#if i left anything out lmk :)

[fryday]

Everything We Know About The Phagenda

I needed a place to organise all the info we've gotten from DNP about what the hell they're cooking, so this is the place. I might have missed things, so please always check the original post for the most up to date version of contents as I might change or add things over time. Any questions, just shoot me an ask or something. Thank you and happy conjecturing!

I tried to arrange the info roughly chronologically in each category.

It's probably more than one thing

Dan mentioned some things coming "somewhat after and a little bit soon after"

Phil said, "We've got a few things in our mouth at the moment"

Definition of "agenda" suggests multiple things

Money stuff

Phil made his cactus club subscription more affordable in preparation for what he and Dan are doing next

Phil took a question about what they're cooking in his latest Q&A video. He said that something may or may not "happen in the next month", but did not answer the section asking if we should be saving up for it.

Those who RSVP'ed will "be notified first as soon as the news drops" -> presumably related to a limited quantity of items up for grabs, which is why I've included it in this section, but that's just my guess

Concept / Nature of the Thing(s)

Someone on Twitter said, "So the phlonde has been in the works for months if that was the main reason he let his hair grow out" and Dan replied with, "what else is he plotting"

Dan and Phil included a blurred out image of a text message in their video, which Dan called "the draft for something that is top secret".

SuperSeizer (one of Dan and Phil's editors) is in on what's happening (the other person in this interaction is their other editor Kris, who may also be involved, depending on how you read this interaction)

In his birthday livestream, Dan talked about how they revived the gaming channel not knowing what the response would be, and were shocked by the enthusiasm from their audience. "Because it seems like there's a thing here. [...] And we need to be like, celebrate the things, acknowledge the things. So, I guess we can say in the most vague way that we can that Dan and Phil have been cooking."

Dan posted his story with the words, "the time is nigh - want to know what dan and phil have been secretly cooking? / reply to this story with: RSVP / and we will send you a dm as soon as the truth is revealed"

Another definition of "agenda" is "the underlying intentions or motives of a particular person or group".

5 of the images in the TV screens have been identified as of right now: Phil's Video Blog, Hello Internet, Saying Goodbye Forever, Giving The People What They Want, and Something We Want to Tell You

Laylo, the website DNP are using for this announcement, is a platform that creators can use to release merch, tickets, or content.

The initial wave of people who RSVP'ed got their confirmation emails from news@mail.danandphiltour.com with the reply email being dh@danielhowell.com. It was then changed; now the emails come from news@laylo.danandphilshop.com with the reply email being danandphilshopweb@gmail.com.

Dan and Phil would have been aware that they were using the tour email at first, as they would have had to manually enter it themselves. (Thanks @dnpbeats for the investigative work!)

They included a 3-second teaser clip at the end of the Sims fashion makeover episode.

[puppyeared]

XIN YA MOMENT

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

So sad you didn't like the dadsy moment. I thought for sure you would go crazy.

As far as I know David Breen wrote this episode and he's not new. Don't quote me, but I think the writing team is the same

Actually went back and edited my post twice earlier cause I had a buddy mention the mixing studios change and then I also was able to process more lol y’all must have the first version my B o7 I can’t believe my hcs have become canon

[siren-of-agony]

Can't believe they're gonna cut a whole ass organ out of my belly tomorrow and then I just get to? go home right after?

[good-beanswrites]

Just wanted to plant an idea if you wanted a bit of fuel: Mahiru asking Yuno to come to her cell before everything goes down.

Edit: I forgot the ask didn't say it but this is part of Kyanako's incredible Order Of Attack AU!

Didn't mean for this to become a mini Mappi study but here we are ✨ Thank you for the request! I fully intended to write them hanging out, but it's more right before they hang out lol. Went a bit on-the-nose with foreshadowing, but isn't that the fun part? It has become Emotional Over Mahiru Hour...

I kept things vague, but TW for mentioning her boyfriend's state of potential self-harm

Mahiru tried not to act superstitious, she really did. As much as she loved the idea of little luck charms, or avoided easy signs of misfortune, it was easier to keep quiet about such ridiculous things.

Maybe catching a bride’s bouquet meant no guarantees; maybe there was no real harm in stepping underneath ladders, maybe a coin tossed into a fountain had no real magic to its wish. However, the one thing she knew for sure held power was a lucky presence. Being in the right place at the right time could alter everything. And today was the right time for something. There was this waiting in the air. The prison had been holding its breath. Mahiru knew it was time to release it all.

“You must be so lonely, why don’t you let big sis Mahiru keep you company?” She beamed at Amane.

She often recalled the good fortune that she and a certain young man had crossed paths on the university terrace. She used to laugh with him about the wonderful coincidence of bumping into each other outside of the bakery, then the convenience store. 

Though she’d never spoken about it to him, she was also grateful for many occasions where she walked in on him at the precise moment to talk him out of something reckless. She always told him that they’d do everything together. He didn’t need to be alone anymore. 

“I wish to be alone. I need peace of mind to think.” Amane turned away from the cell door.

It was a good thing, too. Mahiru’s smile wasn’t as convincing as she said, “o-oh. Of course.”

She made her way around the panopticon, hearing Fuuta pace his cell in anticipation. He must have felt it too, this holding of breath. 

Or perhaps not. He turned down her offer for a bit of company, including a few more colorful words than Amane had. Mahiru just apologized for bothering him and headed back to her cell. She wasn’t sure where Mikoto was at this hour, but she didn’t feel like smiling through a third rejection.

She shook her head back and forth. She wished the motion could rattle the voices inside, she wished she could shake them all away. With her arms secured in place she could no longer cover her ears. She used to hum to keep them at bay, but lately they’d been too loud to stifle. They just kept on talking.

Their words told her the two were right. Nobody needed her company. No – nobody wanted it. Being together hadn’t helped her boyfriend. In fact, being together had been the very thing that got him killed. No wonder Amane and Fuuta wanted to avoid her. 

So then, this was for the best. She would rather deal with the brief sting of refusal than stumble in one day to find them hurt… or worse. As much as she tried to avoid the superstition of it all, the voices reminded her that her very presence could mean life or death. 

“Mappi, are you alright?” Mahiru hadn’t realized a tear had slipped down her cheek until she hurried to swipe it away in front of Yuno. 

“Hah, I’m fine! Just fine.” It was impossible to fool her, Mahiru had learned, but that never stopped her from trying. 

At least she always spoke tactfully. “Rough morning?”

Mahiru shifted her arms in her uniform, making a small sound of agreement.

“Can I do anything to help? What if I stay with you for a bit? I can do your hair, and…”

The voices were right. Amane and Fuuta knew it, too. Presences did hold power, and Mahiru’s was cursed.

But she would sound foolish admitting such a fear to Yuno. She'd heard plenty from the voices about how stupid and airheaded she was, there was no use in getting the same lecture from someone as grounded as her.

Mahiru managed a weak protest, unable to explain her real reasoning. Yuno was insistent. She didn’t give much of a choice. Could she feel the strangeness of the prison, as well? 

