red. Your cheeks are raw from scrubbing hard enough to scrape away the top layer of skin. Your hands shake, when you think too much; they don’t shake at all when you forget, and somehow that’s worse.

Fred is gone.

It’s not your first thought in the morning when you get up, and that feels like a terrible kind of sacrilege.

“Hello Luna,” you say, and sit down besides her.

...

It isn’t-

It isn’t like that.

But you’re mourning, and you’re learning that you aren’t a quiet mourner. Things tend to explode if you stay still long enough to remember that Fred is- not here. As if he’s passed his love for explosions onto you with his last breath.

Nobody seems to understand, though. Everyone walks around you on eggshells, until you take your wand and a cloak and walk out of the Burrow one morning, skin itching something fierce. You walk and walk, feet blistering in your boots, hands sweating on your wand, eyes streaming with something other than tears.

“Hello Percy,” Luna says, slipping beside you as if nothing were amiss. “How are you today?”

You’d always ignored Luna, more than anything else. It felt kinder than to shout at her for her strangeness.

“Fine,” you grunt. “I’m just- fine.”

“Good,” Luna says, and lifts her wand, reaching out to you. “Because I have a job for you.”

You twist through a tiny, airless tube for endless moments, and finally land on a cold, dreary island before you can say anything more. It takes you a beat to realize, and then you do: it’s Azkaban. Horror clutches at your heart.

“You sent people here,” Luna says, softly, when it’s clear you’re unable to speak. “You-”

“I know what I did.”

“Then you’ll fight back.” She looks harder, brighter, than any Luna that you’ve ever known. You remember, suddenly- she’s lost a father where you’ve lost your brother, but Luna has no other family to hold her, or grieve beside her. “There are cells the Death Eaters sealed, here. Someone has to unseal them.”

“Sealed-” You break off. It’s been weeks since the end of the war; if they sealed them off to only outside influence the people inside might have had a week, at most, what with the lack of water and food. If the Death Eaters also sealed off the air, as most wards tend to do...

“The people inside must be-”

Luna nods. “Dead.”

Then why? You want to ask, before she smiles, sad and small.

“They deserve burials,” she tells you. “Burials in better places than this.” Luna swallows, and there’s a brief glimpse of a girl with sunlight hair in that motion; a girl whom you hadn’t ever loved, a girl you miss, suddenly, with a fierceness that surprises even you. “Flowers and tombstones and grass. Warmth. Wands.”

Oh. Oh, if their wands were taken- they must be-

“Muggleborns,” you whisper.

“Dead,” she repeats. “And you helped send them there.”

Ginny would have flung accusations at you, eyes shining like a hundred swords. Ron would have glared until you gave in, and then acted sanctimonious for all of a few minutes before forgiving you. Fred- he’d have probably painted your face with some week-old blood, trying to make his point and horrify you as always.

Luna doesn’t say anything more, but the undercurrent is clear to you: you can go back home, you can wallow in self-loathing and misery and continue to blow things up whenever someone startles you. Or you can try to fix what you’ve done. You can be of use, and it looks like no one else wants to do this job so it’s not like you’ll have to talk to many people.

You’re a Gryffindor at heart anyway.

“Let’s go,” you say, through gritted teeth.

...

That’s how it starts.

Luna asks, and you accept, and it hurts like you’ve got a splinter the size of a fist digging into your chest; but it feels good, too, in it’s own way.

There are a hundred people in Azkaban whose cells were warded properly when the Death Eaters fled. It was a mix of panic- the Battle of Hogwarts happened so quickly- and idiocy and bureaucratic mix-ups, but of the almost six hundred muggleborns that were locked up in Azkaban over the course of the year, more than five hundred escaped. Those who didn’t were the old, the weak, the quiet; from what you’ve been able to deduce, some people even sacrificed themselves to keep holes in the wards open long enough for others to flee.

It’s not like you’re the best warder Luna could have gotten. Hell, Bill’s better than you by a long shot; this is his actual job- but your mother’s always depended most on Bill and she actually needs him, now, what with- Fred. Charlie’d flunked Ancient Runes in his third year and taken up Divination instead; George might be better than you, now, but he’s too... something.

Broken, you think, and the thought burns inside of you, enough that you hiss out, flick your wand at an innocent bit of stone and watch it explode. Like a clock.

A hand settles on your forearm. “The nimbopaths tend to be stronger here,” she says. “Maybe we should drink some tea?”

“Just- thoughts,” you say, quietly. Nevermind that neither of you have brought tea with you; what’s important is that her hand feels very warm, and there’s something scarily like guilt rising up your throat. “I’ll finish this ward myself, don’t worry. There’s another one in the left hallway, if you want to map it out.”

Luna leaves. You knead your forehead and get back to work, carving runes with both wand and knife, carefully cracking the barrier until you can get to the gaunt corpse behind it.

You don’t scream when you see the bodies.

(You haven’t screamed since you saw Fred die.)

...

Nobody asks where you go, which surprises you more than you’d think. But they just accept that you disappear- even George, who’s been spending the most time with you. It’s regular, at least, insofar as that you leave at dawn and return only past midnight. The only people who see you are Harry and Ron and Hermione, and the three of them are strange enough that they don’t seem to find anything out of the ordinary in your wrinkled clothes or shabby appearance.

Finally, a week- or two, or three- later, Charlie sits you down.

“You need to rest,” he says, quietly. “You’re running yourself into the ground. Kingsley wouldn’t want that.”

I don’t give a damn about Kingsley, is on the tip of your tongue. I’ll run myself into the ground if I want to, is marching right behind it. I deserve this, is what echoes behind it all.

“There’s things I have to do,” you say instead.

Luna’s found a spell that keeps the bodies from decomposing. There’s a long line of them, now, arranged in one of the better-aired corridors of Azkaban; corpses in stasis that you both need to find graves for, names for, wands for. One of them had hair the color of a sunrise, streaked with a dye that sits next to your shaving cream in the store in Diagon Alley. You’d almost broken down three days ago, when you saw that purple box.

When you left that store, there was a box with Wott’s Ever-Changing Dye, Spec. Ed: SUNRISE! emblazoned on it, hidden with your daily supplies.

Maybe in a few months you’ll stop dreaming about your sins.

“I never even see you,” Charlie says. “You’re gone before I wake up, you come back after I fall asleep, you’re looking like a ghost. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, Perce, but you’d best stop before you break down. Mum can’t handle you going off your rocker, alright?”

You jerk away. “I’m sorry,” you say, precisely, each word crisp as the apples that grow in fresh spring, new and green and tart enough to draw tears to the eye, “that I am inconveniencing you.”

“Shit,” you hear him mutter, before Charlie launches himself forwards; but it’s too late.

You cross the kitchen’s threshold, and there- sitting, like a fucking mosaic of pieces that, through your tears, looks almost like Fred- is George. George and your mother and your father and the rest of your family, but Fred isn’t there, he isn’t there, he’ll never be there to tease you or frighten you or love you, not anymore.

“I’m fine,” you say, and it’s not a lie, though you can see that nobody believes you. “I’m fine,” you repeat, and Charlie’s behind you and he puts his hand on your shoulder and it’s not fine, but you’re fine, you’re fine and it’s the world that’s not fine at all.

Fred’s gone, and you’ve got a list of sins that you’ll spend the rest of your life scrubbing.

I’m not even twenty-five, you think, and I’ll never do anything great.

“I am,” you say, and this time it is defiant, as foolishly defiant as ever Fred had been, “fine.”

A shrug of your shoulders, and before Charlie can catch you, before anyone can believe that you’re going to do this again, the son who had loved rules more than he’d ever loved family- you’re gone.

...

The cliffside is cold, and you don’t have a cloak or the will to perform a warming charm.

You don’t cry, but when it rains, you don’t wipe your face either.

Your eyes are red.

...

“You haven’t told them?” Luna asks you the next day, when you show up in sodden clothes and hair as tangled as Potter’s on a bad day.

“Three more cells,” you reply. “We’re almost done.”

You reach for the doorknob, but it clicks shut with a finality that makes you whirl back to Luna. She looks back at you with a look in her eyes that makes you want to wince, her wand held high and stiff between you two. It feels like someone’s made you swallow ice.

“And after that we need to find names, and ground to bury them, and wands.” Her lips, already thin, depress further. “This will not end, Percy. Every day there will be something more, and you have to-”

“You don’t get to tell me what I have to do,” you whisper.

It’s nothing but the truth. Luna brought you here, but it’s your decision to actually do something instead of mourn. Your guilt is your own; no one, not Charlie, not George, not Luna- not a single person in the world gets to tell you that this guilt is lessened by coming here. They don’t get to do this to you. And if you want to spend the rest of your life righting the wrongs of a war that you were on the wrong side of, then there is nothing that will stop you.

“You need to tell them what’s happening,” Luna says, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder. “They’re going to worry. Percy- Fred wouldn’t want you to do this.”

You step away, and slash your wand down, once, twice, thrice. The door falls into pieces, stripped wood, and you step out into the corridor. The wind catches at your cloak and hair, still soaked through. You don’t shiver.

“I signed forty-three documents,” you say softly, watching her, waiting for the inevitable horror, revulsion, hatred. “Did you know that? I signed away forty-three people’s lives. Fred’s the least of my sins.” A breath, and wood crunches under your feet as if they were bones, dried and dead. “You can tell my parents that, if you want to.” The ice in your throat spreads to your arms, to your fingers, to your heart. “But I’m going to break Azkaban’s wards today, and tomorrow I’ll find a burial ground for the dead, and the day after that I’ll find out how to make wands, and you can help me bury these people if you want to but I’m not going to stop, do you hear me?”

...

You’ve always been good with charms. Penelope’s always been good with potions.

The summer of ‘96, you have a long, explosive fight with her. You hadn’t been living together, not exactly; you’re both too independent for that. But you have an extra towel and toothbrush in your bathroom and the particular brand of rough-grain bread that Penelope likes in your kitchen, and it’s the closest you’ve come to sharing your life with anyone else.

She’s afraid.

You’re not just a Gryffindor, she says, blue eyes shining, face earnest, please, come with me- there’s other places you can succeed. It doesn’t have to be here, you-

I’m not going anywhere, you say, and you’re terrified, of course you are, you’re angry and grieving and alone and-

And you have done a lot wrong, in your life, but you haven’t run. At least in some small, aching way, you belong to Gryffindor for reasons other than your blood.

Penelope doesn’t say goodbye.

You find a thin vial resting on your bed that night- black and glittering, like the night sky ground into a liquid. You recognize it, of course. By all rights, you should turn it into the Ministry. By all rights, you should put her name on a list of criminals, for brewing one of the most dangerous potions in the world.

You pocket the vial instead.

...

(Your best subject had been charms.

But you’re even better at paperwork. It’s why Crouch takes you on- they mock you, your brothers, your family, but he took you on and he kept you on because you were good at what you did.

Forty-three people suffer for that.)

...

Azkaban surrenders the last of its sealed cells quietly, and you levitate the last body to the corridor where the rest have been lying for the past fortnight. Luna is there- her hair looks like moonlight-purified water, colorless and pure in the dull darkness.

She has a new wand, one that Ollivander made for her after the Malfoys took hers. It’s too temperamental for your taste; it reacts more to Luna’s emotions than to her words, and the results can be unpredictable. The day after you both uncovered one of the younger victims, it had only released saltwater for the full day, no matter what else Luna tried.

But it also matches Luna’s personality. Like right now: there’s a glittering charm bracelet that she’s woven out of light and some old metal scraps lying on the floor, and it shines around almost twenty people’s wrists and throats, pale blue or sparking purple or glowing yellow, like a strange string of faery lights.

"The stasis spell goes from darkness to darkness,” she says, folding one boy’s fingers open slowly, massaging the cold flesh.

You bite back the first words you think of, the acid bite of your previous meeting still concentrated. “What does that mean?”

“You have another three weeks,” replies Luna, softly. “Then the graves will rise up and swallow them once more.”

The stasis spell will fall, you realize. That’s what she’s trying to say. The spell will last from new moon to new moon, and it will fall soon and the bodies will rot, and that means-

“Graves,” you say. “Wands. We’ll need-”

“No,” says Luna. “Not us.”

You.

It had slipped your mind, but- yes, now you remember, Luna and Ron and Ginny and Ron’s friends- they’re all heading back to Hogwarts. Another week and they’re going to leave, and you’re going to have to do this alone.

Alone.

You know how that feels. You have it scored straight into your bones.

“I’ll handle it,” you say.

...

The Ministry is silent when you enter it.

It’s too early in the morning; fog still lines London’s streets, and the streetlights are still lighting up the city. The tips of your robes are damp. Your footsteps echo on the marble stone.

(The last time you were here, you killed sixteen men.

Yaxley had asked for tea, and you’d felt some shift in the air- you’d nodded docilely, you’d made the tea with careful, even hands, and then, when they were ignoring you, while they were casually discussing some crime on humanity, you’d poured Penny’s black, shining poison straight into the dark liquid.

You’d waited patiently, calmly, as they dropped.

Thirteen men like that- and then you left, quietly, and sealed the door shut. Three more men had chased you, up and down the hallways, and you’d killed two with quick wandwork but the last- the last you’d captured and carved, slowly, with your careful, even wandwork, and you hadn’t stopped until he sputtered out the truth of Hogwarts’ siege.

Nobody knows, of course. You couldn’t stand it if they did. But when you apparated to Hogwarts, it was with the blood of sixteen men on your hands.)

Kingsley’s in his office. It’s not the room where you tortured a man, not even on the same floor, but your hands tremble all the same.

“Minister,” you say, as you enter.

Kingsley looks- drawn. His bones are sharp under his skin, but he burns brighter than you remember from before, as if the pared flesh has revealed some of the fierceness beneath. When he waves you to a seat, it’s a sort of kindness.

“Percy,” he says. “I wondered when I’d see you in here.”

“Ah. I’m...” you think, for a dizzy moment, that you’ll just accept, that you’ll take the opening Kingsley offered and slide back into your old position as if nothing has changed. The nausea that rises with the dizziness clears your head, firms your voice. “I’m afraid I’m not here for the reason you think.”

“Oh?”

You swallow. “Do you know about Azkaban?”

“I read a report on it a few days ago, yes,” says Kingsley, spreading his hand on one of the stacks of papers currently crowding his desk.

I could file that, you think, abruptly seized by a desire for it. I could sort out this mess. I’d be good at it. I could-

You could. You’d reshape the nation. And you’d be scrupulously fair, viciously, steadily, fair. You’d know it, because you’d have all of it in the palm of your hand, you’d be the one doing it.

But there are other ways of doing good.

You know that now.

“Someone from Hogwarts is working on clearing it,” says Kingsley. “It’s going well, according to- ah, yes, I think it was Xeno’s daughter- a good girl, with her head in the air, perhaps, but- she’s smart, and got through a stint in Azkaban herself without breaking. Is there a problem with it?”

“No, no problem,” you reply. “But I’ve been working with her on clearing it.”

The world doesn’t stop turning when you say it out loud.

So you continue.

“We’ve recovered forty bodies. Muggleborn bodies. We’ll need place to bury them, before the stasis spell we’ve put on them starts to breakdown.”

Kingsley pauses. “Ah. I’d wondered- I thought you’d be here the day I entered, you know? But then I remembered your brother. When was his funeral?”

“Months ago,” you say, through clenched teeth, desperately trying to keep yourself from twitching. “A month after the Hogwarts- battle.”

“You’ve been excavating Azkaban all along, Percy?”

The kindness drags along your nerves. You don’t want kindness. You want professionalism, and crisp agreements, and not this- this stupid hurting rage.

“Not for very long,” you say, though, because Kingsley’s being kind while still remaining within the bounds of professionalism. “It’s going faster than I’d expected. But the stasis spell works only from new moon to new moon.”

“Did you have any particular rituals in mind?”

“I had some ideas.” You swallow. “There’s- I think, sunlight. That’s something they deserve.”

“Not something we have a lot of here,” says Kingsley mildly.

“There’s charms for that,” you reply. “And I thought- think- there’s an island. Off of Azkaban. It comes near enough to the anti-muggle wards that we won’t need to do anything complex. It’s abandoned, and...”

Perfect, you think, but don’t say. Nothing’s perfect, is what you’ve learned. It’s all just piece-meal attempts at cobbling together a vision that might, if one squints, look vaguely acceptable. But you’ve visited the island and it’s small and rough and scarred and still: perfect.

“I’ll see what I can do,” says Kingsley.

You force yourself to nod back to him.

“Percy,” he says, when you’ve gathered your coat and almost managed to leave, “your office remains empty. I look forward to seeing it filled soon.”

You freeze. You force air into your lungs. You say, without turning, “I’ll offer you a list of meritorious candidates when I get some time, Minister.”