At last, Mahiru allowed her shoulders to sag. Yuno was lucky. And kind. Having her nearby would do her good. Amane and Fuuta would be alright. Mahiru had tried spending more time with them after verdicts were announced. Now, she made a mental note to pull back. If her love couldn’t save anyone, at least she could spare them from her curse. They would be safe. 

“Yes. Please stay. The truth is... I don't want to be alone.”

[qrowings]

@aestasrosis liked for a starter!

Qrow couldn't believe what he was looking at, his eyes locked onto the frail limp body in chains laying against the wall before him. The only thing giving away any signs of life from her was the soft rise and fall of her chest.

He took one step forward, then another, hands tightening on Harbinger as he slowly moved to be in front of her, careful not to make any noise.

"Summer?" He finally spoke, a soft questioning whisper as he crouched down before her, reaching out to brush hair from in front of her face, unsure if she was conscious or not.

Qrow could remember the day they finally stopped searching for Summer, not even being able to find her weapon, Taiyang had finally called off the search, saying he needed to focus on his kids now. Qrow had stopped as well, when Taiyang begged him to stop looking, saying it was too painful, that he couldn't lose his best friend as well, but Qrow never stopped hoping that she was alive.

"Is it really you, Summer?" He keeps his voice as quiet as he can, not wanting anyone from Salems outpost to hear. The place was meant to be deserted, but he didn't want to take any chances.

[10piecechickenmcnugget]

Howdy! Under my post you offered to talk about Purpled's lore/character and it would be really cool is you did that!

You have unlocked an unskippable cutscene I could literally talk about this for days on end

under the read more cause this is gonna be LONG

okay SO the very basics of Purpleds character is just he’s a really skilled fighter, so he became a mercenary to put those skills to use

ccpurpled said himself that cpurpled just wants money and power

but despite this, he’s not a fan of conflict at all, and prefers to avoid fights and wars whenever possible

a favorite quote of mine, “I’m like Switzerland, I don’t really fight, but when I do fight, I win” (not word for word I forgor)

he greatly prefers to keep to himself, and just gather materials and chill with his dog and mind his own business, because he’s seen what happens to everyone else, and doesn’t want any part of it

Early in the server, before he did a lot of serious lore, he had a decent amount of relatively positive relationships with a couple people, and he didn’t necessarily hang out with them or anything but he trusted them

he mostly just sat around and built stuff, the first big thing he was a part of was the Manberg vs Pogtopia war

-karl recruited him against his will

-he ran around for like 30 minutes just rambling about how he had no idea what was going on ever

-he fought for like 3 minutes before switching sides

-*getting killed by fireworks* “IM ON YOUR SIDE” “YOU WERENT BEFORE”

-was dead silent for like 40 minutes as he just ran around fighting people and no one acknowledged him

-schlatt fucking died “did he just have a heart attack?!?” “He just fucking died!!” And then went silent again

-the whole thing were no one wanted to be president

-it ended up being tubbo

-no one could figure out who the traitor was

-watched wilbur die right after lmanberg blew up

-killed one of the withers and was very proud of himself

-Connor joined the game, left the game, joined the game, stole purpleds pants, and left

-purpled went home, reiterated that he had no idea what the fuck just happened, and ended stream

this is so long already but wait, there’s more!!

not a whole lot important happened after that, he was still living in a cabin of the main path, and his UFO was just kinda vibing (that’s a surprise tool that will help us later)

he kinda chilled on his own, and suddenly the Eggpire is a thing! Purpled has no friends, so he doesn’t care!! (There are vines all over his UFO but he doesn’t live there anymore so he doesn’t do anything about it)

suddenly Ponk wants to talk to him, and now uh oh, BadBoyHalo is in some random ass cave trying to hire Purpled to kidnap Puffy

purpled has nothing better to do, so he takes the job

he doesn’t log on for months, so Quackity puts bombs in his house

suddenly purpled logs on and Quackitys like “I understand this looks bad but I want to hire you”

“what’s this another mercenary job?” God forbid someone hire him to do his job

he accepts, and badda bang badda book now he’s working against the Eggpire

Q, purpled, and Techno are going to take down the red banquet, and then Quackity decides to be an asshole (Purpled and Techno want to go in and help, but Quackity makes them wait and foolish dies, then Quackity goes in and plays the hero)

they beat the shit out of the Eggpire (bad is not happy with purpled)

purpled leads everyone out of bads creepy basement “you’re a hero, purpled” “I try my best”

purpled wants his payment for helping the duck man

Duck man pays him, and then breaks the entire fandom and blows up purpleds ufo right in front of him!

purpled wants to kill him, Quackity tries to convince him not to, tells him that he’s basically nothing now, and purples goes home

fucking dumbass blows up his own house after having 37 mental breakdowns

slime is spying on him and purples wants to strangle him

he goes to las Nevadas, “I just want to make it very clear that I don’t think there will ever be a point in time where I respect you as a person,” and joins LN just like Q wanted!! Surely nothing bad will happen!!

~timeskip~

Quackity has an anxiety attack, purpled leads them to the most unnecessary trap ever, he and Q yell at each other, Quackity does a fucky wucky, and now Slimecicle is dead

purpled just fucking walks away like the girlboss he is, and later kidnaps slimes corpse and traps him in a cave

Punz shows up, says some stuff, purples agrees to work for him and dream (this will not go well)

they raid las nevadas!! dream blows some shit up, foolish releases an army of slimes, and purpled yells at Quackity some more

slime reveals he’s not actually a dumbass and shoves purples of off a balcony

and then the server fucking ended so I guess that’s that!

so, long story short, purpled is pretty much just a badass but also cringefail assassin, who does not like people or conflict, and has cared about two things ever (his ufo and his dog, which is thankfully still alive), but is also still just a teenager, and has some shit going on.

he doesn’t care about a lot, but he does have silly little feelings sometimes and the only two times he ever showed that he blew up his own house and the second time he fucking died

[gumy-shark]

little splinter comic i’ve been working on for MFTT (Mighty Fighty Turtle Teens, my tmnt iteration)! this is sort of a warmup for me in terms of this iteration, getting used to drawing the characters and lair! (image ids under readmore)

[image ids:

first image is a sleeping splinter, all cozy and tucked into bed.

second image is him in the same position, but his eyes are wide open and there are light curls of smoke coming in from the right. next to his head is a message reading “SMOKE!” in all capital letters.

third image is him rushing through a sewer/hallway, wearing his clawed villain boots over some pajama-type clothing (i drew them, but i’m not 100% sure what they are). next to his head are the words, “The boys!”

fourth image is absolute chaos in the kitchen- smoke is pouring out of the toaster and stove, and mikey and donnie are desperately trying to fix it. meanwhile, leo and raph are chilling at the island in the center of the kitchen (leo with a bowl of cereal, raph with a book)- mikey and donnie caused this mess, they can clean it up. at the side, splinter breathes a sigh of relief, the words “Phew…” and “they’re safe” written by his head.

end image id]

[sorrymcm]

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 incoming starter for @khianat !

"everything is definitely going according to plan, i've got this covered." ezra absolutely does not have it covered, and there was no plan whatsoever. "don't worry. a pretty face like yours doesn't need a frown on it."

[bludgeoningbabe]

Tw; mentions of YJJ cronies previous anti-indigenous racism

So for context, somebody runs a fnv companion poll bracket and sets up a blog for it, is kind of whack about it because:

1) they have some really vocal bias against Cass for being kind of homophobic (kind of fair but they did blow it out of proportion a bit)

2) they called arcade a twink (lol) and doubled down on it when people were like "this is objectively wrong"

3) swung the bat at the hornets nest of the Fallout 4 fandom by saying something along the lines of "ACAB includes Nick Valentine"

4) and this is my personal gripe, saying something along the lines of "if you dont follow/vote/reblog ill send a punch lesbian to get you". I assume they meant Veronica (they kept calling Veronica that) but I do genuinely hate when ppl down lesbians to aggresive characteristics nonstop. It makes me not want to get to know you irl.

And the person behind this blog shuts it down before the semifinals because YJJ's besties find out abt the blog and start dogpiling on it. But ONLY for the Cass thing.

These are the same group of people who chastised people for mob mentality when more than one person was like "hey why is your bestie super racist"

These are the same group of people who dogpiled on a mixed indigenous person (going so far as to threaten their unborn baby and hoping they miscarry) for calling out YJJ's anti-native racism.

Like dont get me wrong, the person behind the poll was kind of whack. But they also sounded a little young (this is an assumption, i dont actually know) so i just blocked and moved on.

But a bunch of thirty somethings were so indignated for specifically the Cass thing (calling this bland white woman homophobic is the last straw but not threatening to kill someones unborn child i guess) that they preseumably dogpiled on this one person, they probably sent nasty anons knowing their history, and are now celebrating their brave defense of some bland white character that didnt really need that much defending in the first place (outside of tumblr, Cass is like the number one most liked female FNV companion)

[weewoow-2060307]

They've fought before, all friends do. Will can remember their first spat, it was over a campaign, Mike made it too hard, the party kept getting injured, it was stupid, really. It was resolved pretty quick, like most childish fights.

Their next big fight hurt, it had a lot more built up anger behind it, it being just the two of them certainly didn't help, but that was also resolved, Mike and Lucas had biked out to apologise, and after Will had calmed down he could understand why the other boy was so mad.

Their fight at Rink-O-Mania was very similar, there was just a lot of bottled up emotions that exploded.

However, this fight felt different. Both boys were stressed- for good reason- and tired, and on top of it all Will had blatantly lied to Mike's face, something he had never done before, hid things, sure. Never outright lied. Will knew what he was doing when he lied about the painting, deep down he knew it would be a Trainwreck when Mike found out El did not commission the painting, but he was not expecting the reaction he got 'What is wrong with you?!' Will sucks in a sharp breath through gritted teeth, shooting into a sitting position on El's bed. He bites the inside of his cheek as his knees draw up to his chin. He should be sleeping.

A knock from the door yanks him from his spiral, he shifts to face the opening door. El gives Will a soft look, the latter responds with a strained smile.

"Can I sit?" She gestures to the bed, Will nods.

"You don't have to ask. It is your room after all." El just shrugs, flopping down next to Will.

"Ours." A comfortable silence settled between them, El gazing blankly at the ceiling. Will feels his dark thoughts come crawling to the forefront of his mind, festering, growing, spreading, he is unsure which ones are really even his, "Why would I commission a painting without me in it?" El doesn't pull her eyes from the ceiling, Will cringes.

"I- I'm sorry."

"No. Don't be. I'm not mad, just curious." El immediately cuts in, rolling to her side to look at Will, propping herself up on her elbow.

"Mike was scared you were going to end things. and I thought that what I told him was how you felt, I guess I was wrong." El smiles.

"I was going to end things, at surfer boy's, but after- Everything. I felt like I needed him, I didn't wanna risk our whole relationship until things felt more..." El trails off.

"Stable. I get it." Will finishes, El nods.

"I would never want to lose my friendship with Mike, he was there for me, I do love him. Just not like- that." Will nods.

"How did you find out about the painting?" Will asks, looking away, El hums.

"It was only a matter of time, but Mike made a joke about it. I forget what it was but I remember saying that I have never seen that painting before. Then he asked me questions about how I felt about him while in California. I was very confused but I answered honestly. No point in lying. Then he said he had to go." Will glues his eyes to the floor, remembering exactly where he had gone.

"We argued." Will starts, still not looking at his sister, "bad. Worse than any of our other fights, and that's saying something- I don't know. I don't want to hurt him, but I also don't want to be hurt by him. I just-" he clears his throat, blinking rapidly, "I don't want our friendship to end, it can't. But it's like, I can't- I can't fix it." Will feels himself cracking, he knows he should shut his mouth but it is almost cathartic to say it aloud and El wasn't making any attempts to stop him, "I don't- It's just. We have been friends for ten years. Ten. So why can we not just work through this like we did with everything else?" He takes a shaky breath, suddenly finding himself lost for words despite the avalanche of thoughts rushing through his mind "Why?" He swallows, ripping his eyes from the floor to gage his sister's opinion. El sits up quietly.

"I know Mike wouldn't want your friendship to end either." She speaks, tilting her head so they can be eye to eye. Will purses his lips, he knows that, "I think you should speak to him. By now he is probably moping about his basement, whining about how much of an idiot he is." El giggles, quickly stopping when she catches the look in Wills face.

"Yeah. I will. First thing tomorrow."

"After breakfast?"

"No. First thing."

"Well you better sleep then. If you want to get up early enough to leave before mum starts shoving a plate of food in your face." El's joke lands well this time.

"I should. Do you want to sleep in here?"

"Nah, I'm all good on the couch. Stop trying to get me to sleep in here."

"I'm just offering." Will shrugs.

"Yeah, but you promised you'd sleep in a real bed tonight, no couches, no floors. And no tables."

"That was one time."

"One time too many." Will laughs as El shuts the door, turning off the light on her way out. The former laying down and throwing a blanket over himself.

---

Will thinks he might explode

It feels as though has been lying here for hours. He got lost in his thoughts, but he was always led down the worst possible paths, so he would think of a random thing he liked, a therapist recommended something like that to him after he came back from the upside down, although it didn't really help against the supernatural, so he never used it, he figured this time it might help. After a while of failing at that strategy he started making noise to quell the raging thoughts, but that stopped working around three hours ago. He tried laying dead still, but he started to feel phantom vines encircling his lungs, so that was a no go. No matter what he thought of, one singular person always managed to come up, Mike. Will swallows, sitting up and throwing the blanket off his legs. '1:58 ' Will sighs, walking out of the room. He grabs his jacket off the side of the couch, giving it a quick smell test before giving a half hearted shrug and putting it on. He grabs his shoes from the side of the door and sits on the top step of the cabin to throw them on, before begining his journey to the Wheelers.

The forest feels different at night, his brain is screaming that he needs to turn around. He can't, 'You can't really be that much of an idiot! ' he needs to apologise. He vaguely thinks he should have taken Argyles van, considering Argyle was willing to drive his friend, his friends little brother and a random stranger across the country Will assumes he wouldn't have much issue driving to the Wheelers. Then again, he would also have to wake up Jonathan who get very suspicious, but that would have been an inevitability, considering the side eye he has been giving Will since the fight. He was so deep in his thoughts he almost missed the figure standing further down the path.