“I need help,” says Kingsley, and his hand closes on your shoulder. You shudder. “You’re one of the few people from the old Ministry who hasn’t been arrested, you know, and we need the experience.” He pauses. “And you look like you could use the work.”

“I’m fine,” you say automatically. Then, slower, “And I cannot help you, Minister. I would be far greater a burden than an aid.”

“Percy-”

You shy away from the contact. Pull your robes around you. Nod, grimly, politely, and grind out, laboriously: “I thank you for the opportunity, Minister. But I... there are some things that cannot be- undone. Sometimes, people- people cannot be trusted. Not after they’ve- not after what they’ve done.”

“I know where your loyalty lies, son,” says Kingsley, but he doesn’t try to touch your shoulder once more. “We know where you fought when it mattered.”

Your lips twist in a facsimile of a smile. “All of you keep saying that,” you say, in a voice too low for addressing the Minister, but you don’t care. You don’t care. You are not off the rails completely, but you can taste that wildness and it is heady as much as it is frightening. “As if this war’s lasted for all of one battle. There has been a war in our country for three years, Minister Shacklebolt, and there has been a battle waged in every wizarding home within our borders. I know where I stood for too long- and I know that there are things that cannot be forgiven, no matter what else is done after the fact.”

Kingsley looks- old. His face is set in taut, narrow lines, and his eyes shine in the morning light, almost-gold. “I know this war, Percy.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” you say recklessly, before drawing yourself up. Breathing in. This, at least, you can offer. Advice, if not the work of your hands. “Children died, Minister. Muggleborns. Halfbloods. Purebloods. We all bled for a madman, and the answer that our government has for us is to sit tight. Is it any wonder people sit in their homes and ask when the next Dark Lord will rise?”

“Voldemort is gone.”

“Albus Dumbledore kept secrets,” you say. “And now, so does Harry Potter. History is set to repeat itself, Minister- and it is set to become as we once were, led by Lords and Ladies. Where do we, the common man, lie then? The chattel between lords at best. The victims, at worst. What we lost when we elected to turn our heads and bite our tongues and let a one year old boy become our savior...”

You trail off. Your hands are shaking, now, and your head is aching. There’s a small crowd surrounding the Minister, just a little ways off, but you can see the flash of a pink string quickly moving out of sight. Extendable Ears.

So now your political stance is solidified.

Nausea builds in your gut. You look at Kingsley, and regret swims before you. That he was caught even listening to your near-treasonous words might spell the end to his brief tenure as Minister. It’s quite a shame- you rather like him, even if he’s too willing to return to the status quo.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, and turn, and flee as quick as you can without actually running.

...

After, you get drunk. Roaringly drunk. As you’ve never done before in your life.

Impotent anger and bitter hatred and caustic self-loathing. It all melts underneath the touch of the- whatever- that the bartender gives you. At least you’d had the knowledge to go into muggle London, where there’s nobody who’ll report you to your mother; otherwise you’d be waking tomorrow to a howler from your mother and a quick, apologetic Hangover Relief from your father.

Only that’s how it might have been, once, for Charlie and Bill.

Now. You doubt your mother would even notice your absence. Even if she did, why would she care about one son drinking away his night when another’s buried six feet under the earth? So. No howler from your mother. No potion from your father either, though, and that’s a shame. Thank Merlin you probably have one stored away in your potions cupboard, just in case.

“One more,” you say to the bartender.

He shakes his head. Anger flashes through you, so hot it hurts. It reminds you of when you were a kid- your accidental magic had only ever come out when you wanted the twins to be silent. Once, you’d managed to silence the entire Burrow for a glorious three hours.

Fred and George had gotten you back for that, with interest; but you hadn’t cared.

“C’mon,” you say, levering yourself up those last few feet. “C’mon, you know I’m good for it, I need-”

The bartender shakes his head one last time, final, and the fragile bridge holding you to- sanity, or normalcy, or maybe just that land of reason that you’ve clutched onto your whole life- shatters. You lunge forwards and drag the bartender closer to you, and something is glowing at your feet so when you look down you realize that it’s not something but it’s you, and that glowing thing is coming from your fingers which are dripping fire.

Then there’s hands around your shoulders, dragging you away from the bartender. Hands that remain firm and tight all the way until you push through the door, and you’re stumbling, you’re choking on all the air you need but aren’t getting.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you hear from what must be the man who’s holding you, “can’t say I’ve ever seen-”

His voice wavers in and out, like a bad connection on the Floo. You vaguely register that it’s familiar; you don’t pay much attention to anything other than the blessedly cold air in your lungs and the rough stone beneath your shins. You feel sick.

“Weasley,” you hear, and it makes your chest want to shrivel up. “Weasley, hey, the fuck’s your name- it was- Percy, yeah, Percy, you hearing me? Up, Merlin, get up, would you? Obliviators’re on the way. Best if we aren’t caught here- Percy, hey- Percy!”

The world goes dark, and you don’t even regret it.

...

You do regret it when you come to the next morning.

Sunlight’s spearing through the butter-yellow curtains straight into your eyes. You make a mush-mouthed sound and flap your hand at it ineffectually. But trying to turn over hurts your head even more; you just flop backwards in the end, and close your eyes.

“Weasley?” you hear from a distant corner.

“Hnngh,” you say.

“Weasley,” sighs the man, entering your line of sight. It’s a man you vaguely remember- you’ve seen him around, though you think he was a Ravenclaw back in Hogwarts. A prefect, you’re fairly certain, below you. His hair’s damp and he’s wearing a loose tracksuit and he looks... unfairly put together for the misery you’re currently feeling. “D’you remember what happened last night?”

“Mmph.” Painfully, you swallow. Then, still aching, you lever yourself upright. Like hell’re you going to speak to a Hogwarts prefect lying down like an invalid. “Kind of. Fire?”

“You were dripping it,” agrees Prefect. “It was a miracle you didn’t burn the pub down.”

You wince. “I. It. I thought.” Then you pause, take in the entirety of your situation- you’ve just crashed on a stranger’s couch because you were too drunk the previous night after spending a full day getting wasted in a muggle pub and trying to burn it down, all because you chewed out the Minister for something that isn’t even his fault. There’s really only one thing you can say. “I was stupid.”

Monumentally stupid.

Unfathomably stupid.

“Mm,” agrees Prefect. He walks away, then comes back with two things: a copy of the paper, and a fizzing blue mug. “Drink that first. And- you are Percy, right? Percy Weasley?”

“Yes,” you agree slowly.

“You’ll want to read that paper, then.” Prefect’s eyes are sharp on your face. “You don’t remember me?”

“Prefect, right? Ravenclaw?” You shrug. “Don’t remember your name.”

“Roger Davies.” Davies nods to the paper. “Read it. And- Weasley?”

“Yeah?”

“Not all of us liked your brothers,” he says evenly. “Not all of us made the right decisions. A lot of us were- not brave. But we survived.” He pauses, and there’s something in his eyes that makes you want to swallow- something bright, and fragile, and perhaps brighter for its fragility. “A leader should know that.”

“‘m no leader,” you say, sighing as you sip the hangover relief. It blazes down the back of your throat. A good hurt, though, so you barely even grimace.

Then you look up, and Davies is frowning at you.

“Shame, that,” is all he says. “Think you’d do a good job at it. Always did.”

“Thanks for the relief,” you tell him, before you rise to your feet.

You shake his hand as firmly as you can manage. Stumble to the fireplace, mumble your address and manage three steps into your home before you collapse from the dizziness. When you open your eyes again, the paper’s crumpled tight in your fists. You let go. Smooth it out.

Your breath is snatched right out of your lungs.

“Fuck,” you whisper. You don’t like to swear, but there isn’t any other way to treat this. “Fucking fuck. Oh my fucking god!”

Hungover or not, you have to go home. You have to make sure your parents know-

Know what?

That you’re not a traitor? That you’re not the radical revolutionary the paper paints you as? That with a two minute speech to the Minister, you’re suddenly not the poster child for change from the top to the dregs of society?

Percy Weasley: Radical or Traditional?

You steel yourself. Get in the shower. Shave. Pick out some crisply folded robes. Comb your hair back. By the end of it, you’ve made your decision. Then you stand in front of your fireplace for a good five minutes, dithering, before you call out, “Roger Davies’ home!”

You don’t walk back into his home, just call and allow him the ability to pick up or decline. He does, after a pause so long your knees start to ache.

“Yeah?” he asks, wandering into view. “Forget something, Weasley?”

“My manners,” you say wryly.

“You said thanks already.”

“I know.” You swallow. You can still back out. But if you say the words, if you give them a voice... you can’t take them back. You can never take them back. “But I told you that I’m no leader. I’m not, you know, not a general. Not a Lord. I’m the normal one.”

“Yeah, I got that,” says Davies.

You tilt your head at him. “I don’t know if I’m the best for this. But... I think I can help you.”

...

You don’t return to the Ministry. But nobody stops you when you start clearing shrubbery to make a proper burial service, so you don’t stop either. You’ve told the Minister your plans, anyhow, and if someone has the temerity enough to attempt to stop you you’ve got his name ready to drop with a flatly insincere smile.

Luna comes to your flat two days later, Ollivander twitchy but at her side. She doesn’t mention the Prophet article, which you’re grateful enough for that you forgive her interference with your family.

(It’s not like you don’t understand, you soothe yourself. Everybody wants a happy ending, all the hurts smoothed away. And for Luna, who’s an only child, who has been such a source of strength to her father- it must seem even stranger, even crueler, for you not to desire with all your body and mind to return to them. Have the Weasleys not suffered enough? Why are you so fucking incapable of kindness?

But war has pared something away in you- worn down those pieces that wanted things with hard desperation, cut away those parts that made you want love or approval or appreciation.

What is left of you now?)

Ollivander hems and haws and looks increasingly insulted at your desire to bury wands with the Azkaban muggleborns; it’s very rare to lose wands like that, and usually done only for people who have nobody else in the world. No family, no friends. Nobody who’ll take or remember these people.

You don’t care.

These people had wands, but they were yanked out of their fists. There’s no way to track that down, now, and the injustice of it bubbles in your chest every time you feel exhaustion dog at your heels.

“The- the waste- it’s unconscionable- how can I-”

“Waste?” you ask mildly.

Luna leans back, starlight-hair glittering. She doesn’t look away from you, eyes level and warm. You straighten your spine and dig out the boy who’d bargained with pureblood supremacists, words cajoling; gaze unflinching.

“Their old wands will sit in some old pureblood vault for decades,” you tell Ollivander. “We cannot retrieve them; those records have been destroyed, or perhaps never maintained in the first place. If ever they see light of day, they will be in the hands of the very people who took them away.” You lean forwards, and take no joy in the subtle flinch of Ollivander’s shoulders. “We are burying wizards and witches, Mr. Ollivander, and they shall be marked as such. They will be given that dignity.”

His pale, silver eyes say everything he’s too polite to say.

Traitor, radical, fool.

Too angry to be any use. Too stupid to be quiet. Too cruel to be part of the Light.

Well, that’s fine. What use have labels been to you anyways?

Why do you care so much? sneers Ollivander, silent, wordless.

And you do not answer: Because I could have blown up the Ministry if I was pushed, and I don’t know why I didn’t push myself. Because I let the war pass me by and my family is made up of people who cannot forget that, even if they will forgive me. Because I am here, and I can, and so I will.

“I cannot make wands for people I do not know,” says Ollivander finally.

“I have their profiles arranged,” you reply, hand resting heavily on a stack of parchment. “Take your best guess.”

“I have not made wands in- months. The process- I cannot- the speed will be too low to-”

“Then I will help you,” you say lowly, and watch the flash of irritable defiance in Ollivander’s face flare and fade out. “Forty wands. We’ll get this done before the month is out.”

It’s going to be a challenge, of course, but you have never shrunk from honest, hard work before, and you won’t start now. Youngest aide to an official in the history of Britain; sharpest Weasley in a family that you had to claw distinction out of; the face of a burgeoning radicalist movement through the nation. You’ve done it all before, and you’ve done it well, and you’ll do this too, properly.

Beautifully.

[tantosratibus]

I've never posted anything here before, but my friend and I have been working on a Halloween AU for a while, and we just published the prologue to Wattpad. To possibly get more attention, I thought, "hey, Tumblr has a bunch of weirdos who might like this, so why don't I post it here too?" So here we are... if anyone is remotely interested, read ahead, and if you like it leave feedback, we would appreciate it a lot!

Hallow Links

The Unknown (Prologue)

I did it. The blood dripped off my hands, and I took the knife out of the old man's back. His last words left his now bloody corpse. "Y-you will d-die by t-the h-hands of-insanity," The words that left his mouth filled with certainty. He fell on the ground, now bleeding on the floor, staining the once pristine carpet under him. Normal people would usually panic at the sight of death and blood, but I don't care anymore. The only thing that I want is in the library, and this is just one of the sacrifices I must make. I dragged the corpse to the room I needed.

The only notable things in the room are the forgotten book untouched by time itself, and the jar filled with something that doesn't exist. I don't remember how it got this bad. It was my first time reading these books in this library, and before I knew it I had killed someone for a book with words no one knows how to read, and would destroy the minds of people who read it.

Except for the person whose mind has already been broken. The words don't make sense, but somehow I understand. Phrases and symbols that don't belong in any human sentence. I opened the jar, and in a flash, its contents covered the floor. Morphing, and changing before settling onto the floor shaping itself into a circle.

I lift the book from the floor and start skimming as fast as I can. Faster, and faster yet somehow not fast enough, never fast enough. After seemingly ages of frenzied reading, I find the page I need. I drag the bloody corpse closer, until it rests in the circle. The substance surrounding it absorbs the body until nothing remains, not even the blood once smeared onto the wooden floor, and then the floor itself starts to cave in until there is a blank, dark hole. Suddenly, inexplicably, a bright light shines out of the hole, blinding me for a second, but this is what I knew would happen. I saw the figures of 5 people with their backs behind me, outlined in the light. I couldn't discern any more than that before my sight returned.

Before my eyes, I saw a glowing humanoid figure standing over the hole before it closed. My nerves must have gotten a hold of me, for I was unable to move. Fear ate my body whole leaving me unable to speak.

"Why was I brought here?" The figures' words were deep, almost like an adult, yet somehow prepubescent. It took me a moment before Imanaged to get my mouth under control. "I-I c-came to m-make a d-deal!" I try to say as coherently as possible. The entity slowly looked around the room as if it was trying to understand something.

"What does your heart desire?" The entity said getting closer to my face, ignoring my feeble attempts at speech. I felt pressure on my body making it painful to just look at him. "Do you desire your family back? Do you wish to see them peacefully?"

I took a step back in shock from what he said. I didn't even say my wish yet it already knows? "I know everything Jack," The entity said, taking another step forward. "I know the beginning of the universe, and I know the end of it. I know who everything, and everyone is," The room shifts around breaking and moving into a deep empty space. "I know every sin committed, and every soul named. I know you, Jack,"

I looked around to see the very beginning of the universe. A freezing cold surrounds my body before waves of intense heat smack into me from the beginnings of the big bang. "I know what every soul wants, and what every soul hates," The entity looked into my eyes. "I know what you want Jack,"

Another flash of light hits my eyes, making me shut them in a panic. I slowly open them to see very familiar figures at what appears to be a gate. I shed a tear looking at a tall female and a little girl and boy holding her hand. I see her slowly turn back to me before another light flashes. Now I'm in a smashed car. Panic runs through my body looking at the other seats of the car. A dead woman and two kids sit next to me, their eyes unseeing.

I almost vomit again from reliving that terrible memory. I look up again to see nothing but empty space, and the entity. "But you must tell me what you want mortal," The entity spoke in a somewhat calming voice. "That is the only way for the spell to work." I opened my mouth trying to say something, anything, but nothing came out. The moment seemed to flash by before I yelled out.

"I WANT MY FAMILY BACK!" My voice echoes in the empty space, bouncing on nothing. "I want my family again," I say again, calming down from the adrenaline pumping through my body. The seconds that pass feel like years ticking by, like falling sand in an hourglass. "Then take my hand, and listen closely," The entity raised his hand, offering it to me. I hesitate for a moment before thinking to myself about what I just said. I slowly grab his hand, and as I do a wave of pain surges through my hand, then arm, before reaching my head.

"You must regain your sanity and free the five souls of Halloween, then, and only then will you get to see your family again. Do I make myself clear?" The voice runs through my head like a bullet train, getting louder and louder as each word leaves his non-existent mouth. I grab my head out of pain, trying to steady myself. "Y-YES!" I yell out.

"Then our deal is made, and my entertainment and conditions must be met or else you will face the consequences," He lets go of my hand, and as he does so I regain my train of thought. I let out gasps of air from my lungs, breathing heavily. "Then I will see you 5 years from now, at the end of Halloween," He vanishes out of thin air leaving the room exactly the way it was except for the book, which disappeared.