"Mike?"

(Edit: This is part 1. I will put any parts I add in the Edit tag)

[thetomorrowshow]

hubris killed the god - ch 1

At first he thinks it’s a trick of his mind. Something brought about by the terror of the storm and the grief of multiple deaths.

When the other two llamas die and Scott finds their bodies, little black crawlies digging into their eyes, he knows it has to be real.

When three more llamas come down ill within the week, Scott knows that quarantine is hopeless.

And when he notices the blackness approaching, rolling over the fields on every side of Chromia, inching closer to the town until the Nether portal is inaccessible, Scott knows this isn’t just going to go away.

And he isn’t going to get away.

this is the first chapter of my apocalypse/horror/survival fic, set in empires smp s2. happy halloween!

cw: previous major character death, death of animals, mild gore, horror

~

The day before the end begins, it storms.

It’s a bad storm, one that Scott finds himself out in, battering down the storm defenses of the llama garden and covering patches of the flower fields in tarps. Then he gets inside before it can get any worse.

The rain is so heavy that his window becomes a dark sheet of water, his own thoughts deafened by the hammering of hail on his roof and the echoing thunder. Scott finds himself frightened by the way the wind seems to penetrate his home, and when his lantern blows out for the fourth time, he gives up on trying to keep a light on and crawls into bed, pulling the blankets over his head and pretending he can’t hear the way the house seems to creak under the weight of such a vicious storm. Eventually, he must fall asleep, his room so dark that he can’t tell the difference between eyes open and eyes closed.

When he wakes up, he wakes with the sun in his eyes.

Scott sits up slowly, inhales the scent of petrichor that fully permeates his bedroom. There’s a hole in his roof, he spots immediately, a shingle hanging through it, dripping water onto his floor below. 

Compared to the horrifying storm of the day before, Scott finds it almost stiflingly quiet, the only sound being the plat plat plat of the water drops hitting the floor. He can’t very well let that continue.

Scott kicks the blankets away from his legs, where they’ve become tangled in the throes of his sleep. He only allows himself a moment, a moment to prepare himself for the work and wreckage that is surely waiting outside his door. For that moment, the sun shining in through the hole in his roof is beautiful, the water drops sparkling, the air fresh and delicious.

Then he gathers a breath and slides out of bed.

He’s right, unfortunately. Chromia has sustained a considerable amount of damage, roofs and roads torn up, entire swathes of crops felled, trees split down the middle and pulled to pieces. One unlucky building has collapsed entirely, a tree splitting its roof down the middle.

That damage is manageable, though. It’ll take time, but Scott knows how to build. He can repair buildings, fill potholes, replant crops and trees.

He can’t bring back the dead.

The llama garden is destroyed, the trapdoors hanging off their hinges, the hedges uprooted and blown over. Scott steps over storm-churned mud, speaking quietly—he’s not sure what he’s saying, something soothing and repetitive—as he approaches the huddled, wild-eyed herd of llamas, all squished under the hasty awning he’d constructed when the storm had begun.

There are two limp llama forms in the garden. Yeti and Eloise. 

Scott takes care of them first, kissing both on the forehead before carrying them, one after the other, out of the garden and beyond the bounds of Chromia, to a plot of land he’d laid aside months ago with the hope he’d never have to use it.

The digging of twin graves is slow and mournful, but Scott doesn’t halt until he can roll the bodies in, dirt streaking down his face where it clings to his tear tracks.

He can’t particularly be blamed when he doesn’t look back, shovel hoisted over his shoulder, when he returns to the llama garden. So perhaps it isn’t Scott’s fault that he doesn’t see the darkness crawling over the graves.

-

A llama is ill.

Very, very ill.

It seems to have come out of nowhere—one day, Martina is fine, the next she’s shaking with fever and shying away from any touch. Scott separates the llama from the herd the best he can—which mostly means leading Owen into the garden and bringing Martina to the tavern, one of the buildings with minimal damage from the previous day’s storm.

At first, Scott assumes it’s stress. The stress of surviving the storm and watching two of her friends die had been too much for this poor llama, so he makes all the special little cures that he’s learned in his travels and leaves them for Martina with some warm blankets and pillows (he doesn’t spoonfeed her or anything, because if there’s one thing about Scott it’s that he hates being near sick people or animals, but he trusts that if she can recover, she will).

The next morning, Martina is dead.

And two more are ill.

This isn’t stress, then, this is something contagious. Scott entirely abandons his rebuilding plans, throwing tarps over holes in roofs and walls, and dedicates all his time to isolating the sick llamas before removing the dead one.

When he approaches the limp llama form on the floor of the tavern (already beginning to smell), he pushes it over onto its side to make it easier to pick up.

Crawling all over the llama’s belly are little, black, fuzzy—things.

Scott actually cries out in disgust, pulling his arms to his chest. The things are—they look like patches of mold, and from a distance he might have been convinced that the body was simply growing something, but up close they’re wriggling and swarming and it’s absolutely revolting—because they aren’t just sitting en masse upon the Martina’s body, but they seem to be . . . eating it.

They don’t have mouths—or if they do, they’re too miniscule to tell—but Scott can see unmistakable flashes of red between them, and certainly they’re eating his friend.

As he gazes in horror, something changes and their movements turn erratic, before they all begin to scatter from the body—and Scott doesn’t stick around to see the open carcass of the llama. He books it for the door, as the . . . things behind him reconvene upon the llama.

Scott slams the front door of the tavern and leans against it, breathing heavily. What—

What was that?

At first he thinks it’s a trick of his mind. Something brought about by the terror of the storm and the grief of multiple deaths.

When the other two llamas die and Scott finds their bodies, little black crawlies digging into their eyes, he knows it has to be real.

When three more llamas come down ill within the week, Scott knows that quarantine is hopeless.

And when he notices the blackness approaching, rolling over the fields on every side of Chromia, inching closer to the town until the Nether portal is inaccessible, Scott knows this isn’t just going to go away.

And he isn’t going to get away.

-

The llamas are a lost cause. Within days, the entire garden is overrun.

Somehow, he manages to clear a path through the black things—mites, he starts to call them in his head, or plaguelings sometimes—to get to Owen’s body to say farewell, but even the hardest of glares don’t shake them from the body.

He can still walk through town, though the confines of his walk become smaller and smaller every day. The mites don’t seem to appreciate being looked at, scuttling away when he lays his eyes on them, but they return as soon as he passes, covering up the bare ground behind him. So, before the crops are entirely a lost cause, he gathers whatever bundles of wheat remain from the storm’s devastation of just two weeks prior.

He stacks all of his food stores in his house, and when he wakes the next morning to retrieve whatever building materials he can, his storage hall is blanketed in black. Safe to say he won’t be going over there any time soon.

And over the course of a month, Scott finds himself completely cut off from any source of food, building, and outside help.

He thinks about his friends, sometimes. Surely this plague isn’t just spreading in Chromia, because when he climbs to the roof of the tavern, he can look out and see endless patches of black.

Sometimes, his eyes turn toward his neighbor. Stratos is silent, its lamps burnt out, its heavenly glow burnished.

And that, perhaps, more than anything, scares Scott.

Whatever these things are, they’ve caused the god to abandon his city.

-

He thinks, sometimes, that maybe he ought to have tried to leave back when the first llama became ill. He should’ve gone to Shelby, or Sausage, or someone else with animal knowledge to ask about the illness. And both are such magical folk, perhaps they could have killed this plague before it properly began.

“Nice going, Scott,” he mutters to himself, eyes jumping from side to side as he walks down his main street. He can see them, hiding in the cracks of bricks and in between buildings and in the dying grass. He won’t let them get him yet. “Imagine what Pix’ll write about this. Foolish ruler overrun by tiny fuzzy monsters. Forgot to leave while he still could.”

But then there would have been no one to comfort the llamas in their last days, he reminds himself, even if it had to be from a distance. He still hasn’t touched a single mite, and he doesn’t plan to.

They’re terrifying, these mites, because they’re always there. There’s constantly a little bubble of black in the corner of his vision, reaching toward him like some amalgamous arm, only breaking apart when he looks directly at it. He’s had too many close calls, especially off the road where they can hide in the grass and pop up right beside his boot. Only the road is moderately safe.

Until, suddenly, he can’t even walk on the road anymore.

He steps out his front door to find that not only are the plaguelings swarming the road, like millions of tiny rats, but that they’re swarming around things in the road—and off the road—and on his doorstep.

Birds. Dead birds. One every couple of feet, like an entire flock had been dragged out of the sky by the reaching arms of many piles of mites.

And really, Scott thinks, a sickly feeling in his throat, who’s to say that isn’t what happened?

It’s clear what the message is, though—outside of his house is no longer safe. He’s stuck here with whatever he has to defend himself against the encroaching darkness, which is unfortunately not much.

Fire doesn’t work against them. He’d tried early on, watching with growing panic as they had mobbed the flame, seeming to multiply as they piled atop it until it was utterly smothered.

A sword is too imprecise, the mites scattering away from the blade before the swing can even land—same for an axe.

His shovel had been useful to an extent, though he hasn’t managed to actually kill them with it—the whacking of it on the ground had only served to scare them away for a few moments.

So Scott grabs his shovel, adjusting and readjusting his sweaty grip on it, and stands by the door, ready to swing at anything that skitters through the cracks.

That day passes mostly uneventfully, Scott jumping every time his house creaks, weapon aloft and body tense, only for nothing to happen.

The next morning, there are a handful of mites creeping toward his kitchen. The mites vary in size, the smallest being the size of a fingernail, the largest perhaps the size of Scott’s palm. Unfortunately, one of the mites in his house is the palm-size kind.

Scott whacks and whacks with his shovel, a scream tearing from his throat—these are the things that killed his best friends, he can only imagine waking up to one stuffing itself down his throat as he chokes on the nightmare and is enveloped by so many others and they’re going to kill him he’s going to die here—and yet it remains unsquashed, gathering with a couple of smaller ones in an unreachable spot under his furnace.

Scott stares, lets his shovel fall with a shaky, sob-like sigh.

This is it, isn’t it?

They’ve gotten into his house, and everywhere they go they spread death.

Within hours, there’s more. Scott tries to hit them with his broom, afraid of the way the shovel blade seems to be rattling loosely against the handle, but when they just begin to crawl up the broom handle Scott shrieks and throws it across the room.

There’s so many of them. There’s too many of them, all creeping and crawling inexorably toward Scott, the only living thing left.

Scott doesn’t sleep that night. He spends the night watching his bedroom door, because if he’s looking at it they won’t come in. They only move toward him when he isn’t looking, so he’s just going to stare at the door and put off the inevitable.

He can’t help but imagine that it’ll be a very painful death.

The earlier llamas had died of illness, a plague that Scott’s pretty sure they contracted by coming into contact with the darkness, but the later llamas. . . .

Well. It hadn’t been pretty. It had been torturous, really, hearing their panicked and pained brays, his heart aching as he couldn’t even bear to watch. He hasn’t even let himself dwell on it until now.

And now, surrounded on all sides by the deathly mites, Scott wishes that he’d died much earlier, entombed in his bed—succumbed to the illness.

It’s too late now. Now, darkness encroaches, and maybe it’s just the fuzziness of his eyes as he forces them wide open, but it looks like the mites may be creeping in along the sides of the room.

Scott holds his place until day, sunlight filtering in through his window. He’d never patched the hole in his roof, just covered it over with a tarp, and he knows that the mites are crawling over the roof because he can see the tarp weighing down, bulging into the room. If too many pile onto it, it’ll collapse into a bomb of flesh-eating death.

And that’s the only sign he has that the mites are around, because there aren’t any in his room yet, and somehow they don’t make noise. They’re silent as they crawl across his roof and down his walls, up his staircase and under his floorboards. They’ve always been silent. 

This is his last day. He knows it.

Scott eats his last bit of bread, swallowing it down past his dry throat. He clips his knife into his boot—maybe he can cut some of them posthumously as they swarm over his body—and swings his trusty shovel around a few times, testing his reflexes.

Maybe he can frighten them a bit, even if he can’t kill them. It’s the noise—or the vibrations—of the shovel colliding with the ground that scares them away, but it doesn’t actually harm them. He doesn’t know how to harm them. He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know how to survive this. He can’t survive this.

And suddenly, there’s one in his room.

It crawls up under his door, the size of one of Scott’s fingers, and is still for a moment—long enough for Scott to bring down his shovel with a resounding crash beside it.

It’s gone in an instant, back the way it came.

But it’s only the first, and a few minutes later, there’s another one.

Scott scares that one away as well, anticipation mounting. He watches the door, shovel ready, breath coming faster—

He spins around, and sure enough, there’s one crawling under his bed.

It must’ve come up from the floorboards—or through a hole in the wall—they don’t just come in one way, they’re everywhere and Scott’s going to die surrounded by tiny monsters that he can’t fight—

BANG!

Scott jumps at the deafening noise, and there’s a crash from his window and he glances over—

A pair of booted heels kick through his window, followed by the legs and body and cowboy hat of Jimmy.

Jimmy lands on Scott’s bedroom floor, glass falling from his body in silver raindrops. He glances up, gives Scott a quick grin.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s never been so good to hear another person’s voice. “Needin’ a rescue?”

Scott almost drops his shovel in relief.

Jimmy’s looking pretty rough, his hair long enough to curl around his ears, beard a bit scruffier than he usually keeps it, shirt torn here and there, badge dull. But his stance is firm, and his eyes are sparkling with a determination that Scott hasn’t had in days, and his bandolier is loaded with bullets.

He looks like a godsend.

Jimmy cocks his pistol—he must’ve shot it, that’s what the bang had been—and aims it at the door, stepping toward it. “How many varmints are through there?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Um. A lot,” says Scott after a moment, hoisting his shovel and drawing up next to him. Jimmy grimaces, then takes a deep breath.

“All right, here’s how this is gonna go,” Jimmy says, briefly making eye contact before turning back to the door. “I’ll open that door real quick and shoot—they run from the sound of it. Then we’re gonna go out there, me shooting and you whacking that shovel around, until we’re outside where False can reach us. Got it?”