Five souls of Halloween. I felt like I have heard that before. I took out my phone and googled 'Five Souls of Halloween'. The first thing to pop up was an article made by an old man, claimed insane, who wrote about how he survived an attack from a Scarecrow, a Witch, a Windigo, a Plague Doctor, and a Ghost. The only thing about their location was that it happened in an old barn in the middle of nowhere in New York. I looked at the hand that the entity had taken and saw a branding on my palm. I closed my hand and started to pack. Time to find the Five Souls of Halloween to save what I have lost.

[laurabelle2930]

If Oliver Queen a.k.a. Arrow had actually died after his heart stopped beating, what would Felicity and John's reactions be to Arrow's death? Where would Oliver's friends take his corpse to? And finally, when would the Queen Family know about the death of Oliver? Note: This scenario is an alternate take on the "Arrow" episode, "The Odyssey".

Sorry it took so long! All mistakes are mine! Enjoy!

Today marked the 5th year since Starling city lost a symbol of hope. Oliver Queen’s death impacted many but none more so then the few who knew the truth of his dual identity. For Felicity her reaction was to grieve but, for what she was still unsure. Was she grieving for a friend or was she saying goodbye to the possibility of something more. For the first few days she simply felt numb. Her quick wit and kind smile faded into a muddled mess of anger, sadness, and confusion. She’d known him for mere months, but something inside her heart snapped until all she could focus on was the pain of knowing that someone she cared for was gone. 

John Diggle’s reactions were expected. He was a soldier, he was a warrior and he knew he still had a mission to finish. He first dealt with Felicity. He made sure she was okay enough to help with the tear filled days that were yet to come. John Diggle become her friend, her partner, protector, and her family all in the matter of three days.  In the end John’s guidance proved invaluable as they began to decide how to mourn Oliver as the man and then as the hero he was on the cusp of truly becoming. Felicity recalled those cold, broken moments as she finished dressing for the day.

The weather outside was cool. The leaves on the trees were beginning to fall. The air was crisp and the sun was losing its battle with the coming clouds. All and all it was another fall day that was giving way to the approaching winter. Felicity buddled her scarf around her slim neck as she moved along the busy pedestrians that now filled the otherwise broken city streets. Once Oliver was gone Starling city began to fall. It was slow at first and almost hard to detect but; little by little the once vibrant city began to go dark. The first blow was the leveling of the Glades. Felicity along with John, Roy and even a handful of Lance’s police officers tried to stop the bombs, but in the end they were just too late. Malcolm Merlyn took credit for the horrendous act three weeks later… And it was with a grim looking Moira Queen at his side. 

Oliver’s family company fell. Merlyn’s empire continued to grow and the city continued to crumple. Felicity wanted to run, hell she’d wanted to flee after Oliver's funeral was broadcast over the television for all the world to see. All she wanted was a brand new start until she saw the drawn face of a destroyed Thea Queen. In that moment she’d run from Oliver’s grave and straight toward someone she felt would feel the same. The memories of his funeral continued like a photo album in her head as she reached into her purse for a green hued key. As she was placing the key into the lock she felt a familiar palm fall upon her slender, left shoulder. She smiled as the cool air nipped at her red cheeks. “I thought you said you’d be here at noon?” she mumbled as she swiftly unlocked the door and moved to escape from the biting wind. 

She and the unnamed guest moved past the darkened foyer until they both were at what appeared to the naked eye to be an abandoned elevator shaft. Felicity removed her gloves. She placed her thumb along a blackened scanner until a small light began to glow green. The woman who was once just a troubled young girl looked idly around the space as she said, “I came into town to visit with the investors and found myself with some time to spare so...” 

“So you thought you'd finally take me up on my offer of a visit?” Felicity chuckled as the abandoned shaft suddenly began to glow with unexpected light. 

Thea grinned before a shadow of a frown began to grow along her ageless face. “I can’t believe it’s been five years,” she whispered as Felicity softly reached for her hand. 

“Are you sure you want to see all this?” Felicity asked as Thea’s palm began to shake along her own. “No one would blame you if you still didn’t want to face all of this,” she added as they both began to step inside the lit wall of an elevator that had been recently brought back to life by money and a bit of elbow grease. 

Thea’s soft squeeze along their joined hands told her it was safe to proceed. Felicity walked them both forward with trepidation as the doors began to close. Felicity gazed over at the woman before her with awe. Telling Oliver’s family that he’d died was still one of the worst days she could remember having to endure within the scope of her life. 

Felicity could still remember how she’d felt when she realized that Oliver’s heart had beat for the last time. She’d barely known him and, yet his death did something to her soul that she feared would never completely heal. Her heart felt heavy as she watched John Diggle’s eyes flood with unshed tears. His entire body shook with unexpressed rage as he began to pull the various cords form Oliver’s now lifeless body. Felicity just stood there numb as John began to clean the room around her. She just stood there frozen as the world around her began to grow dim...

Three days later she was sitting in the Queen’s family home. The police had been called to a robbery just outside of the city. John with her help had managed to get Oliver out of his hooded persona’s pants and into a spare pair of jeans that he kept hidden in a locker by a makeshift bed in the foundry. They found a faded blue shirt and even a tailored leather jacket to complete the overall look. They then moved his body towards the edge of an alley that was far enough away from the foundry to erase any conversation about where he was located at the time of his death. Once he was perched up against an aging brick wall they made an anonymous phone call. When they heard the siren’s they hid behind a dumpster and waited until Oliver’s body was found and taken to the county morgue. Once there everything became fairly easy. His death was determined a robbery gone wrong. The police found the planted gun and a few items such as his wallet and, even a random watch lying beside him at the scene. Moira made a public announcement once the investigation was closed. Felicity and John were both summoned hours later by Moira after his death had been made public knowledge. 

They sat there silently as Moira placed the blame solely on John’s shoulders. He took it all in stride while Felicity boiled with internal rage. Once Moira was done with John she turned her red rimmed eyes towards Felicity. She gave her a watery, half smile as she lowered her tone and softened her demeanor. Felicity nearly drew blood as the woman before her said, “I called you here because according to the police you were the last person he called before he died.” 

Felicity became a statue as her mind began to crumble over what Moira was asking. With a thudding heart Felicity let out a muted, “I’m sorry Mrs. Queen but, I missed the call.” 

Felicity was forced back to the present when the elevator reached the bottom floor. Thea stepped into the darkened space while Felicity went for the lights. Moments later the room was flooded with a warm glow of yellow and green. Thea gave her a soft smile as her eyes began to roam around the circular room. The lair was much like the foundry had been with a few differences. Felicity had an up to date computer center that didn't make her heart hurt. They had the usual toys and weapons on another side of the room with the training center in the back. Hell this space even had living quarters for the nights that became mornings. 

Thea knew that something was amis about Oliver's death but she always refused to truly see it until recently. A year after Oliver died Tommy formed a foundation to help those who were harmed in the undertaking. Moira eventually gave into guilt and took a plea deal with the district attorney. She avoided prison by giving up Malcolm. He however evaded his sentence by vanishing. Two years later he was back under a different name and his company was deeded to his living heirs. One of them being Thea. Her trips home from her studies abroad continued to increase as the fight for Sterling began to ignite.  “So my brother was the Hooded man that attached our mother the night he died?” she breathed as she began to take in all the sights before her. 

Felicity moved towards the center of the room where all her “babies” were kept. Her computers hummed along quietly as she pulled out her chair and took a solemn seat. “Yes and, we meaning John and I decided to continue his mission after he died.” 

Thea crossed her arms protectively over her chest. Felicity crossed her legs then tilted her head. Thea’s eyes were on the training mats in the background when she whispered, “But John’s not the man who wears the mask now is he?” 

"Why would you ask that?" Felicity asked knowingly. 

Thea shot her an amused gaze as she said, "You wouldn't be interested in getting me down here if it was him.'

Felicity smiled softly as she pressed a button along the side of her keyboard. Another row of lights began to glow. Below them held four glass compartments. The compartments held three disguises. John's was black with a custom made helmet. Roy's was redish black with his own set of Arrows. Sara who returned home months after Oliver's passing was the owner of the Canary cry and the disguise it required. Felicity heard Thea's breath hitch when the fourth disguise began carefully walking in from the shadows of the back wall. Felicity’s own heart began to thud wildly as Thea gasped, “I knew it had to be you,” before she ran towards the man in green. 

Felicity whispered, "And now we're six…" as she began to stand once more. Her heart ached slightly when she heard the man in green say, “Oliver was my best friend and he was your big brother. It only seemed right that your other big brother should do what he always tried to do.” 

“And what’s that?” Thea sniffled as Felicity began to move back towards the elevator.

His soft, “Protect our little sister,” was she heard just as the elevator doors slid shut. 

After the funeral Felicity didn’t run to John she’d run to Tommy Merlyn. It was there in the middle of Verdant that she told Oliver’s truth. She explained how his mission had began. She told him who the players were and she even pledged to help him as she did Oliver if he promised to do one thing. He in shock mumbled, “Anything…” as she whispered, 

“Honor Oliver's memory.” 

After that a new Hood was born. John taught him to fight, Roy taught him to survive and even Laurel kept him out of any legal trouble. Sara joined the cause later and became Felicity's closet friend. 

Now five years later at Tommy’s request Thea was being told the truth and offered a chance to make the same choice both of her brothers had made many years before. She was being offered a place on the team that consisted of “The Arrow”, “Spartan, “The Canary," "Arsenal", and of course Felicity who held the title of ''Overwatch ``

Felicity didn't need to hear Thea's reply she already knew what it would be. She was after all a Queen. In the end, Oliver's death hadn’t been in vain. His best friend Tommy became a hero. His brother John became a husband, father and, also a hero. Laurel found her purpose and even realized that Oliver wasn’t the love of her life. Sara his friend came home and found her home. His unspoken soulmate Felicity found her calling and realized that sometimes your soulmate isn’t the person you end up with; sometimes it’s the person who sees who you are even before you do. 

[punkcupcakestyles]

Adore

Part 4 - 

“His fingers were toying with the hem of my shirt, teasing me to the point of torture as an amused smile spread on his lips. I could feel my skin tingling at his touch, and I sucked in a big gulp of air at the cold feeling of his skin over mine. He was careful not to rush it, not to scare me so I would run away. It felt as good as his kiss, soft and natural, and somehow just enough to drive me absolutely crazy. Just enough to have me on my knees begging for more. "Are you trying to make me forget about the video?" I laughed a little nervously, looking at his bright eyes as they set on mine. "Maybe, and trying to kiss you as well." He admitted. "I think we kissed enough, Harry," I said, even when the words felt coarse in my throat. "Really? I think we're just starting." His words were meant to be light, but they echoed in my body, running down my spine like a cold shiver. I closed my eyes at the burning feeling of his fingers as they touched me, and to the weird anticipation that his words had caused. An endless feeling and an endless future, what else could I ask for?”

Catch up!

"Oh, Harry! Is that a new girl we see?

Just hours after the world found out he and girlfriend Sophie had called it quits, Harry Styles was seen leaving pal Nick Grimshaw house with a new girl in arms. And if you think she looks familiar, well, she might!

Her name is Charlotte, and if you're an avid follower of the singer (Guilty as charged!), you might have seen her around. Perhaps at a concert, or partying around the world with Harry. Or maybe you've seen her in beloved sister, Gemma's Instagram, or talking to Jeff Hazzoff, the unreachable manager. She's been around for a while, and while you might have thought she's just a friend, well, it doesn't seem like the case anymore. Although we can't tell you much more about her, cause all of her social media is set to private, we know that whatever she does, leaves her enough time to travel around the world with her friends!

The "friends" were seen having a good time at Grimmy's house, and often looking for empty, dark spots to be alone. "I guess they just wanted to have a quick chat, yeah?"  A pal at the party said. "It just seemed like they couldn't keep their hands off each other, they seemed very comfortable..."

And it seems like they were quite "comfortable" with each other, as my source called it, through the night, as they were both seen stumbling out of Nick's house to get into Styles' car.

(PS: Harry, you need to leave the corpse to get cold first...Just saying...)

Oh, but what about poor Sophie Alessandro, you ask? Well, according to my sources, the stunning actress was absolutely flabbergasted by the breakup and is now tending to her broken heart surrounded by her loved ones, before she heads back to work, as she's set to have lead roles in at least 3 movies in the next 2 years. "She knew Harry was up to something but didn't want to believe it." A close friend of the actress told me. "It's always the sweet-faced ones, you know? You never really expect it from them..." Was my source talking about our favorite singer, with his sweet dimpled cheeks and his boyish smile? Or were they talking about his new flame? Oh, well, I guess we'll know soon enough. 

Naughty Harry, what have you done?" ‘What had I done?’ seemed to be a better question. I threw the phone on the bed and Harry picked it up to read the article. He looked so handsome, even now that he was serious all of the sudden, and was frowning as he scanned the small screen. Out of concentration, he pinched his bottom lip until it was a little more pink than usual, and scoffed at something he had just read. God, I wished I could kiss him 

I wanted to know what he really thought, how he felt about all of the implied disses at him, I wanted to know if it ticked him off, or even if it had rubbed him in the wrong way. Did things like this still affected him, or was he just too cool of a celebrity to even bother with it? Was he just as pissed off as I was? Was any of it true? So many questions, my head was spinning.

"It gets worse..." Iz whispered. A vile taste flooded in my mouth as I looked at her and saw the smug smile she was trying to hide. Her silent "I told you so" felt like a slap in the face with a hot iron. Actually, that sounded like a much more appealing choice.

"It can't get worse, Iz. I'm a fucking homewrecker according to this..." "Oh, but it does." She smiled. "They have you on video, drunk out of your arse."

Her words were slow enough for them to have the full expected effect. I scrambled to get the phone back, but Harry kept it away from me, as he continued to read carefully to that trash. To get the phone, I had to pretty much climb on him, which would lead to him stretching his arm to keep the phone out of reach, and to a pretty certain win. I didn't feel in the mood to let him win, didn't feel in the mood to let anyone have a win that day if I was being honest. Not even Iz.  But I was drunk, in a video that was out for the world to see. I wanted to see it as well.  "Harry..." I warned him, once, just so I wouldn't have to go through all the trouble, but it didn't seem to do that much, as he just smiled, peering up to me to let me see the full smirk that had sit on his lips. "Chuck..." He replied, mocking the momentum in my voice without caring too much about it.  "Can I please watch the video?" "It's not as bad as Iz wants you to think." He said.  "Oh, it is," Iz interjected, earning a scoff from Harry.  "Iz, I think your boyfriend might get lost in the house." Harry offered, as an undeserved peace offering to my friend, who narrowed her eyes at him until her eyes were nothing but dark green slits. "How 'bout you go and find him. Maybe start breakfast?" Iz wasn't happy, not even one bit, but still, she got up from the bed and walked out of the room like she was asked to, not without letting us hear her grumble and groan on her way out. I winced when she slammed the door behind her, feeling my whole brain hurt at the thunderous sound.  It was somehow different, being alone with Harry this time, it felt brand new, despite all the times we had been alone before. My heart was beating so fast I wondered if he could hear it, or if I was going to have a heart attack. That hadn't particularly changed, but there was a new kind of awkwardness, perhaps because now I knew how his lips tasted, and how they felt against mine. Or because I wanted to kiss him, so bad that my lips were aching. "It's not true, y'know?" He finally said as he offered me the phone. I took it, looking at him as I waited for him to continue. "I didn't cheat on Sophie." "I know," I whispered.  "Nor was I up to nothing." He continued.  "I know, H..."  He loved her. I knew that, he didn't have to say it. I had gone through every stage of it, trying to deny my feelings for him, and wishing it was me instead of her. I had told myself that I could love him better, and also asked myself how could I even compete? She was so much more than me. I had wished him well from the bottom of my heart and cried into my pillow at night at the loneliness of it all and finally, I had settled into believing that it didn't matter anyway, that's just how life is supposed to be. If you keep going, maybe someday you'll get it right, maybe someday you'll find that love that you crave so much. I was just as ready for love to come as I was for it to never get here.  "The video is not as bad, I promise." He smiled, trying to ease my mind, but to be honest, it didn't feel like it mattered anymore.  "I'll be the judge of that, Styles," I smirked, pushing down the bitter feeling that was already overwhelming. "Can't have my ass showing around." "You have a nice ass, I wouldn't have a problem with that." He offered.  "Got it, G-strings and booty shorts for the world to really appreciate my ass." I offered him with a smile.  "Not the whole world." He corrected me, shifting on the bed to get closer to me. As he did so, my breath held tight in my chest, giving me barely any warning before my whole being started to feel like I was about to burst into flames. His fingertips lingered over the bare skin of my legs, and his green eyes had trapped me in some sort of spell, where I could only see him, could only think about him. Nothing else in the world could ever matter again. He was so close, I could smell the soap he had used in the morning and the light amber of his perfume. "Just me."   "Just you?" I asked weakly, letting myself be pushed down to the bed as he settled on top of me, almost hovering over me without much contact other than his hand that was now reaching my hip. He was pushing himself up on one arm and his curls were dangling a little bit, now that his hair was getting longer. I licked my bottom lip, trying to recover myself as he looked at me. "Harry..." "What?" His fingers were toying with the hem of my shirt, teasing me to the point of torture as an amused smile spread on his lips. I could feel my skin tingling at his touch, and I sucked in a big gulp of air at the cold feeling of his skin over mine. He was careful not to rush it, not to scare me so I would run away. It felt as good as his kiss, soft and natural, and somehow just enough to drive me absolutely crazy. Just enough to have me on my knees begging for more.  "Are you trying to make me forget about the video?" I laughed a little nervously, looking at his bright eyes as they set on mine. "Maybe, and trying to kiss you as well." He admitted.  "I think we kissed enough, Harry," I said, even when the words felt coarse in my throat.  "Really? I think we're just starting." His words were meant to be light, but they echoed in my body, running down my spine like a cold shiver. I closed my eyes at the burning feeling of his fingers as they touched me, and to the weird anticipation that his words had caused. An endless feeling and an endless future, what else could I ask for? I pressed play before he could kiss me and I lost my mind because of it, and with a winning smile, I sat up on the bed. He rolled his eyes at me, chuckling as he scooted closer until he was sitting right next to me and our arms grazed each other.  "You're too slow, Harry." I mocked him, trying to focus on the black screen of the phone as he leaned closer to my ear, so he could whisper his next words. "You'll like how slow I am, babe, I promise." "A slow kisser is not necessarily...oh..." I started to say, but soon, I caught up with his words, and I rolled my eyes at him as he snickered at me. "You're too cocky for your own good, Styles." "I can back it up." He shrugged off, laughing even when I slapped him on his chest.  The video finally started with Harry getting out of Nick's house and walking towards the black Rover that was waiting outside for him. He looked so excruciatingly beautiful, so effortlessly cool, it was hard not to flutter in my own seat. I started at him for as long as the camera allowed, before it turned hastily to the entrance of the house once again. I wished it hadn't though, cause I could already feel the waves of anxiety. I saw Iz as she got out of the house, carrying something that looked like shoes in her right hand. She stopped, looking at the door for a second before I stumbled out. She ran to me, offering me her hand to guide me out, at the same time her boyfriend held me by the waist. I giggled, or at least it seemed like it from the angle of the camera and said something that made Iz laugh as well. 