Scott nods. False is here as well?

He’s not alone anymore. He’s not going to die here.

Not yet, a wry voice in the back of his head reminds him. He could just as easily die in Jimmy’s hands.

Well, he thinks, raising his shovel. At least we’re going out guns a-blazin’.

And then Jimmy yanks open the door.

There’s hundreds of them out there. On the walls, on the floor, covering any chests and personal affectations. Scott actually takes a step back, but Jimmy just fires his gun into the center of it all.

The mites flee from the loud noise and the hole in the floor where the bullet strikes, leaving a substantial place in the center of the floor for them to step through. Jimmy strides through, Scott on his heels, glaring around to keep the mites from encroaching on their space.

When they run out of clear space, Jimmy hollers at the top of his lungs (Scott jumps a little bit at the sudden noise) and jumps up and down in place, his boots rattling the whole house. More of them scatter to the sidelines, twitching and crawling up the walls. Scott follows as Jimmy stomps through, yelling like a madman—and it works. The noise and impact of his shouts and boots spook the plaguelings, pushing them back far enough away that the two of them have a brief path through the squirming masses.

Scott beats at the ground with his shovel behind them, keeping any from creeping up when their backs are turned. He and Jimmy make their way to the front door like that, back to back, stomping and beating and yelling until they’re outside.

The sun is almost blinding after the total blackness that had covered every inch of inside, and though there’s seas of mites roving just beyond their feet, Scott can properly see the sun and sky and hear a loud whirring and clunking and see—

A flying machine?

Made up of copper and wood, great cogs and spinning wheels, clunking and clanking with some sort of blimp pulling it along—

And Jimmy yells something Scott doesn’t understand, but apparently whoever is up in the flying machine does, as a rope ladder unfurls and falls directly in front of them.

Jimmy stomps in place, grabbing Scott by the back of his shirt and shoving him toward the ladder. Scott knows how to take a hint—he sticks his shovel through his belt loop and he climbs, sweaty hands barely keeping hold of the twisting rope, feet scrambling for the swinging rungs.

If he slips and falls, he’ll fall onto Jimmy, leaving them free for the mites to suffocate. Falling is not an option.

His shovel clanks against his leg, his breathing comes heavier and heavier as his arms tremble under the weight of himself—he hasn’t climbed a rope ladder in years, and never one being blown around by the turbines of some great flying machine. It’s life or death, though, and every time he thinks of what waits for him if he falls from this height, he somehow finds the strength to grip the ropes a little tighter and heave himself up another rung.

It feels like it takes years, but eventually Scott can wrap his arms around the side of the flying machine and roll over it onto the deck, where he collapses, panting, his arms jelly and core aching. His shovel digs into his hip, but he doesn’t move, because somehow he’s safe. He’s been rescued.

Minutes ago, he’d been sure his own death was waiting, and here he is, sitting on a ship in the sky.

There’s a thunk, and he opens his eyes—closed against the rays of the sun—to see Jimmy standing beside him, pulling up the rope ladder.

“No one else down there?” he calls to Scott over the sound of the flying machine, and Scott shakes his head.

“Just me!”

Jimmy finishes pulling the ladder up, dropping it in a heap on the wood planks of the ship. “Get us outta here, False!”

There’s a shout from further along the ship—False, Scott realizes, shading a hand over his eyes to look ahead at the woman in question—and then the ship tilts dizzyingly, turning in midair, the noise of the cogs and gears and machinations louder than before.

Scott feels a little lightheaded, really. This is . . . this is a lot, and he hasn’t been given time to process any of it.

But Jimmy’s barely paused but to wipe his face with his neckerchief, making his way up to False to help with something or other, and Scott knows instinctively that if he wants to stay around, he has to pull his weight. It’s not his first time landing in groups like this—though in his experience, they tend to involve planning and executing heists rather than rescuing people from the apocalypse.

Depending on how he looks at it, that might be considered a heist. Of sorts. Similar enough that he at least has some frame of reference.

Scott knows that he can’t just lie here on the deck. So he pushes himself to his feet, readjusts his shovel in his belt loop, and joins his two rescuers at the stern.

False is at the wheel—a proper ship’s wheel, ignoring the chain of redstone linking it to whatever machine lies beneath deck—, grip firm on the wooden handles as she directs the ship. Jimmy’s beside her, stripping off his shirt—Scott feels his face heat as he catches sight of Jimmy’s chest, shining with sweat, biceps muscular and suntanned—and twisting around, examining every inch of skin.

“Think I’m good,” he shouts, buttoning his shirt back up. He gestures at Scott’s shirt. “Check for critters! There’s some privacy below deck, if you need it.”

And seeing as Jimmy next unbuckles his belt, Scott thinks it’s a very good idea to go below, lest he embarrass himself.

Below decks, Scott almost instantly loses a finger to an amalgamation of copper gears right beside the staircase, then nearly walks directly into a hiss of boiling steam. He can’t really see anything, and he spares a brief moment to wonder why on earth this ship is so dangerous before continuing on, more carefully now.

He maneuvers around the dark, cramped, sweltering space until he finds something resembling a bed—though it’s right next to some ticking redstone machine that seems annoying to sleep beside—that has a low lamp beside it. He tosses his hat down and shrugs off his coat, checks it for mites, then drops it on the bed to pull off his shirt.

Once he’s stripped down to his underthings, he checks all over his body for any black things stuck to his skin. All seems fine—he shakes out his clothes, turns them inside out, checks every inch for splotches of black.

Nothing. Thank goodness.

For good measure, Scott combs through his hair with his fingers, then redresses, carrying his patchwork coat over his arm (he can already feel his shirt begin to soak through with sweat) and firmly setting his hat on his head. He heads back up to the deck, lets out a breath of relief at the feeling of wind on his face.

Jimmy meets him at the top of the ladder, gestures forward. “It’s quieter up at the bow,” he shouts in Scott’s ear. Scott nods and follows him.

Surprisingly, it is a bit quieter. They still have to speak loudly, but not so loudly that Scott has to scream his lungs out. The wind is harsher here, blowing directly in their faces, and Scott has to hold one hand to his head to keep his hat from flying off.

“Your duds all good, then?” Jimmy asks, and Scott’s not quite sure what that means or how to respond, so he just kind of nods.

“Thanks,” he says in lieu of a response. “For saving me, and all that. I thought. . . .”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. 

He’d thought he’d been alone. That everyone else was dead. That he was soon to join them.

He’d been about to die, he nearly died, he should be dead.

Jimmy only shrugs. “It’s what we do.”

We. There might be others, then? Jimmy and False, and . . . who? Where are they going? Is there possibly somewhere safe?

“Is everyone else safe?” Scott asks, peering down over the land. They’re passing over a forest, the leaves more black than green. He shudders to think of what might’ve happened to the animals living there.

Jimmy leans on his elbows against the deck’s railing, hands clasped loosely in front of him. “Some of them. There’s me and False, of course. Sausage—we’re staying at Sanctuary, he’s doing some sort of magic-thing to keep ‘em out. fWhip’s fine, Gem’s fine—they’re waiting for us. There’s others who are all right, just aren’t in Sanctuary. Some we aren’t sure of.”