She let me go as we reached Harry, and I let him help me get into the car, not without tripping and almost falling to the ground. His hands wrapped themselves around my waist to keep me steady, and he laughed as I said something leaning to whisper to my ear before giving it one more try. This time, I successfully got into the car and waited for Harry to follow me. As soon as he was in, I crouched myself out of the picture. I wanted to think it was because I had decided to lay down on the seat, and not because of anything else, but it was open to imagination, at least until Iz used the other door to climb in as well, letting her boyfriend take the passenger seat. 

"See? It wasn't so bad." He assured me.  "I was drunk, and it looks like might be sucking you off, right there, in the car!"

"But you didn't! I would've remembered if you had."

"Harry!!" I laughed. "Harry, you're so fucking private, how can you not care about this?" "Cause it's not that big of a deal, Chuck!" I took a deep breath, looking at him as he got up from the bed hastily and took a few steps away from me. He was tall and lean, and his back was broad, enough so I could picture the trails of my nails on his skin.  "Harry..." I whispered. "What, Chuck?" "Are you ok?" I asked him. It was so much harder to do the right thing when I could just think about myself. I licked my lips, and gulped hard, pushing down the selfish words that were begging to come out.

"I'm ok." He nodded. "I'm fine." 

"Then, can I be your friend?" "I thought you already were." He chuckled and gave me a sweet smile as he sat back down on the bed next to me.  "Yeah, but I'm not being a good one." "Chuck..." "You just broke up with your girlfriend, H. You shouldn't..." I said in almost a breath. "You shouldn't be kissing other girls, you shouldn't be kissing me. That thing about a nail pulling out another nail is bullshit. It just digs it deeper. And I should've told you this yesterday, but I was too busy enjoying your kisses." "Charlotte..." He insisted but I took his hand in mine before he could finish, cause if he protested, or told me that it was ok, that we could keep going, that was it for me, I wasn't going to be strong enough to deny him once more.  "H, you need to think things through. If you, if we...I don't want you to lose the opportunity to get back with Sophie just because you're with me, or because there are photos of us going around. You say it's not bad, but I know you don't like it. I know Jeff has to be on your ass because of it. There's so much information going around..." "Jeff hasn't said anything." "Is it because you haven't answered his calls? Harry..." "I don't wanna get back with Sophie." "Give it a few days, you always do." "And what if I don't?" His fingers squeezed around my hand, tightening their grip as he turned around to look at me. "What if I want something else? What if I want someone else?" "We'll see then, ok? I'm here for you for it all, H." And if he did get back with her, I had a kiss to last me a lifetime. 

***

The series made no sense, perhaps because it was Korean and I kept missing the subtitles. I wasn't even sure if the main character was really alive, or if she was a ghost, and it looked like she didn't know it either. 

Or it was because my mind was still in Harry's flat.

I didn't even make it into bed. I was sitting on the floor, with my head resting on the foot of it while I kept staring pointlessly at the tv. 

I had been stupid. Actually, stupid didn't even begin to cover it. 

"Chuck? Chuck, Jesus, can you turn the volume down? They can hear you all the way to Manch...What the fuck are you doing?"

Iz was standing by the door, looking at me as if she was considering taking me to a psychiatric ward. Her eyes kept bouncing from the TV to me, and he didn't seem to decide which one was actually worse.

"I'm watching TV." I shrugged off.

"Why are you watching a Korean drama? Why are you sitting on the floor? What happened to you?" Each question was more frantic than the last, and I smiled at her when she took a deep breath. For a second, I wondered if I should ease her up, but everything went back to normal as she sat next to me. 

"I'm ok," I reassured anyway.  "Are you sure? Why are you here? I thought you were going to spend the weekend at Harry's." "He's ok, too. He just...y'know, he loves her." I tried to shrug off, but it felt like the very first time I talked about it; like the wound was open wide and fresh. It felt like every single inch of my body was just waiting for me to talk about it to allow itself to hurt. I pressed my head to Iz's shoulder and sighed at the comfort of her hand trailing on my hair as she tried to soothe me. "And I love him, Iz." "I know, baby." "I love him so much." My voice broke in the middle of the sentence, and it was already too late to stop the tears that were running down my eyes and to Iz's shirt. She didn't seem to mind, she just continued to play with my hair as I tried to compose myself. "Isn't that pathetic? How can I love him, he's...he's just like a fantasy." "Fantasies are the best one to love." She said. "They're easy, and they always love you back."

"But he doesn't love me back, Iz. He loves her instead, and I...He's never..." I stopped, breathing in while the tears slowed down. My chest felt heavy and the sadness had already come and go, like waves that paralyze you for a second and leave you groggy. "I need to move on." "Are you sure?" "No." I smiled sadly.  "So, what? Tinder? Bumble? Noah?" She listed them all as viable options and smiled at me when I rolled my eyes. None of them seemed like an actual good choice. For all purposes, I was taken in my mind. I was Harry's, even if he wasn't really mine. Noah deserved better, and Tinder and Bumble seemed like a desperate choice, and I didn't want to admit I was desperate, not yet.  "Do you know any real couple that has met through Tinder?" I asked Iz, and she nodded, shifting a little bit so I could rest my head on her chest, now that her shoulder was tired. "Yeah, Bri..."  The bell of the door startled us, and Iz got up to go to the bathroom as I went to open the door. It was a bad idea, cause none of us was really expecting anyone, but the doorman was old and forgetful, and he didn't feel the need to announce people before sending them our way.  Harry was holding two groceries bag when I opened the door, and he smiled at me with ease as he got into the house. He didn't wait for me to invite him, or to tell him he could put the bags over the sink in the kitchen. He did all that all by himself and then proceeded to look into the cabinets until he found three ice cream cups. He set them over the counter and then pulled out two pints of ice cream from one of the bags. They were Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia and Phish Food, my favorites. 

"What's all this?" I asked him carefully, standing in front of him as he was starting to serve the cherry one, before mixing it with chocolate. 

"Is Iz here?" He asked, and when I nodded he rolled his eyes, filling the third cup before giving it to me. "Here, tell her to stay away from your room."

"W-why?"

"Well...you were the one that said you wanted to be just friends. I just ended my relationship, and I heard there's some jerk that kissed you right after breaking up with his girlfriend. So ice cream and movies it is, innit?"

"He's a jerk alright." I smiled shyly at him. 

"I bet he just likes you, Chuck. You should give him a chance."

***

It wasn't really a tradition. We had done this once before when one of my dates ended up really, really badly, and his love life was a shit show of tipped off paparazzi and rumors. That time, I had convinced him that there is nothing in life than a Cherry Garcia and a silly movie can't fix. So we sat for hours, while we devoured the same two flavors he had brought and watched 80's movies. 

Harry graciously let me take the Cherry Garcia all to myself, ditching the cups in the kitchen. I looked at him as he settled down on my bed and I awkwardly shuffled to the other side of the bed, not really sure about what I should do next. 

"You should lie down," Harry smirked. "It is your bed after all."

"I, I know."

"We've done this before, babe."

“Yes, but we've never..."

"Kissed before? You never really rejected me before, either." I knew it was a joke, but I could feel my face getting hot. 

"I'm sorry." I bit into my lip, looking at him as he started to smile.

"It's ok, I can take it. I have my friend for that."

"You keep mocking me, Styles, you won't even have that."

He smiled, sticking the spoon full of ice cream into his mouth. He licked it clean and sighed in satisfaction, going to scoop a little bit more from the container before offering it to me. 

"I bet you whatever you want that this is better than the Cherry Garcia."

"Nothing is better than Cherry Garcia."

"It depends, Chuck." 

"On what?"

"On how you do the things. I know of a few that are way better than an ice cream pint."

"I just mean that...there's no way that ice cream is better than mine." I rebutted, trying to change the subject before I blushed once again. 

"Try it." He insisted and I took the spoon out of his hand to obey. The caramel was glossy and there were swirls of marshmallow in the ice cream, and it looked a little bit too sweet even for me. 

I am not even sure why I did what I did. I don't think it was something that I had actually planned through, cause before I could realize it, I was kissing him, tasting the chocolate of the ice cream directly from his lips. If I took him by surprise, he didn't show it, kissing me back with as much intensity as I was kissing him. His hands cupped around my face, pulling me closer to him, as I placed one of my hands over his thigh, to keep myself steady as I straddled him. 

His breath was heavy, fanning hotly against my skin as I tilted my head to let him deepen the kiss. It was exactly like our first kiss, and at the same time, it was nothing like it. It was feverish and sweet as if we were both just trying to make some memories for the future, to save them for when they are needed. He licked my bottom lip and tasted the tip of my tongue, and I grazed my teeth over his full lips, pulling it lightly as I broke the kiss. 

"I think yours tasted better." He whispered. His fingers were still tangled in my hair, and I was still sitting on his lap. 

"I'm not really sure..." I breathed. “I think I liked yours.”

[authorlaneblevins]

The Conjurer

*This is a short story I wrote a very long time ago. Warning: some bad language and sexuality throughout. Enjoy!

“I, of the savage kingdom, will guide you to glory!”  The sound of a Big Easy traffic jam punctures the steady scream of her words, a few of the syllables slipping out into the never-was.  “ ‘Court not death by your erring way of life, nor draw to yourselves destruction by the works of your hands!  Because into a soul that plots evil, wisdom enters not, nor dwells she in a body under debt of sin!’”

The hint of Russian singsong gives her away.  I know her voice better than I know my own.  They say that, no matter how early one is separated from one’s mother, the mind is imprinted with the sound of her voice and conditioned to hear it again; and while decades might pass without hearing it, the lost child could still detect the mother’s voice out of a tapestry of hundreds.  Because it was the first sound, the first pitch and tone and coo to ever have existed.  It was the sound on which all other sounds were based.

I’m sitting on the bench across the street, watching her, the only one watching her.  Ilyena Tracy, still the magician; the way she moves her hands, pushing the air away with them, drawing people inward while keeping me confounded on this frayed bench, wondering how this could’ve happened.

Some small moments are nothing, they don’t snowball into the rest of your life.  But some of them, they’re gods, they own you.

I imagine that, at one point, she lured crowds on the corner with her flailing Fascist body movements, jerks of her arms and a twist of her neck that mimicked cerebral palsy or spiritual ecstasy.  Whenever she bellows the word “sinners,” her face sinks downward toward her neck, and small bubbles collect at the corners of her mouth.

I can’t stomach the battery-acid taste of the coffee anymore, and I hold the cup close to my face as if I’ve paused mid-sip, just to feel the steam siphoning through the lid.  I tear confetti-sized pieces from the letter that Rita slipped into my pocket the last time I saw her.  I’m waiting for my shift in telemarketing purgatory to start, in which I try to ignore the chorus of ringing, chatter, staplers, scribbling, and gnashing of teeth, and push our patented stain erasing formula.

This is my ritual: sit on the bench, mesmerized, my heart a rabid dog begging for the bullet.  At work, I empty the letter-confetti from my pocket and forsake the names on the list, instead calling Rita, wanting to tell her, wanting for her to tell me what to do.  For the past week I’ve only gotten her machine and her husband.  I hang up, playing with the idea of asking her husband what he would do: he seems like the type that would know, with his voice calm and British asking me who’s there, who is this; talking quietly as if he’s in a glass room and he doesn’t want the walls to crash down on him.  At this point, I’m usually lectured by my telepathic boss, always privy to when I’m not being productive.

Yes, I know I have a job to do, sir.  Yes, I know that I’m not doing it.  

Then, I study my reflection in the computer screen, trying to find a feature my mother would be sure to recognize, though so many have changed.  A narrow nose broken in one of several foster homes.  Glasses are no longer there to hide greenish eyes that bear the constant squint of non-trust, having been replaced by contacts.  

The dimpled chin is the only thing that’s stayed the same.  Is that enough to remember a son?  Should I buy a pair of glasses?

I start writing a letter to my mother that I plan to slip in her Bible when she’s distracted by the Rapture.  I mull over trivialities, whether or not my signature will exhibit my shaking hand.  After work, I stand beside the bench, pinching my thigh in hopes of triggering a muscle spasm that might force me into my first step to her.  I pay the cab fare in sweat-dampened singles, always pausing, everyday choosing inertia.  On the ride home, I make the resolution that I’ll approach her tomorrow.  I’ll get it over with tomorrow.

I sleep, impervious to the fact that I am a liar.

˟˟˟˟˟

I should’ve had her figured when I was six years old and realized, seemingly for the first time, that she had really, truly, actually named me Balthazar.  After kindergarten giggles and with no middle name to fall back on, I told everyone to call me by my last name, Tracy—a fragmented version of the original Tratzinsky, cleaved in half somewhere on the Atlantic.  For ten years we lived like gypsies.  We stayed with her friends, friends of her friends, occasionally having to squat in an abandoned warehouse.  I knew better than to complain.  I had no voice.  I was her baggage, her immigrant suitcase.

She preached differently, back then, gracefully performing tricks of prestidigitation, making things disappear—wallets, mostly.  Every incredulous question of “How?” was answered with “Magic!”  A firm believer that the world might end in twenty-five years, she called America a “savage kingdom,” place with too many machines and too many brands of detergent, place where people too easily loosened their grip on time.

She talked to me sometimes about Omsk, her home, about how she was the statue of fear to all the other women.  In her youth, she was a breathy scandal of a girl, running around with nomads, traveling sideshow acts, literary fugitives and Trotskyites who had escaped the purges and lived in paranoid old age.  Her very footsteps caused neighborhood elders to gasp and cross themselves: her tracks, they swore, were hooved.

She had a laugh that unsettled concrete, a devil-may-care that made onlookers think that if the devil did care about anything on this lonely dull planet, it was her.  His Persephone.  His awful queen.

I craved her stories, her Omsk, her random switches between English, Yiddish, Russian, as if she had three tongues housed by one mouth.  I felt that the stories I heard at school were lackluster in comparison, always about little brothers or missing puppies.  Never in those skinny illustrated books were there stories of black markets, or missile crises, or gypsy circuses where the Conjurer carried the Lone Torso on his back.

When I couldn’t sleep she’d wave me over to her.  “Bad dream, boytchik?  Here, take mine.  I’ve dreamt this one before,” she’d say, putting her hand on my forehead and describing her bargained reverie to me so well that I saw it all for myself, could’ve dreamed of nothing else.  And when I had horrible fevers, she used to remove my dingy glasses and place her hands against my eyes, applying the slightest pressure, invoking cold with her tiny palms.  She would whisper to me, her breath in a flustered hurry, a mother’s hysteria, her words leading me to Siberia.

She had bad spells, too.  Anxious days when she’d look at me as if wishing I might disappear.  She would watch me intently as I ate her pungent food.  And then she’d abruptly stop me from eating and scrub the food off of my plate like dead skin.

For ten years this is how we lived.  On the fourth night of that year, she ushered me to sleep, her palms over my eyes as she kissed my forehead.  I woke the next morning alone, a note on my pillow.  “I’m sorry.  I’ve stopped paying for this mistake of mine.  I have to set you down, Balthazar, I can carry you no longer on my back.”

I cannot claim uniqueness in abandonment: the history of the act stretches back to the Alpha, to the foundation.  Think of the Jews sold out by former friends, sniffed out of their hiding places and ritualistically unpersoned.  Think of leftovers, discarded ideals, uncompleted revolutions, the Rosenberg’s, Charles Foster Kane.  Think of Abraham’s son, Isaac, who feigned dignity under the knife when all he wanted was for his father to say “You are more to me than God.  Run from here and live forever.”

Or a man quietly in love with a sadist, wanting to tell her that he didn’t mind how she wounded him, just as long as she would stay.

Think of a ten year-old boy in a warehouse left suddenly, irreversibly alone; a boy discovered two days later, hungry and dirty, by one of his mother’s Bohemian cab-driver friends, who dropped him off at the nearest police station without a “goodbye” or a “good luck.”  A boy who will never know why.

After that day came too many homes, and never enough time in them to get comfortable.  Fourteen placements in eight years, the same life lesson from all the pseudo-fathers: go to school, get a job, get a wife, get a house.  Obtain more possessions than those smudgy glasses and the clothes on your back.  Possessions are reality.  Possessions are identity.  I was whittled to fit this new consumer’s world, where living in a warehouse is generally frowned upon, sleight-of-hand is only a profession in Caesar’s Palace, and dreams are non-transferable.

Before the day she left, we had been each other’s world, a cult of two.  It sutures, that kind of companionship.  Without it, you have a hard time figuring out where the wound starts and where it ends.

˟˟˟˟˟

I’m fifteen minutes late for work.  The boss told me yesterday that if I continue to be late and unproductive, I’m out.  Still, I can’t stand up from this bench, opting instead to stare at her.  “…For touch is the most demystifying of all senses, unlike sight, which is the most magical.”  I tell myself that this explains everything that I am incapable of.    

She slaps her hand against her ragged leather-bound Bible to emphasize a point, closing her eyes and chanting western prayers.  I try to fathom a holy man skillful enough to have converted her from unstated paganism, a believer so pure and apotheosized that wherever he walked the blind cried “Messiah” and corpses sprung from their graves, coughing up dirt.

But preachers of this faith, they’re a realm away from the things my mother used to believe in.  A woman like her would’ve been impenetrable to brainwashing.  My best theories on her radical change involve lobotomies and Doppelgangers, or the rootless guilt she’d passed on to me.

I want her to know about my nightmare where in a room, exquisite red, we face each other, and she laughs at me, the sound bouncing from wall to wall.  “In the old days, you know what they did to spineless boys like you when they were babies?  The villagers saw one weakness, one defect and you were fed to the pigs.”  She places her hands over my face, and when she pulls them away my eyes are viscous spider-eggs.

When I was young, I’d never had a bad dream.  I’d pretended just so that I could steal hers.  So she would tell me her sole parable one more time.

“I tell you story, boytchik, just this last time; the short version because I’m too tired for more.  In village not too far from Omsk, the gypsy circus came once a year bringing always the sound of drums, and people would stop from their working so they could go to see it.  It was a wonderful spectacle, a lady with two heads, a man with a face that has grown on his stomach with real eyes that blinked, a man with red fists that sprout from his shoulder-blades.  And of course magicians and dare-devils and cannibals and fire-breathers and people with tremendous talents.  One woman, she could fit herself in a shoebox.  It’s true.

“The Conjurer was called this because he could beckon the dead and make them visible to all, he could make those that have vanished reappear, but he could never go to cemeteries because with all the dead begging from him his attention, he would never leave.  He was quiet man, pale and thin and dressed always in black cloak and black felt-hat like peasants used to wear.  And the Lone Torso, he was named because he was born without legs, but this was not an appropriate name since he still had arms that he could walk around on.  He was a very gentle person, and the two became comrades.

“During all the travels, the Lone Torso was harnessed on the back of the Conjurer so that they could talk all the way, and so that the Lone Torso didn’t hurt his hands.  They walked this way so often that they became fused together by their backs, from the cold.  They wanted to fix it, but the medicine man said that their spines were no longer their own, and to become separate one would have to do without.  This was just not possible, so they got used to the idea, and remained comrades, walking everywhere together.

“But then one day they were stranded from the group, and the Conjurer died.  The Lone Torso had to haul both of their bodies with his arms.  Nobody imagined he could make it, they underestimated his strength.  His hands grew blistered from the road but still he pushed onward.  Doing for his friend what his friend had done for him for so long…”

At this point in the story, I usually fell asleep; she so expanded on details unexplored in the previous telling that I never got to know what happened, how it ended.  That was just like her.  So I made up my own endings.  Back then, I liked to believe that the Lone Torso absorbed the Conjurer into his body, assuaged the pain without ever losing his comrade.  As a teenager, I hoped that the Torso found a carpenter who sawed the cadaver from his back, and he was then able to move without the crippling weight of his abandoner.

Now I imagine the most realistic of endings: the Lone Torso, arms shaking, giving in and falling to embrace the windswept earth for the final time, breathing the dust until his lungs were crushed and it was done.

˟˟˟˟˟

A pack of teenagers gathers near her corner, laughing and elbowing each other.  The kids are dressed all in big black clothes, fishnet gloves, spiked collars.  Goth kids, convinced that they took the class on suffering, have befriended the beast in their sixteen years of existence.  I was like that when I was their age.

A fat kid with blisters of acne along his jaw is the one to move toward her.  I lean forward, a vigilant watchdog, one hand still pulling at the shredded corners of Rita’s letter.  I swallow cigarette smoke, watching my mother crossing him with her unbendable arm.

Would she do the same if I walked up to her, baptize me, bless me?

The kid’s shirt says “I’m not prejudiced, I hate everybody!” and I picture the forty other kids wearing the same shirt all over the city, thinking that absent words alone can generate your own statement, your middle finger to a world that is indifferent to middle fingers.  He’s smirking at her, getting too close.  He glances back at his friends for encouragement, their black-lined eyes glittering with laughter.  His breath, it must stink of pot and sugar.  Gripping the edge of the bench-seat, my chewed fingernails aching, I whisper “Please” in my head over and over, but I have no idea what it is I’m asking for.

“Hail Satan!” the kid says, raising his fist in the air.

She spouts psalms about the heretics and the nonbelievers.  He laughs an obscenely girlish laugh, and slaps the Bible out of her hand.  I stand, a reflex, my thumb twitching.  I have that post-invasive-surgery feeling that I’ve read about, the mysterious and besetting ache of the violated body.

I imagine the Goth kid shoving her, her head cracking against the curb, the garnet trickle on the pavement; all the pain I’d let her go through just to be her savior, so that I could pick her up from the ground like Simon.  I would quietly tell her in a flood of syllables that I can help her, she needs help, I’m sorry and I forgive, goodbye and goodbye, that I can carry her no longer on my back, that still, I push onward.

I picture her shaking off my help, pointing her finger at me and screaming wildly, seeing past my skin straight to the muddy heart.  

But the kid backs away, laughing with his friends.  “Go back to Germany, you old cunt!” he shouts.

Still standing, I seem to be having trouble producing saliva.  This kid, this nothing, had the guts to approach her.  Having no idea who she is, that’s how he managed it: because he didn’t know that this is a woman who had somehow broken out of an inescapable country.  A woman who could paint a beautiful world for you, and trick you into becoming Atlas.

˟˟˟˟˟

This is important.  This is the catalyst.  This is the prologue spewed by her God, who has stopped concerning Himself with linearity.

I was with Rita the night my car pulled its disappearing act.  She’d called me at work, set up the usual time and place.  Her name wasn’t really Rita, I just called her that because she was a meter-maid.  I’d seen the grin on her face when she scribbled the violation and the cost in her little leather booklet, bearing down so hard on her pen that the indentation left sort-of words on five carbon copies.  She was a parking ticket sadist.

Rita often voiced how she wished our year-long arrangement was legitimate, so she could tell the story of how we met to strangers.  It was a hot August day, a brownout.  Due to the jadedness I’d gained in telemarketing purgatory, I visited the Woodward, Wight, and Co. warehouse that used to be home to me.  But it looked the same, the glass and concrete and slats of light.  There was no magic to be found, only half-empty cans of beer and heroin spoons.  I smoked a cigarette, singeing the edges of the letter my mother left on my pillow with the lighter, naively thinking this was my moment of release.

When I left the warehouse I saw Rita leaning against my car, gripping her ticket book and staring at the meter.  Waiting for the time to run up.  She watched so tensely, hunched forward, like one of those students in art school scrutinizing a nude model.

I saw her right then: a woman who served the great god of Time, she would never let a moment circle the drain.  Her every word meaningful when so many of mine, vague and unheard, were milled under the slightest wind.  Life, to her, was too short for a job you hated, regrets, procrastination, one lover.  Sleep was an unnecessary diversion.  The world might end in five years.

Underneath her glacial civil servant surface lay a closet-genius; a concert pianist by fifteen, enrolled at Lafayette by sixteen, where she studied everything indiscriminately.  She knew two other languages, spoke them fluently.  And then she suddenly dropped it all for this mediocrity, renouncing all her frightening potential.  She never told me why.

Rita had been married to some insurance salesman for two years; I had the slightest feeling this career she gave him was a calumny or a metaphor of some sort, she said it like it was a private joke.  She liked to fuck with her wedding ring on.  She constantly smelled of lemony wood polish, her hands forever smudged with ink.  She looked like Grace Kelly’s evil twin, only brunette and with dark gray eyes.  Her favorite phrase was “As I do to you, so do I to me.”  Her status as proud atheist was challenged nightly when she called out to Jesus during sex; I’d never heard his name sound so sweet, so full, than the way it sounded in her voice.

She became docile before sleep, self-exposing, expressing thoughts so eloquently I couldn’t tell the difference between her words and the memorized quotes of long-dead lyricists.  I told her about the Conjurer, the story without an ending.  She confided in me her dreams of escaping the human zoo, becoming a recluse or a migrant or both, shedding her skin, her marriage, her vices.

Yet another prone to flight.  My life filled with Houdini’s.

Rita picked the worst places on Old Gentilly to meet, places with neon signs boasting color-TVs that never worked; places with heart-shaped beds in which we were the tender arrows digging ever deep, pushing toward an exit-wound.  She said that, statistically speaking, men who cheat on their wives go all out in lavish hotels, expensive restaurants, maxing out credit cards on lingerie for their mistresses.  Women, on the other hand, tend to do the opposite.  Slumming it.  Loving the fuck even more for its taste of dirt.

Afterwards, I lay on top of her, doling out puffs of cigarette, holding it just far enough so that she had to strain her neck to take a drag.  Maraschino light came in from the window, it pulled all her thorns out.  She strove for the cigarette, breathed it in, held it between her dry lips.

I knew that what she felt for me was amusement, at most.  Our connection could best be described as a volute, an exchange of power that coiled downward until we were both left without.  It was a shocking thing to discover: that she was what I’d been looking for, the romanticized destroyer.

I put my hands over her eyes, feeling the moth-like flutter of her eyelashes.

“You should leave him.  Leave the city with me.”  I took my hands away from her eyes, feeling the burn of her incredulous stare.

She paused, then slowly, intentionally blew smoke in my face.  She so expertly recovered all her thorns, I had to smile.

“Let’s not get poetic or anything.”  A typical rejection, it meant she was far from sleep.  “You say it, but you’d never leave.”

“You don’t think I could leave?  Why not?”

“Unfinished business, maybe; or a talent for misery.  Something you’re attached to.  All the same, it’s a dreadful city, Tracy.  It suits you.”

“Why haven’t you left?”

“It suits me, too.  Besides, Phillip’s going places with his life.”

“I’m going places.”

“Phillip’s going good places.”

I stared at her for a second, waiting for the sting to dull before I got up to leave.  I couldn’t stand the stink of the room, like Pinesol and gunpowder, the grimy red neon turning everything into doomsday.  And the sounds of our temporary neighbors.  All the pilgrims in other rooms screaming for that brusque high, that scavenging cock, all the pilgrims curled up in bed dreaming up Mecca.

The dusty spider legs in dresser drawers clinging to Gideon’s Bible.  Motels, motels, never any home.

She talked while I got dressed, gripping the complimentary motel pen tight in her fist as she smiled.  “Come on, Tracy, come lay back down, don’t throw a hissy.”

“I’m not.  I’ve just gotta go,” I said, pulling on one boot, then the other.  She lit a cigarette and waved the match until it curled up, bent its head, a gray shamed child.

I opened the motel room door.  Lo and behold.  All the energy spilled out of my body at once.  A man with a black coat and a satchel on his back was strolling through the white lines of the parking-space where my car once waited.

And the new concrete world established its strictest law to me: don’t get attached to anything, son, if you gained it you’ll lose it someday.  Just you wait.

“What are you standing there for?  Is this a pivotal moment where you make some life-changing decision?” Rita asked with a nasty little laugh.

“No.  My car’s gone.”  I looked back at her, numb.  She furrowed her brows and waited for the “Just kidding,” but it didn’t come.

“Well.  Huh.”

˟˟˟˟˟

The next day I took the streetcar to work for the first time ever, the taste of Rita a film on the roof of my mouth.  Across from me a woman bounced her lemur-eyed baby on her knee.  The old man beside me waved at the baby, made silly faces.

After reaching my stop in Downtown, I walked along the pavement on a stretch of O’Keefe I’d never walked before, brushing past workers and businessmen who seldom looked up.  Someone was whistling.  Everyone chatted on their cell phones.  And somewhere in that latticework, a familiar voice.  A phrase I’d only heard her use.  “America, the savage kingdom…”

Realization fell down my spine, like a body crashing through water, the slow sink once the surface was breached.  My brain a knot of electricity, I told myself to run, but it seemed to take whole minutes for my legs to receive the message.  Then, once I was moving, there was no clarity of thought, just jumbled noise in my head, sounds without source or meaning.  Animal sounds, industrial drones, the chant of “Please.”  Hope and hell and motion.  I drafted new endings for the parable: the Conjurer suddenly waking from a skein of beautiful dreams, the Lone Torso relieved of his bleak loneliness.  Carried, defined, once more.  The weight fading in the descending night.

My limbs were pushing through the crowd without any real instruction, pushing me against the current.  And then the sea parted and I saw her, in a black frock, surrounded by candles, a great nuclear fallout come down on this city.  Every incredulous question of “How?” now answered with “Jesus!”

She was across the street, on her knees, her hands pressed together in shouted prayer.  She looked so old, nothing like how I remembered her.  She had the face of a shrinking rose, dry and curled around the edges.  Slender, bird-like shoulders.  Eyes like a jack-o-lantern’s, scooped out and empty.  Her silvery hair butchered.  This was not her, this woman with her eyes blinking at the sun.  My mother knelt for no one.

How little I knew her, how much of myself that had been lost in the transition, new weight that I couldn’t take.  The Lone Torso, lugging the Conjurer and a cross on top of that.

Drained.  My breath a ragged joke, my throat like stretched leather.  Wanting nothing more than to fucking scream, I sat on a bench.  I haven’t gone farther than that.

˟˟˟˟˟

I’m an hour late for work.  I smoke a cigarette on the bench, not caring what time I show up.  The new world has collapsed.  I can’t sit through that purgatory anymore, selling a product that erases stains, all the while wishing I could take long harsh swigs of it to cleanse or to kill, if there is any difference.

I feel the corners of Rita’s note in my pocket rubbing against my leg.  I pull it out of my pocket, resisting the urge to tear a piece away, and unfold the surviving paper.  After my week of picking at it like a scab, all that’s left are the last few lines: “Goodbye is for funerals, yet I have thought it every time I saw you.  What you fail to realize is that there is not one of us without a corpse on our backs, and only the weakest of us need some third party to remove it.  The strong can be their own carpenters, they are the ones who push unremittingly and let it decompose and turn to dust, as all things do.  For your sake, I hope that it does.  P.S. Sorry about your car.”