“I imagine Joel’s fine, then,” Scott says, thinking of his eleven-foot neighbor in his floating kingdom. Joel’s pretty much untouchable up there—and what would stop him from just ascending to avoid all this?

But Jimmy, head turned to survey the land, says shortly, “Joel’s dead.”

Before Scott even knows it, his eyes are brimming with tears. He can—he can blame that on the wind, right? Because he’d barely known Joel, really, they hadn’t even been friends. . . .

But Joel’s dead. Joel is dead, and if the god is dead, what sort of hope is there for him? What sort of hope is there for any of them? Forget that he’s just been rescued—it’s certainly only delaying the inevitable, because Joel is dead and thereby, they all are.

“I—how?” asks Scott, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

Jimmy doesn’t answer for a long moment, looking off at seemingly nothing. “Hubris, you might say.” The look in his eyes is distant, sad, and it comes as no surprise when Jimmy turns away and heads back up to the stern, taking his place beside False.

There’s no time to mourn. This is an apocalypse situation, and Joel is dead and his llamas are dead and there’s barely any hope of survival, because below him, all Scott can see is death.

Just as he’d realized earlier, he has to show his usefulness. Any dead weight will be cut, and Scott desperately needs to stay aboard. Not that they have a chance, not if Joel’s dead, but he at least wants to see his friends one last time. He can’t die here.

With that reminder, Scott readjusts his shovel at his hip, then jogs back to False, looking for any job he can do.

-

fWhip and Gem greet them at the doors of Sausage’s church. Gem pulls Scott into a hug—he hugs her back as tight as he can—then releases him to hug False and Jimmy, while fWhip pats Scott on the elbow (the goblin can’t reach any higher) and leads him inside.

They’ve set up the church as some sort of headquarters, Scott understands immediately, seeing the maps and drinks and blankets strewn about the foyer. There’s a bed made in the corner, a half-eaten plate of food beside it. Scott’s stomach growls, but he ignores it in favor of heading toward the chapel. Surely that’s where Sausage is, and he really wants to hug the man (Sausage has always been so good at comforting, never judgemental, there’s a reason he gets along with just about everyone and Scott thinks that maybe, if Sausage tells him everything will be all right, then it will).

fWhip holds out an arm to bar the way. “Let’s not go in there right now, yeah?” he says easily, leading Scott instead to the table of maps. “Sit down, sit down! Make yourself at home! We’ve been sleeping at the tavern, so we’ll show you your room later, but this is where we spend a lot of our time! Either here or out on watch, you know?”

Scott doesn’t sit down, instead leaning against the table. He still feels a bit . . . wired, he supposes. His brain is still in fight-or-flight. He doesn’t want to sit, doesn’t want to be sedentary.

Gem and False file in, Gem going straight to the plate of food, False collapsing into a chair. Scott watches for Jimmy, but he doesn’t follow.

“It’s really good to see you, Scott,” Gem says warmly, handing him the plate. As if on cue, Scott’s stomach rumbles—he’d forgotten that he hadn’t eaten anything all day. And he doesn’t mind a bit of shared food, so he tosses the bread into his mouth, asking around the bite, “Who else is here?”

Gem grimaces. “Just . . . it’s just us, Scott. But there are others! They just aren’t here.”

“What Gem’s trying to say is that we’ve sort of been search-and-rescue, here, and now that we’ve got you, we can rescue the next person,” fWhip puts in helpfully. “We’ve been keeping eyes around. After all, we got you!”

Scott swallows, sets the plate down. He suddenly doesn’t feel all that hungry. “Who else have you saved?”

fWhip glances around. “Well, you, me, Shelby—except—”

“Shelby isn’t here, you said.”

“Shelby . . . Shelby fell out of contact,” fWhip says. “She was out keeping track of Katherine while we planned our rescue mission for you. But we haven’t been able to reach her in a few days.”

“We have these new things,” Gem interjects, and the nervous smile on her face tells Scott all he needs to know. They think Shelby’s dead, and they don’t want to talk about it.

A muted feeling of dread is beginning to grow in the back of his mind.

From her pocket, Gem pulls a copper redstone device of some sort, a bit of glass on the front of it and a couple of buttons on the side. “False made them! They can send messages to other devices instantly, so we can keep in contact! Look—”

She presses one of the buttons, and the glass lights up. Scott’s seen a couple of things similar to this in his travels, but when it reacts to her touching the screen, tapping on Jimmy’s name and pulling up a whole different display, he knows this is completely beyond his experience. And, at the moment, completely beyond his interest. Maybe when he’s less tense, less exhausted.

“See, Jimmy messaged me when you guys got on the airship!”

Sure enough, there is text on the screen that apparently comes from Jimmy: Got Scott. On our way back. Then a response from Gem: Can’t wait to see him! Stay safe all three of you!

“False has been crafting them herself!”

“fWhip helped,” False amends, nodding her head in the goblin’s direction. “I couldn’t remember a lot of the circuitry. He helped with that.”

“We’ll get you one as soon as we can get some more redstone,” fWhip adds.

Scott nods a couple of times. This is great and all, but there’s still that dread. . . . “So, what do we know? Is everyone else . . . dead?”

The three exchange a look, air suddenly thick with tension. After a moment, Gem speaks.

“Um. Did Jimmy tell you about Joel?”

“Yeah. I know about Joel, and. . . .” he still doesn’t know how to feel about it. He certainly still doesn’t have time to mourn. “But everyone else?”

“Right.” fWhip bites his lip—which looks painful, with how long and sharp some of his teeth are. “Well, Shubble’s gone out of contact. Jimmy came and got me from my cave about two weeks ago, and he and Gem and False all kind of met up to come to Sanctuary. Sausage is here, too. Lizzie. . . .”

“Lizzie was here,” Gem picks up when fWhip looks away. “She and Jimmy . . . they had some disagreements about how the camp was being run. About a week ago, she left.”

“Pirate Joe was here, too,” False says. “He left to look for safe land elsewhere.”

“Katherine’s in the same kind of situation you were,” fWhip says. “We just saved you first. We’re hoping to get her in the next couple of days. We haven’t seen anything of Pix or Oli. And . . . that about sums things up.”

“So . . . where is Sausage?”

Again, they exchange a look. Scott has to make a conscious effort to not roll his eyes.

“Sausage has kinda . . . gone off the deep end,” fWhip says eventually. “He’s in the chapel most of the time, praying to that St. Pearl of his. Love him to death and all, but he just kinda mutters to himself and isn’t all that helpful.”

Well, there must be something to Sausage’s prayers, if Sanctuary is indeed safe. And Scott isn’t exactly a religious man—sure, he’s prayed a fair amount, but he usually just picks whatever god comes to mind first and rolls with it—but it seems kind of disrespectful to pick on the man’s religion when he’s offering them a home. And presumably protecting them with said prayers!

But Scott’s the new person here, and he doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t quite figured out the status quo yet, and he wants to fly under the radar a little while longer. “Where did Jimmy go?” he asks instead.

“Oh, probably patrolling,” fWhip waves off. “He works himself too hard, that sheriff of ours. But it’s getting to be nighttime, so one of us should probably go take over, make him go to bed.”