Because the god of Time can be vengeful.  Because I’m tired, my own weight is enough.  Because the world is in a constant state of ending, I flick my cigarette out toward the street and stand on quietly shivering knees.  I suck in a deep, lightheaded breath, relaxing my clenched jaw like an animal letting go.  I brush past strangers.  Her voice grows closer.  My head feels staticky, like I’m dreaming a dream I stole from her.

My feet are warmed by the vicinity of her candles of all the futile saints.  She shouts after discreet prostitutes a corner away.  “‘Depart from her, my people, so as not to take part in her sins and receive a share in her plagues’—”

She glances at me for a second, her eyes squinting until they’re beady and hawkish.  I half expect her to single me out as supreme Blasphemer, Beelzebub, Judas.  But her eyes, the master copy of my own, stare with the faint recognition usually reserved for strangers who frequent the same grocery store, who offer that pleasant, noncommittal smile and don’t say a word, and keep pushing their carts down the aisle.

She turns away from me, shouting her verses.  “‘Depart from her…For her sins are piled up to the sky and God remembers her crimes.’”      

There is only one ending: the Torso does not stop crawling.  He pushes onward, alone, toward some unknowable dot at the belt of the horizon.  As he crawls, the Conjurer is slowly erased, picked up by the wind, disseminated like seeds.  The corpse breaks down, back to the elements, to the dirt of it all, and a stain of gray atoms that will trail the Torso wherever he goes marks the long passage to Omega.  This is how she would have told it.  This is what she would have wanted me to know.

She pauses in the middle of a verse, some further slander against Babylon.  I can see the twitch in the back of her neck as she finally realizes, as the weight settles.  She is silent and stiffened.  Her fingers tighten around the Bible’s throat, as she grabs at a deep and stuttered inhale with her mouth open.  I see her slowly start to turn her head.

She will not turn around before I do.  She will not follow as I walk away.

[vtscasefiles]

Case File 563-7

Trigger warnings: blood, gore, death, infant death, guns, gun violence

[Editor’s note: this is one of VT’s shorter cases. It does not have a happy outcome. You have been warned.]

Case begun: 1/12/20**

Case concluded: 1/13/20**

Case locale: [REDACTED], Nevada

Marked as Closed

From the outset, this case stunk. Even Ramona had misgivings. She practically begged me not to go. “VT, there’s something wrong here. I don’t know what, but I just have this feeling.”

“It’ll be fine.” I’d assured her. “It’s a simple shakedown. It’s just a spirit. It’s nothing too insidious.”

Famous last words.

This case came to my from a friend of a friend. It was a simple haunting, the spirit was pestering a young family. Nothing a few sprinkles of blessed water and a liberal application of smudging couldn’t fix. Worst case, I’d have to exorcise.

Still, Ramona’s words bothered me, so I packed up a few extra goodies. Salt, my saint bone necklace (It’s only a toe bone, don’t ask where I got it.) and a few rounds of my most potent ammunition. I don’t want to say what it was made out of, due to the...questionable nature of how it was sourced. Point being that they’d deal with anything short of a god.

My friend, [REDACTED AT SUBJECT’S REQUEST], met me at the bus station. My car was out of commission, due to it being a piece of shit. Though [REDACTED] was more than happy to loan me their car.

I really wish I’d listened to Ramona.

I arrived at the client’s house around noon. They were a friendly enough couple. Due to ongoing SC investigation, I’m only going to refer to them as Husband and Wife. I could get in a lot of hot water if I put their names out there and someone fucked up the investigation.

Husband was tall-ish. Only a scant few inches taller than myself. He was your typical, hipster fella. Too tight pants, a band tee with a band he listened to “before it was cool” and a scruffy little beard with an overly manicured mustache. Wife was more my speed, though. Overalls, splattered with paint and a tank top. We love a handy lady.

They welcomed me graciously, introduced me to their newborn, who shall be known as Baby. She was a cute, little thing...even I could admit that and I hate babies. They scream, puke and shit, usually at the same time. Not for me, nope. Even so, I held the kid at their insistence and the girl just...stared. I couldn’t help but pull faces until the child started to laugh.

So, maybe “hate” is a strong word.

They took me to the room where their little spirit friend was causing the most havoc. It was to be Baby’s room. A crib settled in a corner, toys strewn around for the child’s amusement. A light fixture shaped like a unicorn.

Oh, and let’s not forget the words “HELP ME” painted on the wall in bright, yellow paint. Perfect décor for an infant, right?

“So, Husband.”, I’d said, turning to face him, Baby still in my arms. “We going for an escape pre-school motif or something?” he laughed a strained laugh.

“We didn’t have this problem when we moved in.” he said, rubbing at his eyes beneath the glasses that I don’t think he actually needed. “After Baby was born everything sort of...escalated.” he shuffled his feet and frowned. “We don’t want to move. We put a lot of work into our home, VT.”

“Well.” I said, foisting Baby off into Wife’s arms. “It might be a wandering spirit...might even be a kid. They tend to gravitate towards new parents, in hopes someone can help them. I’ll come back tonight to see if we can’t contact the spirit and figure out what’s going on.”

“Tonight might be...problematic. We have a little ceremony planned for Baby.” she said, smiling and dimpling in the *cutest* way. “All the neighbors will be there!”

You see where this is going now, right? Fuck, I wish I had.

“I mean, so long as it isn’t in this house. Large gatherings might upset the spirit.” I said, softly. Baby was already dozing in her mother’s arms. “If it has to be here, I can always come afterwards.”

They agreed and [REDACTED] had me drive them home before I took the car to their motel. I was scheduled for another walkthrough around ten, tonight. That gave me time to shower, check my gear, take a nap and check my gear, again.

Then it all went to hell.

It’s no secret that most PEs are riddled with ink. I’m no different, but all of mine are on my back and upper arms. It took time to learn which portion of my skin would react to whatever was in the air. 

The dead center of my back, right on top of the upper portion of my spine, lit up like fire. Usually, it’s a small, specific spot, but it felt like there were three or four of the small, inked runes lighting up at once. 

Necromancy.

Blood magic.

Demonic presence.

Those are the big three tattoos. If one of those goes off, I know I need back up. If all three go off...run. Just run. Necromancy in of itself isn’t a strictly forbidden art in the SC, but blood magic is. Demons, on the other hand...well, they’re just like other members of the SC. Some are good, some are bad and some...some need a hot lead injection right between the eyes.

That tattoo only lit up in the presence of a demon with evil on the mind. Feeling the pain in my back, my fight or flight responses kicked in. I strapped Peace to my thigh, shouldered my bag and made for [REDACTED]’s car.

I made it to the house at 9pm, a full hour before I was due. Cars were lined up down the block, so I just parked in a vacant driveway. I could apologize later. My phone jingled it’s clarion call and I answered immediately. I always answer Ramona as quickly as I can. “VT!” she was practically in the midst of a panic attack. “I was scrying and I had to call. VT, you need to come home now. Whatever case you’re on, drop it.”

“There’s a kid in there, Ramona.” I protested, eyes on the lit up windows of Husband and Wife’s home. “I can’t walk away.”

“VT, you don’t even like kids. And honestly...all I saw was blood. I hate to say it VT, but that child is probably -- “ “I know!” I shouted, the burning in my back getting all the more intense. “I know. Look, I know I don’t like kids, but that doesn’t mean I want to let one die. If there’s anything I can do, I have to do it.”

Ramona went silent, and I waited. “...I’ll pray to the spirits for your protection, VT. Come back to me alive, okay?”

“You got it.” I responded, my finger making for the screen to terminate the call. “Bye, Ramona.”

“Wait!”, her sudden shout stilled my hand. “Give ‘em hell.” I smiled and terminated the call.

The time for subterfuge and lockpicking had passed. I emptied a box of Elinor’s “special blend” into my pocket and checked Peace’s cylinder. Everything looked ready.

I bolted for the door and hammered on it. No answer. No sound beyond the door. I kicked, just next to the deadbolt and only got a wonderful jolting sensation that sent me limping and cursing in a circle. 

I wasted no time in stepping back to the street and running, full tilt, for the nearest window and diving straight through. I felt the glass slice open my arm as I covered my head for protection. 

I rolled across the carpet as I landed and came up with Peace in hand. Nothing. No one. The house was completely empty.

All of these houses were built the same, so it was a fair guess this place had both and attic and a basement. My leg still smarted, so the thought of climbing stairs up didn’t appeal, so I resolved to check the basement.

It’s always fucking basements.

The door was easy enough to find, right beneath the stairway to the second floor. It was locked, so with some creative ingenuity, I had it open.

[Editor’s note: Creative ingenuity means VT shot the lock off.]

The instant that door swung open it felt like someone had pressed a branding iron to my back. I ignored the pain and sprinted down the stairs, slamming into a wall as I reached the bottom.

The metallic scent of blood hit me with all the force of a sledgehammer to the nose. Corpses. Corpses everywhere. All in various stages of decomposition. I recognized Husband and Wife, not by their clothes, or faces...but by their hair. Wife’s golden mane of unruly curls and Husband’s stupid little manbun. (Why don’t they just call them buns for fuck’s sake?)

Every corpse in here wore the same robes, bore the same jewelry. I recognized the design. They worshiped Death. Not Elinor’s Death, the supposedly nice lady with the kid. They worshipped violent Death. 

They worshiped murder.

I fought valiantly to keep my dinner in as I saw what they’d had on the altar in the center of the room. I lost.

I couldn’t bring myself to unwrap the bundle that had no less than thirteen or fourteen daggers sticking out of it. The amount of blood on the altar told me, if the daggers didn’t, that they’d finished their sick little ceremony.

Baby was the sacrifice.

Human sacrifice has been a thing since the dawn of time. So has child sacrifice. It’s become taboo in the SC, due to the fact that pure innocence is a force so powerful that it often rages out of control. 

Doesn’t stop a few fuckwits from using it and dying for their trouble. I felt no sympathy, in fact I’d dearly hoped their deaths were slow.

“Do you want to kill them?” a voice, so sweet in my ear, practically lulled me straight to sleep. “See them suffer? I can make that happen. I can make every sick fuck out there pay for the wrongs they do.” it was my voice I was hearing. “We can slaughter them all. Val, we can -- “ That snapped me out of my daze. “Only my mother calls me Val.” I said, squeezing Peace’s grip. “And I hate that bitch.”

I turned and saw who’d been whispering. It was a mirror image of myself, albeit a perverted one. My features were too fine, too distinct. It was like someone took my face and stretched it over my bones. It smiled in a way that if I ever say that expression on my own face, I’d lay down on some train tracks and wait.

“What? You don’t want to make them suffer? They killed an infant, and for what? Power? To summon something they shouldn’t? C’mon, VT, we both know better.” the mirror me scoffed and threw up her hands. “You do this job because you like the blood.”

“Not really.” I said, conversationally. I knew what this was, this was what they’d summoned. After killing it’s summoners it still wanted more. There was only one way to deal with something as malevolent as this. Deprive it of power. “I do this job because it pays the bills and I was born into it. Plus, I just so happen to be very good at what I do.”

“Murdering living things? Banishing non-living things?” it asked, grinning.

“No. Dealing with trash like you that only exists to hurt others.” I smiled right back. “So, I suppose you could call me a glorified garbage woman.”

That pissed it off. It’s face warped into an unholy mask of fury and it lunged. When a demon takes on a form, it’s trapped with that form’s physical ability. The demon was just as strong as I was, with none of the training. Meaning it’d be dangerous, but manageable. 

It grabbed onto me and we both tumbled to the floor. Peace skittered away from my grip as the demon slammed it’s fists into my face. I felt my nose break and my lip split beneath the melee onslaught. It seemed to notice the gun and lunged off of me to make a wild grab.

I took my chance. The instant it’s weight left me, I made a wild grab for it’s hair and yanked. It screeched it’s rage and continued to paw for the gun as I mounted it’s shoulders and slammed it’s face into the concrete floor again and again and again. I couldn’t kill it, not with my bare hands. The more effort I wasted on the demon, the stronger it’d get. I shoved to my feet and aimed a hard kick to it’s ribs, leaning down to grab my gun. The demon was already on it’s feet, thick, black blood oozing across my distorted features. “Yes...yes...fight. Struggle. Feed me.”

“Nah.” I said, wiping my bloody, broken nose on my sleeve. “It’s garbage day, bitch.” I pointed Peace dead at the demon’s head and fired. My ears rung with Peace’s gunfire scream. The demon’s head was decimated and it’s true form started oozing out. A thick, gray mist that hung in the air and screamed. I couldn’t very well shoot that.

A demon can’t be killed. Some make physical forms for themselves, examples being incubi or succubi. Some take on forms of those they find aesthetically pleasing. Some take on the forms of their victims...but when the body dies, their true self escapes. The dingier looking the cloud, the more evil the demon.

And this bitch looked like pollution. 

I made for the stairs, determined not to let the demon try and slide it’s way into me. Possession is tricky enough to deal with, I didn’t want to cause another PE more trouble than they already had.

The second I topped the stairs I realized I’d made a mistake. Someone was already waiting.

And she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her skin was olive in coloring and flawless. Her hair hung about her like a veil made of pure shadow. Her eyes glowed an unearthly green, devoid of pupil. I barely even noticed that she was wearing a billowing robe that seemed to want to suck me in.

“Run.” I panted, trying to push past her to no avail. “Demon. Very angry demon.”

She smiled, softly and nodded “I know. Please, stand aside, VT.”

VT? She knew my name?

She brushed by me, leaving my skin like ice. I couldn’t move, speak or think. I don’t know how long I was standing there, staring into space. A horrifying screech pulled me from my hypnotic trance and sent me barreling down the stairs. The demon was trying to cling to the pipes that ran along the ceiling of the basement.

The woman was inhaling it. “Stop!” I shouted, grabbing her shoulder “It’s going to kill you!” she paid no attention, continuing her upsettingly long inhale. “Stop!” I shook her, but too late. The last of the demon had just vanished past her full, stupidly kissable lips. 

Fuck.

She coughed, swallowed and smacked her lips. “Unpleasant.” she said, rubbing her throat. “But slightly tangy.” she smiled and looked to me. “You’re covered in blood, will you be alright?”

I wiped the blood from my face and nodded. “Yeah, nothing serious. What...are you?”

The woman laughed and I felt my stomach drop. “Oh, silly, little girl...you know already, don’t you?”

That’s the first time in my life that being called a silly, little girl was a turn on. “No.” I whispered, softly. “I have no fucking idea.”

She laughed again and approached the bundle. One by one she pulled the daggers free. I take no shame in saying that I looked away. I just wanted to go home, at this point. When I was finally able to look back at the woman she held a baby in her arms. No. Not a baby. The Baby.

The bundle was still slack and bloody on the alter, but Baby was sleeping peacefully in this woman’s arms. Either I’d gone crazy or --  “Its her soul.” the woman said, conversationally. “It had been locked up in here as bait for the demon.” she caressed the infant’s cheek with a finger.

“No!” Husband’s voice sounded off like a gunshot. “No, you can’t do this to us! We command you.”

The room was packed. The robed figures were all standing atop their corpses, slowly approaching the woman still toying with the sleeping infant. Wife spoke next “She was our ticket to immortality! To godhood! You can’t stop us! We own you, now!” they weren’t paying any attention to me...and the woman wasn’t paying any attention to them.

A voice I didn’t recognize rang out “Kneel before your masters!”

That brought the woman from her trance. She didn’t look angry, only mildly annoyed. “Kneel? Own? Command?” she asked, frowning. “No one commands me, fools. I cannot be contained. I am not some dog on a leash.” she snapped her fingers and the spirits all dissipated with a clarion scream. “This is tiring.” she said, shaking her head. “It’s my granddaughters’ birthday party today, can I not get one hour’s peace?” 

“Who are you?” I asked, taking a step forward. “What are you?”

The annoyance fled her face and she smiled, sweetly. “I said you already know.”

The entire world dropped from beneath my feet. Primal fear exploded through my being as every atom of my being screamed at me to run. Run and never look back. “Death.”, I whispered, causing the woman to laugh. “Elinor’s Death.”

“I am everyone’s Death, child...but you may call me Isali.” she smiled. It was a smile only a mother could possess. “My...husband gave me that name. Isn’t it so strange. You exist for so very long by one name...and someone gives you another. One that you love with all of your being.” her eyes met mine “You know that well, don’t you...VT?”

VT. Ramona had given me that name and I’d latched onto it with all my might. “Yes.” I whispered, nodding slowly. “I do.”

“Do tell dearest Elinor I send my regards.” she said, enveloping Baby in her robes. “Oh, the corpses here have your payment for this job. You may empty their pockets, if you wish. I believe it shall more than cover your expenses.”

“Isn’t that...disrespectful?” I asked, feeling squeamish at the thought of looting corpses.

“Are you implying they are deserving of respect?” Isali asked, an elegant eyebrow raising. That was a fair point. I immediately started to rifle though the corpse’s belongings. She watched me, carefully as I did. “I must go. My granddaughters will be ever so upset if Grammy isn’t in attendance. VT, we will meet again.”

“Wait.” I said, pushing to my feet, still waring with that primal desire to bolt. “Elinor...Elinor said you have a son? How?”

She laughed, brightly and shook her head. “Love, child. Love.” she looked thoughtful for a moment then turned her back to me. “Come with me.” she took a step forward...and I followed.

The world went topsy-turvy, and my brain felt like a block of ice in my skull. When my feet stopped moving I was at Ramona’s bedside. Alone. I didn’t know how much time had passed, or if any had passed...but Death -- Isali, she knew what I wanted more than anything in the world at that moment. And gave it to me.

I pulled back the sheets to Ramona’s bed and crawled in next to her, snuggling up to her back and trembling. Even in her sleep, Ramona’s a caregiver. She rolled and threw an arm over me, squeezing me close. Come morning, she raised hell for my staining her sheets with my blood. Isali was never mentioned.

Case closed

[zerochanges]

Night of the Banshee

With less than a week or so to go, Halloween this year is fast approaching. So now’s the time to get in the last few frights and scares before we all start our unnecessarily long 3 month celebration of Christmas (What? Don’t try to tell me your January isn’t full of Christmas decorations that just refuse to die; like a zombie’s death-grip on some poor background character). Last year I was encumbered with a busy work schedule and really didn’t get to enjoy the frightful holiday, at best I think I saw maybe 20 minutes of Cujo on cable TV and that was pretty much the extent of my spooks that year. So this year I wanted to do something special and check out something truly horrifying. Which leads us to today’s subject: Banshee’s Last Cry.  

Now what is Banshee’s Last Cry, I hear you asking. Well it is a sound novel released for the iPhone in the US during January of 2014. So then what’s a sound novel you ask. Well, that can be a bit complicated. Similar to a visual novel, a sound novels usually forgo character sprites and CG art and instead focuses more on the novel aspect. It’s much closer to the novel nomenclature and essentially feels like reading a digital book with music and sound effects to amplify the experience. Of course like a visual novel there are still moments where you get to make choices in the story that lead to different endings.

The easiest western comparison would probably be text based adventure games, a genre that similar to the much more popular point ‘n click adventure games faded away a lot as technology advanced but is making a comeback, especially in the indie scene on Steam and the Mobile phone market. For the sake of this article, that’s pretty much all you really need to know about sound novels, but yes, any nerd I may have just upset; you are right, it’s much more complicated; a lot of games will use that label and have just as many visuals as visual novels, and it also started life as more of a brand of games for Chunsoft (the developer of today’s game) but yet nowadays some of the most famous sound novels like Higurashi When They Cry have nothing to do with Chunsoft. Basically, the more you try to categorize things the bigger of a cluster duck it becomes (quack). But really, all you need to understand what the game play in Banshee’s Last Cry’s is like is to just think of classic text adventure games!

(The original Super Famicom box for Kamaitachi no Yoru - 1994)

In Japan Banshee’s Last Cry was originally named Kamaitachi no Yoru (かまいたちの夜 / Night of the Kamaitachi) but the localization company, Aksys Games, renamed it something a lot less Japanese. In America it’s pretty easy to have missed this game but in Japan when it originally released in 1994 for the Super Famicom it was a huge hit and has remained to this day a cult classic that has spawned off numerous sequels, ports, remakes, reimaginings, and even its own live action TV drama (that’s when you KNOW you made it!). Now obviously this mobile phone release is one of the many rereleases for the game, but for us in America this marks the very first (and at the time of this writing -- only) time we have ever seen a release. This is quite momentous considering despite how incredibly popular Kamaitachi no Yoru was in Japan no one has ever tackled translating it for 20 years until this point, not even fan translations; any real attempt or interest shown in the fan community had always fizzled out until then.

This release while momentous however was also met with some concerns, the most obvious of which was its Americanization (or maybe Canadianization?). A lot of fans weren’t incredibly sold on this aspect of the English release when it first revealed. The plot was moved from Japan to Canada (Nagano to Whistler, British Columbia to be precise), and all the characters were renamed to match. The protagonist Toru became Max, and the heroine Mari became Grace, for example. The good thing is you can rename these two to whatever you like--I personally kept Max’s name but changed the heroine back to Mari because her English name also happens to be the name of my pet dog, and that’s weird--I don’t wanna romance a character with my dog’s name (plus I am too unoriginal to think up any other girl’s name for Grace/Mari). You cannot however rename anyone else in the story, and more importantly for those who took issue with this decision, the location change will stick no matter what.

In Japan they have a lot of folklore creatures, or yokai, who have a very long and rich history. This complex hierarchy of creatures, monsters, ghosts, and ghoulies all help to make for incredibly unique literature you just can’t quite recreate in English. That’s not to say the English world does not have its fair share of great horror writers who could conjure up their own parthenon of fantastically terrifying Lovecraftian horrors, but culturally the things that go bump in the night are really quite different between us. While in Japan yokai may seem like a fun part of their own local folklore that kids to adults all have, at the very least, a familiarity with, not much else like that is true for America.

You may have your occasional local legends like the Headless Horsemen (insert Christopher Walken gif here), but there really isn't any cemented creature folklore that everyone just “gets” in America. At least, not anything nearly as rich and complicated as a lot of Asian or even European folklore creatures. The best alternative I can think of off-the-top-of-my-head would be Big Foot, and ‘Night of the Big Feet’ sounds about as menacing as it does sensual. It’s because of this that veteran translator Jeremy Blaustein (Metal Gear Solid, Snatcher) decided to go in a different direction. Americans don’t really have a great set of creature folklore, and obviously outside our own little niche communities of nerds, don’t know Japanese folklore either--and thus would not get much out of the material presented that way--but that isn’t to say there weren’t plenty of other folk creatures out there that are well known to Americans. While Blaustein’s choice of the Banshee has some awkward work-arounds (mainly an Irish ghost being in Canada and all that), it’s something pretty much everyone knows--a part of popular culture that has stayed with us all, and was a really great stand in for a Kamaitachi, or Sickle Weasel.

Not everyone knows what a Kamaitachi is, even anime nerds might not, as it isn’t the most popular yokai (sadly not enough people have read Ushio & Tora), but pretty much anyone knows what a Banshee is. Both creatures also work quite nicely together, setting the right winter horror atmosphere. In the middle of a terrible blizzard, the howling winds have enough force to knock down tress, shatter glass, and even flip over cars. You can feel the cold down to your bones, it’s bitter and resentful, and while it might just be your imagination, the thought that such fierceness could even be enough to cut through you doesn't seem too ludicrous while out there in the storm. In the original Japanese text we had the Kamaitachi that are known for riding on dust devils, and their sickles that can easily be associated with a wind so fierce that it may even scratch you, while in the English text there’s the Banshee, known for their howls--like that of the howling wind. Anyone who has ever been trapped in a fierce wind storm can attest to the truly demonic, otherworldly sounds fierce wind can make--a howling Banshee’s does not seem far off during a terrible blizzard.

What’s important here is that the original essence of the story is coming out for the audience, and in that regard Blaustein succeeds remarkably, creating a very enjoyable reading experience that is truly on par with the Japanese writing. The text is a pleasure to read, and flows incredibly well. The utter horror and sense of being trapped truly leaps off the ‘page’ and it’s a genuinely harrowing experience while also not missing any of the charm and unique humor the original Japanese version is so well known for as well. In his own words Blaustein talks about his decision for such a strong localization as opposed to keeping the original folklore and setting:

“When I asked myself if the idea of small weasels with scythes strapped to the legs would resonate with a Western audience that has no such myth, I had to answer no. Furthermore, even the word "weasel" brings to mind shifty Steve Buscemi-like personalities as opposed to something supernatural and scary. In trying to make a true localization that would capture the essence as opposed to the trappings of the story, I decided Banshee would be more in keeping with the original SPIRIT of the game. From that POV, I feel that I am actually closer to the reproducing the feel of the original for a Western audience than I would be if I had kept it Japanese. It is hard perhaps to explain, but I feel strongly about it.”

So let’s finally talk about this story, as really it’s the whole meat and potatoes of the game and is what it’s all about. Banshee’s Last Cry has a simple premise at first: a group of people are trapped in an Inn during a terrible snowstorm, things soon become suspicious when three of the guests find a note slipped under their door that reads “TONIGHT@MIDNIGHT=DEATH”. The characters initially try to write this off as a prank but it doesn't take long until people go missing and their corpses show up: the first of which is horribly mangled in a grotesque, almost implausible manner, that leads to the cast wondering if perhaps something supernatural is at play. It’s a Whodunit, with a spice of the potential paranormal. Think old dark house, but with snow.

There are 43 different endings in this particular version of the game, however many of these endings are death related bad ends. For example, let’s say you are given three options when it comes time to confront a potential murderer: one of these options will probably lead you to confronting the wrong person and accidentally escalating the situation until you through your own actions or the actions of another ends up getting an innocent person killed resulting in a game over. The second choice then might result in you choosing the right person but messing up how you confront said person and being killed yourself. That’s two bad endings right there, and 41 more endings to go. The third choice then is the actual right choice to keep the story moving down its natural progression. A lot of the branches in the story can work like this example I just made up, but don’t be disheartened as you can always skip ahead after the game restarts and get right back to where you were and try again. Plus completing endings may unlock new dialogue choices given to you and can lead to endings you could not have seen otherwise at the start of the game.  

Despite the many death related bad endings out there to haunt you in your mystery solving there are plenty of other actual story progressing endings as well, and lots of different stories even to boot. Once you solve the main mystery and finally figure out the murderer and how they pulled off their killings, the game is not over yet. There are other stories that get told with the same basic setting and characters. Sometimes some character’s backgrounds and personalities change completely, other times some characters might be swapped out with new characters! This is especially true in a gag story you can unlock where the first victim who dies a particularly gruesome death is replaced by an overly flamboyant cross-dresser (or maybe it’s an anthropomorphic goat?) and hijinks ensue.

Yes, there also happens to be tons of comedy in this. Probably half the game is really hard edged and full of gruesome horror with crazy high death counts, while you white knuckle your way through it trying to find the bastard who did all this, if it’s even an human to being with, while the other half of the stories are gut busters that turn everything you know on its side and deconstruct horror tropes leaving you laughing the whole way through. Sometimes people are murdered horribly, sometimes you are caught up in a James Bound movie between a war of spies, and sometimes the game just goes absolutely nuts. There is honestly nothing quite like it, you can say Banshee’s Last Cry is an expert case of a video game that both terrifies and trolls its audience, and that’s the best part about it.

Out of all the crazy endings in the game I think my personal favorites have to be the one where you can decode a hidden message in the dialogue presented and learn that Chunsoft is behind a conspiracy to take over the world by brainwashing you and everyone else who plays their games, and the ending that pokes fun at Chunsoft’s other big series: The Mystery Dungeon games. If you ever played a Shiren the Wanderer, or the many, many, many other mystery dungeon flavored games such as Chocobo Dungeon, Etrain Mystery Dungeon, Pokémon Mystery Dungeon, Barbie’s Dream Dungeon, or even Call of Dungeon Medieval Warfare, you’d get a real kick out of exploring the basement of the Inn and discovering it’s actually an RPG Dungeon that you can dungeon crawl through, fight classic fantasy monsters like Goblins in turn based combat, and try to find treasure chests. This game is just an absolute marvel that keeps giving in how it messes with your expectations.

And this is truly the most horrifying thing about Banshee’s Last Cry, there’s nothing quite like it out there in English, and it’s already about to fade away forever. Banshee’s Last Cry launched in January of 2014,  and since then has only had one update, about a week later after it came out and has never been updated since. This September (2017), Apple has launched their newest update: iOS 11 that moves their devices from 32-bit to 64-bit, in the process breaking a lot of past games and applications. A lot of developers have been prepping for this and have updated their products, but a lot of other apps have been left to wallow in oblivion (much like Shin Megami Tensei I -- another miracle of the mobile market now dying with iOS 11). Banshee’s Last Cry has not yet been updated and very likely never will be. This is another game lost to the harsh reality of a digital market place. If you’re thinking maybe the Android version can still be saved, well unfortunately even though Aksys Games advertised an Android version. one never materialized. The only way to play Kamaitachi no Yoru in English is to have an iPhone that hasn't yet converted to iOS 11, an update that is already a month old now at the time of this writing.

There may be hope in the future, as Spike Chunsoft has since shown some interest, a previous Twitter poll from last year over what games people may want to see localized saw “Kamaitachi no Yoru” (yes, not Banshee’s Last Cry) show up in it. While it did not win the poll there still might be a chance for it yet. Another sound novel in that poll, 428, lost as well but was announced for an English steam release. Perhaps if 428 can make it maybe Kamaitachi no Yoru can eventually too. There also happens to be a really nice and shiny new PS Vita remake to work off of for Kamaitachi no Yoru, that converted the game into a more traditional visual novel which will most likely have greater appeal to the English speaking market nowadays.

The future is hard to really tell, but such a fascinating and important game like Kamaitachi no Yoru deserves a better chance for an English audience to enjoy. It shouldn't be stuck on a dead platform that won’t work on modern phones and just the few YouTube Let’s Plays that are out there of it. I cannot think of anything more horrifying than the lost of game like this.

Fun Facts:

1.) Kamaitachi no Yoru was originally made using photographs of the real world location it was set in as the backgrounds. The developers added in some digital effects where they were needed such as pixelated snow moving across the screen and the silhouettes of characters talking. When the developers could not get a background they wanted in real life they created miniature models for them, such as the wine cellar. The Mobile version of the game again does the same thing, but interestingly the English localization Banshee’s Last Cry, retook a lot of the photographs of the Inn setting by using a real Inn you can actually visit in British-Columbia. While some of the interior shots are the same, some are quite different. The miniature models and digital effects seem to have all stayed the same though. You really have to appreciate such workmanship in keeping everything as real and practical as possible. Here are some comparisons of the Japanese and English Inn used:

Kamaitachi no Yoru iOS Comparison

2.) The music in Banshee’s Last Cry is just fantastic. I couldn’t really think of a spot to properly talk about it above but I really loved this particular version of the soundtrack. If you want to check it out you can should be able to find it on YouTube. I also uploaded the music to my Soundcloud as a back-up.

3.) While I didn't want to go to the monstrous task of hunting down EVERY version of Kamaitachi no Yoru I did at least take some comparison screenshots between the original Super Famicom version, the localized Banshee’s Last Cry iOS version, and 2017 Vita remake that turns the game into a visual novel. Check below:

Kamaitachi no Yoru - SuFami - iOS - PS Vita Comparison

[jayne-hecate-writer]

Where have I been of late?

Since about October 2018, I have been hibernating. Some things have happened, some nice and some not. More than anything though, I have been shut in doors, suffering as always with severe pain and hiding away from the dark cold days with my hot water bottle and a pile of pain killers that would make the average junkie jealous. In comedy terms, I am one CH short of being a heroin addict and if you don't know the units known as CH, then you should go and check them out. So with my usually enjoyable heroin addiction* starting to get boring, we hit March 2019...

With the beginning of April only days away, the days have got longer and the nights have got shorter, the weather is brighter and the sun has burned away the deep grey clouds. Basically, spring has hit us and with the increase in air temperature and pressure, my pain levels have retreated to the depths of my body. This is not to say that I am pain free, that is a dream that I know is no longer possible, but the levels are low enough to allow me to start living away from my hot water bottle for a few days at a time, although as I write this, I am perched on my hot water bottle once again.

Of course for us, spring means days on the motorbikes, or rather it used to means days on the motorbikes, for me it also means a constant yearning for the mountains, moors and wilderness of adventures past, the aching heart of an adventurer stuck in a mundane life, with only the occasional bit of respite.

My friend Ess was dating a boy and she really liked him, but as is often the way with this thing called life, Ess and the boy parted ways, which left her feeling a little sad and in need of a bit of cheering up Jayney style. At the same time, Darling wifey was having problems with her bike, the fabulous Noreen, or to you bikers out there, a Kawasaki ZRX1100. After a long cold winter of too few miles, it needed to blow the cobwebs out of the carbs and so wifey set about with a clean cloth, some clean plugs and some fresh petrol. Ess was on a day off and I suggested a little ride around the block on the back of Sylvie, my precious custom Suzuki SV650 while Wifey fixed her bike. Ess had never been on a motorbike before and the thought of doing so was intimidating. I promised not to go fast and promptly became a pre-teen girl and turned Ess into Biker Barbie, with my full leathers, spare helmet and a teeny little bit of encouragement.