Sure enough, a glance out the front window tells Scott that the sun does appear to be setting. And really, he wouldn’t mind an opportunity to explore what sort of borders they have here, how far out he can venture. As he opens his mouth to volunteer for first watch, though, Gem cuts him off.

“Scott, you need to go to bed too. You look like you haven’t slept in days!”

Just one day, really—though his sleeps have been rather restless as of late.

And while he would certainly appreciate a safe place to rest, he’s still a bit tightly wound. He hasn’t really got any idea of how they expect him to be able to sleep.

But Scott just nods, tossing whatever is left on the plate into his mouth and gesturing for the others to lead the way.

Gem shows him up the winding path—past villagers and a child and oh how Scott’s heart aches for his llamas—and to the inn, which is empty but for one tired serving staff, rubbing a glass with a dishrag.

“If you need anything to eat or drink, just help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” Gem whispers. “Jimmy wants to start rationing soon, but it doesn’t really matter what you take right now.”

“How many people are here?” Scott asks in the same tone, nodding toward the worker. Gem starts heading up a staircase against the right side wall, beckoning for him to follow.

“Most of Sanctuary’s citizens, and maybe a dozen refugees. It feels like we lose another person every day, though—people who think they can go beyond the border just for an hour to gather crops, or kids who accidentally wander too far.”

For a brief instant, Gem’s face is shadowed with grief as she looks back at Scott, but it’s soon erased, a smile plastered on.

Of course. Much like Scott, Gem hasn’t had time to grieve. He’d be surprised if anyone has.

Gem stops beside a door halfway down the hallway, twisting the knob and letting him in.

The room is small, but bright, a carpet made of green and orange segments in the center of the room. The duvet on the bed is purple, which matches nothing in the room, but combined with the colors of the rug makes Scott’s heart ache for Chromia.

There’s a classically carved wardrobe off to one side, a large window with drawn, plain curtains taking up a good portion of the far wall, and a small wooden table beside the bed that has a lamp and an empty glass upon it. Those three pieces of furniture take up almost the entire room; but though it’s small, it’s safe. Scott’s not had that guarantee in some time.

“I’m right next door, so just knock if you need anything!” Gem says brightly. “And there’s always somebody up, so if you just . . . need somebody, check the church or the outpost. Good night!”

And then she’s gone, door shut softly behind her, before Scott can even ask where and what the outpost is.

After a moment, he sits on the bed. It sinks under his weight a bit, the duvet wrinkling.

What’s he supposed to do? Just sit here as the sun sets, trying to come to terms with everything that’s happened?

Well, there’s at least a few things he can do. He pulls his shovel from his belt loop, rests it against the wardrobe, then takes his hat off and rests it inside, on a little shelf.

There’s a mirror fixed to the inside of the door of the wardrobe, and he stares at his reflection for a moment.

He really does look pretty bad, doesn’t he? His eyes are ringed with shadows (for a moment, his imagination sees those shadows as crawling and devouring and he shudders), face waxy and breaking out in patches, hair tangled and greasy. It needs a trim, he thinks absently, tugging on the ends that almost reach his shoulders.

He’d put his coat back on when they landed, and now he shrugs it off, and when he goes to hang it up his elbow bumps the mirror.

Scott is quick to steady it as it swings a bit, scraping against the wood, and he can’t help but think that if he had let the mirror fall he might be deserving of the bad luck its shattering would bring.

It’s that bump against the mirror that allows the scrap of paper behind it to flutter to the floor.

Scott finishes hanging his coat in the wardrobe before bending over to pick up the paper—and there’s writing on it.

Someone had left a secret message.

The message is scrawled in messy handwriting, all letters capitalized and difficult to decipher (several words are completely illegible), but when Scott understands, he feels a drop of fear bleed through his soul, the dread itching at his mind rearing up.

DON'T TRUST H—. — KILLED — WOULD DO IT AGAIN.

[prismaticutie]

🔊 CALLING ALL TECH MUTUALS 🔊

Do you guys know how to fix my laptop's busted ass network adapter. If not do you have any computer recs for me. Please

[yotter-otter]

So, I rewatched Yellow Jacket and noticed something that has interesting implications. At the end, when Lex and Hannah are driving away, Hannah says “I think something like this is happening everywhere.” Meaning that in timelines that don’t have an apocalypse, Lex and Hannah always leave Hatchetfield in October of 2020. So, depending on when Nerdy Prudes Must Die takes place, Lex and Hannah might have already left Hatchetfield and therefore won’t be in the show

[miengsol]

he's putting a tab in eshu's name here ( ft. @temporalobjects )

“At this rate, I’m going to have to start charging you for staying over.” Nevertheless, he steps aside, letting Eshu into the apartment. Today is Calum’s day off and Sol’s at daycare- how else is he supposed to pass the time aside from baking? “...Don’t you have papers to grade?”

[gas-stxtion]

@rejectshumanity said: [ scared ] sender scares receiver

(non-verbal angst - open)

Typically, four in the morning at the Northcastle gas station is completely dead. Very few customers are out and about at that time, and the ones who are usually aren't feeling very talkative. Which suits Jack just fine, really--it's a nice time for him to get some peace and quiet, away from the nonsense and insanity daylight brings.

That's not to say, of course, that he lets his guard down. You can only be kidnapped so many times before you stop being surprised by it, after all. So, while the night shift is often relaxing for Jack, he also spends it looking over his shoulder, shoulders hunched and tense as he tries to ensure nothing awaits him in the shadows.

Sometimes, though, he still lets his guard down without meaning to.

He's restocking the display of canned peanuts, humming to himself as he makes sure each can is in its perfect place. This kind of mindless, repetitive work is exactly his kind of thing, and it helps him relax like little else does. So, as he works, he has a small, content smile on his face.

Unfortunately, the universe does so love throwing curveballs his way to keep him on his toes.

After about fifteen minutes of restocking the display, Jack notices a flash of light hair out of the corner of his eye. Immediately, he freezes, his heart leaping into his throat as he turns his head to see-

-no one there.

Jack stares at the corner of the empty store for several long seconds. His hands start shaking as he reaches into his pocket, wrapping his long, bony fingers around the boxcutter he keeps there. The weight of the blade is comforting--at least if Spencer grabs him, he can fight back, even if the idea of that kind of violence often turns his stomach.

Keeping his hand on the box cutter, Jack turns back to the display, only to see a shadow looming over him. He startles, reflexively whipping out the box cutter to point it at the person standing in front of him.

It's not Spencer. Somehow, it's worse.

Jack curses loudly when he registers Dio standing in front of him. "Jesus, dude!" he says. "What the fuck is your problem?" With his hands still shaking, he puts the boxcutter away. "Actually, don't answer that. Fuck, you scared the shit out of me." He chooses not to question why Dio is here at this hour, nor how the vampire got in without him noticing.

After Jack has a moment to catch his breath, he says to Dio, "Sorry for pointing a box cutter at you, man." Though he's sure a box cutter wouldn't do much to defend him in this instance, he feels like apologizing is the nice thing to do here. Not that Dio would ever return the favor.