Our first trip was a circle of our street at slightly less than twenty miles per hour... Well, I had promised not to go fast, hadn't I? It turns out that slightly less than twenty miles per hour is a bit dull for Ess, so we went a bit faster, or to be more accurate, slightly more than twenty miles per hour. Ess was captivated and when Wifey hit the starter on her bike and it sounded like it needed a quick run, That could only mean chip shops, beaches and a three mile ride along the coast. Ess clung on to me like a set of Mole grips to a cheap steel bolt, I thought that I would be crushed in her arms, but we did hit thirty miles per hour. After our chips and a chilly evening ride back to my hotwater bottle, Ess stated firmly that she was now a biker convert, zero to hero in three miles. We showed her some biker gear on line and she started looking at helmets, picking out some of the prettier and more feminine styles. You see Ess is not like me, not only does she have manners, she also likes pink things, she loves Unicorns in a gentle non Deadpool kind of way and she likes to look pretty.

For me, biker gear should be proof against dirty grit filled rain, it should cover enough of me to keep the unhygienic splats of crushed blue bottles hit at speed on the motorway away from my skin  and it should look cool, all of which means black, with black highlights and black seams. Ess, liked the helmets that were decorated with flowers or pink flashes and which would really show up dead fly splats, road dirt and flicked up dog shit from the gutter. That is why I don't wear pink biker gear any more. We promised Ess that we would eventually take her over to the bike shop in Bristol so that she could have a look at helmets and clothing, but warned her not to buy too much gear before she really knew that she wanted to ride bikes. The following morning, Ess had made up her mind and was ready to go and told us so, so we loaded up the bikes and rode over to Bristol. One hundred and fifty pounds later, Ess looked great in her new pink and black helmet and gloves. That was two days ago, zero to hero in two days. Wifey has also been charged with finding Ess a bike that she can learn on, but while she waits for said bike to arrive on e-Bay, Ess is aching to get out and do the miles on the bitch seat.

I have not just been playing with bikes and bullying Ess into going for rides, in fact if I were to try that, I would be a splat on bedroom floor myself by now. Instead, last night I met up with my more cultured friends (more cultured means that we say cunt with a little more conviction) and we wandered over to Glastonbury to watch what I had been promised was a Folk-Punk gig... Oh yeah, I don't just do Black Metal and opera does I, after all I am cultured, in I!? The head line band was Ferocious Dog who sing socialist anthems about the Minors Strike and although they are not the sort of thing I usually get to see, I genuinely enjoyed their performance, even if the middle class, Glastonbury wannabe Crusties that arrived in their Marks and Sparks jeans, Edinburgh Woollen Mill jumpers and brand new Dr Marten's boots took over the (for want of a better description) Mosh pit... Now having been to several Death Metal and Black Metal gigs in my time, I am well versed in Mosh Pit etiquette and have been in several absolutely belting mosh pits. I have in my time seen limbs broken, hair torn out, teeth lost and skulls cracked, but the broken and the dying are always helped up from the floor and shoved in the waiting arms of paramedics. In contrast, this 'Mosh Pit' was sedately swaying in time while occasionally clapping in time and I was later informed that the dancing is usually considerably more hardcore. By this, they meant that the dancers form acrobatic human pyramids, basically they are architects who use people as building blocks in the construction of high rise blocks. It is all very twee, but I still enjoyed it and danced along when my pain levels allowed.

After my night out in Glastonbury, I was exhausted and I climbed into bed and pretty much passed out for five hours of blissful dream free sleep, finally waking up with a spine that felt broken and a head that could not turn left. But that is why we have hot baths and massage. I was able to soak it all away in the bath for an hour of hot water and occasional swearing, which was handy because Ess was demanding to go out on the bikes again... It was such a hardship.

Jan my co-writer and fellow biker arrived as I was packing Ess's spare kit into my tank bag and together with Wifey, the four of us got ready for an adventure that would take us to the bikes and a lunch date with the always fabulous leader of the ultra mega cool writing club. Jan was on the back of Wifey's bike and Ess climbed onto the back of me, for what was in effect, only her third ever ride, but as is often the case with these kind of things, she was full of enthusiasm and for the second time in twenty four hours, I was going back to Glastonbury, or at least close to it.

The ride across the Somerset levels is particularly beautiful, with the rolling hills of the Mendips in the distance and flat open pasture stretching out for miles in almost every direction. There was the occasional drainage ditch, filled with stagnant water and loads of pondweed. There were also the odd herds of cattle or flocks of sheep blinking in the fresh spring sunshine, so generally speaking it was just pure beauty as far as the eye could see, blighted by the occasional sewage pumping station. 

 Sadly I have to admit that our stop next to one of these pumping stations was necessitated by my need to curl up in a ball of pain and weeping due to the awful bumpiness of the roads almost jarring the bones out of my body. I was in pain from my toes to my ears and was thoroughly angry with myself for being broken and in pain, meaning that I could barely keep up with Carol. Ess was kind and gentle as she stood patiently waiting for me to stop swearing and hexing next to the bike and no doubt she was wondering how the fuck she was going to get home if I was too broken to ride? Thankfully, we were less than ten minutes away from our meeting with Head Honcho and I was able to scrape myself up from the gravel, where I had lay, screaming and kicking like a petulant child who says cunt far too much!

We parked by the pub front door, undressed from all of the fly corpse encrusted riding gear, slapped on our least 'dangerous biker' smiles and went inside, to be warmly greeted by the bar staff and a waiting Head Honcho. A table had been reserved for us in the dining room, next to a large window that allowed me to see the traffic outside and count an unusual number of Suzuki TL thousands that seemed to be flowing by. The food arrived and it was remarkably good, I even managed to squeeze in a dessert, which is unusual for me, but I did feel like a huge fat bitch afterwards and I really need to go back on my misery diet to loose the extra fifty tonnes I am now carrying on my hips! For anyone interested, I can highly recommend the Pipers Inn as both a beautiful place to sit and to enjoy a fabulous meal. I am sure that we will be back again, providing that they let us in and don't object to my casual strong swearing and awful wind!

With lunch sitting on my stomach like a concrete kebab, we propelled the bikes towards the Mendips and Cheddar Gorge. The scenery was spectacularly beautiful and as we began to climb the hills, Jan found an enormous pile of shit, reminiscent of the descriptions from our latest book. 

Well, it would have been rude not to stop and Wifey needed a rest to take some photos. Cheddar Gorge is beautiful, it feels mountainous in stature as we entered the roadway to the bottom and the great limestone walls rose up around us. The road meandered, not always gently to the bottom and the village of Cheddar itself and I was forced to laugh at the newly placed signs warning people to stick to the speed limit of thirty miles per hour. I can only imagine that this is to speed up because they tend to crawl down the hill at about fifteen miles per hour at best, absorbed utterly in the beauty around them.

We stopped in the village of Cheddar for just long enough for a splash and dash... We also said hello to a few of the other bikers and Carol even spoke to the wife of a sadly passed friend whose funeral we had gone to a couple of years ago. It was all very nice and as usual for a sunny day, Cheddar was packed to capacity with grockles. As much as I wanted to ride somewhere else fabulous, my body was giving me the warning signs of exhaustion and my pain levels were rising, meaning that our next stop was home. We enjoyed in total a couple of hours of riding and for me this was enough of a adventure that I felt energised, reinvigorated and I am looking forwards to a summer of even more adventures. Which is sad because when I woke up this morning, knowing that his evening I must trudge over to Bristol once again, this time to see the mighty Akercocke play at the Thekla, I was utterly broken and beyond even shuffling around the flat. No Mosh Pit for me tonight then, just the usual gentle swaying as I stand there in my Marks and Sparks Death Metal shirt and shiny Dr Marten's boots!

With no particular order of preference, I would like to thank the following people for dragging me out of my fortress of solitude that is my duvet. Thank you to the staff of the Pipers Inn who made us all feel very welcome. A big thank you cuddle to Ginny Lego and the fabulous night time navigators who got us to Glastonbury for the first gig in scary dense fog. A big thank you to Head Honcho for her continued patience as we search out more obscure places to meet up for a chat. Love and thanks must go to Ess and Jan who barely moaned at all about my swearing, hexing and wind breaking. As always, a great big thank you to Darling Wifey who navigated me around the Mendips and the levels like a Sat Nav, but with a lot less of the “Turn around now you blithering idiot!” that I usually get!

* Please note: I am not currently using and nor have I ever used actual heroin, but for comedic purposes I have compared my medically proscribed codeine based pain killers with this tragic and illegal drug that has harmed so many people. The sad truth is that codeine is a nasty, addictive substance and it needs to be carefully monitored by your Doctor if used regularly.

[thegraytalon-blog]

Resident Evil 2 Review (Remake)

Overview:

Hey everyone, once again The Gray Talon takes aim, chooses his targets wisely and considers his prey carefully and TODAY we will be diving back into the zombie infested town of Raccoon City as Leon S. Kennedy and Claire Redfield to see how this remake stacks up. Is it a truly a definitive survival horror modern masterpiece on a title that is over 20 years old or is it a cheap knock off for a quick cash grab like other remakes or remasters rather, have done oh so many times in the past since this console generation started? Let’s jump right in and find out! (And once again I will do my best to not spoil the plot.)

Graphics:

It’s 2019 and in this day and age one may begin to ask how much better can graphics truly get? And the answer lies no further than with Resident Evil 2. The new RE engine that Capcom is using holds such weight and presence here that you will begin to pause for several moments at a time as you take in the awe-inspiring meaty visuals on some of the zombies as they begin to deform and deteriorate before your very eyes whether it be from examining their idle corpses or studying and counting the pieces of brain chunks left after taking their heads off with that faithful shotgun or magnum. In terms of performance, I was playing this on my Xbox 1X and honestly it was damn near flawless. The framerate seemed consistent and almost locked at 60FPS for the most part, except during some intense action sequences when it dipped to below 50FPS but that was few and far between. Output on the 1X was a true 4K at 2160p. From the opening sequence to the part where you turn over that zombie’s head to reveal some juicy chunks of flesh to the first appearance of the horror that is Mr. X, the game is a true delight to witness through and through. 

Gameplay and Control:

What happens when you marry the atmosphere, item crafting, inventory management and horror of RE7 with the camera and control scheme of RE4? Sex, people. Pure, simple, unadulterated, prolific and glorious sex is what you shall receive in return. This is quite possibly the most fluidly controlled RE game I have played since RE4 rolled around 15 years ago. The controls are air tight and responsive, allowing you to navigate the eerie police station and lab with ease. The signature shortcut 180 degree snap feature returns in RE as well that they have trademarked over the last 2 decades, where you hold down on the joystick and press X or A to quickly turn around in the opposite direction. A useful tool indeed when Mr. X comes a’ knockin! Now in terms of movement and combat, the game offers you several options. You can opt to simply run away from all forms of zombies and lickers who are trying to chow down or cop a piece of your ass like you’re grade A top choice meat in the mile high club and the only female member of a flight surrounded by ravenous love starved men. Or on the flipside, if you decide to run and gun your way through, might I suggest heavy emphasis on the GUN aspect and light on the RUN. Especially when lickers are present. You want to tip-toe around them and walk on eggshells whenever you see those Gene Simmons from KISS impostors lurking about. When you fire you always want to aim true for their heads, especially on Mr. X, even though shots only stun him, leaving a small window of time for you to run past and make your escape.  In terms of weapons and upgrades, you start off with a simple handgun and have to work your way to unlocking other weapons via key cards or solving puzzles for guns such as the beloved shotgun, SMG, flamethrower and grenade launcher. You can also unlock greater inventory capacity via weapon holsters that are picked up during each separate campaign that makes life a lot easier. And finally, the puzzles are quite elaborate, just as they were from the original RE2 back in ‘98, so be prepared to put on that thinking cap throughout both Leon and Claire’s campaigns as you scratch your head to solve chemistry puzzles and even have to convert binary code to unlock elaborate doors in the lab sections.

Story/Campaign/Narrative:

The setting is 1998 in a small mid-western town of Raccoon City. You’re playing as rookie cop Leon S. Kennedy going to the police station for his first day on the job and/or a 90′s punk rock poster girl, college student Claire Redfield who’s in search of her brother Chris when all of a sudden the zombie T-Virus has just been unleashed onto the town and their stories converge at the police station where the majority of the game transpires.. For a 21 year old game, Capcom has made sure to make RE2 feel all grown up. While story aspects remain the same from the original release, they hired a brand new cast for voice over work as well as recreated most of the way scenes play out, like the first introduction to the illustrious Mr. X. Each campaign is fresh yet familiar and, for example, Leon’s first sighting of him is nuanced and a slow burn in a dark corridor, whereas on Claire’s run, although  you first spot him in the same place, it is in a completely different and quite sudden, fast paced, way. The core of the narrative revolves around Leon and Claire both trying to achieve the same goal of figuring out a way to survive within the confounds of the Raccoon City police station while working separately in their unique campaigns. Things go awry and snowball downward and take them from the police station to the sewers and right to the laboratory where the T and G viruses are made once good ol’ Mr X shows up. And in case anyone hasn’t a clue who I’m speaking of, let’s just say once Mr. X shows up in his trench coat and fedora, you’ll do whatever it takes to stop yourself from crapping your pants suit while fleeing hastily in his opposite direction because if he catches you, well, then let’s just say he will give it to ya! And you’ll go down harder than than a hooker on a weekend romp in Vegas because this dude moves like the T-800 and hits like Mike Tyson. Prison Mike too mind you so stay frosty! Each campaign is about 6-8 hours long, depending on your pace and offers another set of playthroughs on Leon and Claire’s “B” side, which means you will start off in different areas and end up following different routes and pick up different gear at different times, etc. to receive a new and true ending. I suggest you play Leon A scenario first, then go on over to Claire’s B scenario for the final and let’s say, good ending. So we’re talking a total of about roughly 16 hours, over 24 hours if you play through the game 4 times for shits and gigs. Overall the game is heavily story driven and robust, leaving players feeling the true meaning of survival horror along the way as you try and unlock the mysteries surrounding each of the viruses associated with the aloof Umbrella Corporation.

Sound, Music and Voice:

From the sounds of your character’s breathing as a creaking old wooden floor squeaks beneath you as you’re walking down a supposedly empty hallway to the terrifying growls and grunts of the zombies plowing towards you to munch on your no no parts, the sound effects are simply magnificent and remarkable. Sometimes the sound of silence is the biggest star of the show since Capcom does a tremendous job at making the player feel tensed up as they navigate the dark, gloomy and bloody corners of the police station. Just when you think the coast is clear and you’re about to reach that sweet, sweet save room, something unexpected usually happens that may cause you to almost lose control of your game pad and bowels as well. The music is subtle yet effective. The slow paced ambiance of woefully sounding background noises are a nice touch as you traverse the environment, carefully inspecting your surroundings ensuring your survival. The weapons too, when used, sound just as you would expect them. Nothing quite satisfies to the very core like hearing the sound of a shell of a shotgun or magnum blast and watching the zombie’s head explode in front of you like a popping a fat, overbearing zit. Or using the flamethrower and hearing the cracking sounds of fire as your enemies are burnt to a crisp then listening to the residual hissing sounds after you barbecued them like a rack of ribs on the 4th of July. The voice acting is surprisingly well done too. While not a familiarized sounding Leon from previous RE titles, I am glad they got someone who sounds fitting for the role. Fitting in a sense of a young buck who is just starting off in the real world and has yet to earn his stripes, but by the game’s end does so, ten-fold. Claire, too, sounds good and almost a little too surprisingly upbeat for the madness that is commencing around her. The supporting cast also does a great job to display the weighted turmoil surrounding them and the situation that they are all in. 

Replay Value:

High as a kite on a windy March day! I had to literally drag myself on playing through this game a third time. I was infatuated with the entirety this game had to offer. I have not been this glamoured by a Resident Evil game since the likes of Resident Evil 4. There is just so much to go back and do too in terms of getting all of the playthroughs, weapons, upgrades, items and hey, even speed runs to unlock such things as infinite ammo. Who wouldn’t want to barrage Mr. X with a plethora of rockets or grenades to see if you can actually kill that rat bastard? 

Conclusion:

My final score for Capcom’s Resident Evil 2 Remake is going to have to be a 9.5/10. Simply remarkable on all fronts. The video game industry now has set a new bar and new standard for remakes. Other companies are going to have a tough time toppling this undead opus. After you have finally run through both Leon and Claire’s individual campaign’s and the bittersweet zombie blood smoke has settled, what more can I say about this magnificently crafted game, other than why are you still listening to my dumbass for? Go play it for yourself to experience the horror and greatness!

PRO’S:

A beautifully yet horrifyingly detailed world from characters to environments.

Superb story with many terrifying moments.

Rewarding inventory and upgrades.

Satisfying camera and controls.

Tons of replay value.

CON’S:

If only playing one campaign it may be a bit on the short side for some.

A slightly long learning curve for newcomers as ammo tends to run very scarce at times.