#in my case is my dumbass dog who likes to gnaw my arm as a form of affection

[lidoshka]

Thank you my idiot 💕

+

I comic for Blue Monday.

[mypoisonedvine]

𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙮 𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘝𝘐𝘐 - 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙚) || sub!bucky barnes x dominatrix!reader

(𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐) (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐𝘐) (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐𝘐𝘐) (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐𝘝) (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘝) (𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘝𝘐)

𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 || the finale.

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 || 3.5k

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 || fluff, angst, implied smut, domestic goodness, more EMOTIONS!!!

six months ago...

Bucky wrung his hands a few times before knocking on your door, feeling his heart beat a little faster when he could hear the sounds of your footsteps on the other side. He'd been dreaming of a day like this for so long— the day he finally acted on this secret obsession he had, the day he stopped fantasizing and started realizing— but all this time, part of him had never really thought he'd go through with it. I mean, there's a pretty big difference between jerking off to videos of dominant women and actually getting spanked, slapped, and choked by a dominatrix after paying her an insane amount of money per hour.

But frankly, Bucky needed a big difference from what he'd been doing. He'd been alone for a little too long, he needed someone else's touch before he lost his mind. And he knew that he needed something more substantial than a hook-up, someone who wouldn't expect him to be dominant at all. Even in a kink-less, vanilla hook-up, there’s still an onus of dominance, that’s what Bucky had realised. He’s still supposed to initiate, to guide, to be fully in control… and he hates how it feels to be in control. He’s not used to it, and it doesn’t feel right, and it just makes him sure he’ll do something wrong. So here he was, standing at your door, hoping you’d take away his freedom to do something wrong.

The latch turned and you opened it.

Fuck.

You looked great. Too great, almost overwhelming. Even better than the pictures on your website.

You looked so much softer than the women he saw whenever he searched up femdom porn (yes, that was pretty much the first thing he did once he figured out google— thankfully he had also figured out incognito mode), but your presence was twice as commanding. Your eyes scanned over him quickly and your face stayed annoyingly stoic.

You invited him in; And since then, you’d had him wrapped around your finger.

Even knowing to a certain extent what he was getting into, he could’ve never prepared for how quickly he’d fall for you. Not that he was exactly new to the feeling, but he thought guilt might eat him alive: because of course he felt awful for developing real feelings for you. You were just doing your job and he was falling into the same trap that probably every dumbass client fell into.

Or maybe they actually knew what they were doing and understood how to separate fantasy from reality. He couldn’t decide which one was worse.

He spent a few hours trying to decide while staring up at his ceiling— certainly a better way to spend the time than being social or taking care of unfinished business, right?

But leave it to you to change everything with just three words. Make me yours.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about those words— or about the way you said them— since the moment you spoke them. He hadn’t stopped changing his mind on if he could really believe you were his or not. He wanted to, more than anything; and in those brief moments he did, he felt a joy that he had no idea what to do with.

He frowned as he turned his back towards the mirror, looking over his shoulder to watch his finger run over the fading scars on his back. They’d be gone for good in less than a week, but he knew you had left plenty of permanent marks on him— just unfortunately not those that anyone else could see. He liked the way these scars looked under your fingertips much more than his; he liked everything about being in your arms.

Since you’d texted him to ask if you could have a serious talk with him soon, he worried he wouldn’t get to feel that again. In fact, nothing worried him more.

He was typically antsy as he waited for you to answer the door— he had been since that very first time so long ago— but this felt entirely different: not as jittery, but a thousand times more anxious.

At first he’d been wishing you’d answer it right away, but then he heard your bolt turn and panic landed on him like a dangling anvil dropping on a cartoon character. Suddenly the last thing he wanted was for you to open that door, to be standing there looking all perfect and shit, to smile at him and greet him and invite him in. He didn’t want it; he couldn’t take it.

But you did it all anyway, though it was obviously and immediately a new situation entirely, compared to every other time you’d done it.

You were dressed differently, still formal but definitely toned down. Nothing sexual, at least not objectively. And your smile, though it still made his heart skip a beat just like always, was noticeably softer and maybe a bit sadder.

He stepped in past you, and you surprised him by sitting next to him on the couch rather than across from him on your chair. “Do you want, like, water or anything?” you asked, breaking the silence for a moment.

“No, I’m fine,” he nodded.

Bucky had gotten pretty good at silence these past few years; it didn’t bother him, in fact he barely even noticed it. But this silence made him remember why everyone else hated silence so much: it was heavy and thick and made him overcome with the need to blurt something out. “Everyone calls me Bucky,” he finally admitted. You smiled.

“Do you want me to call you that?” you asked.

He considered your question, trying to imagine you saying it. “I… I used to think it would be better, but now I like the way you say ‘James’ too much.”

“If you thought it would be better, why did you ask me to call you James?” you pressed.

“Because I didn’t want you to know who I was.”

“I know who you are,” you informed him. “I always knew.”

He swallowed as the pit formed in his gut, glancing away to hide from your gaze. “You did a good job of… of pretending you didn’t. You never seemed scared of me.”

“Because I wasn’t. And I’m not.”

He couldn’t imagine how; but then again, if there was any truly fearless woman, he figured it would be you. “I thought you’d beat me up better if you knew what I’d done,” he admitted, almost smiling but not exactly feeling very happy. “Thought you might want… revenge.”

“Surprised that didn’t make you want to tell me.”

He laughed a bit at that. “Yeah, fair enough.”

You asked him a very different question next, one that made his throat suddenly dry: "Have you ever had something that was all your own?" you spoke gently.

"Not for a long time…" he trailed off, letting his eyes unfocus as he stared down at your floor before finding the courage to look up at you again. “Is that what you wanna be?” he asked, already wishing he hadn’t said anything in case it was too presumptuous, but you just smiled back at him in a shy sort of way.

“Something like that,” you mitigated.

His eyes darted around your face— from your eyes glancing away, to your lips that you gnawed on for a moment, to the little crease between your brows— and he found himself leaning forward before he even realized it. “Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t answer, you just kissed him first; he was so relieved that you did it, too, that you took control so easily and just let him melt into your kiss. As good as it felt to submit to you, he enjoyed the new freedom he had in this moment as well— the freedom to reach up and grab your waist, to brush his hand over your hair, to tilt his head and deepen the kiss further.

It was hard to define exactly where it went from innocent to sensual to sexual, but by the time you were straddling his lap and running your fingers through his hair, it was definitely sexual.

“I want you,” you breathed against his lips.

“Have me,” he offered immediately, “I’m yours. Always was.”

He breathed in sharply when you moved your hips just right to rub up against his swelling cock through his jeans, making him grip your waist a bit harder. “Good boy,” you whispered. “You’re so good, James.”

He believed you this time, finally.

For your first real date, he took you to Coney Island. Not the classiest affair, and he promised to take you somewhere really nice next, but you didn’t mind. It was jarring to see you in casual clothes for the first time, something summer-y and light which was everything opposite to how he was used to seeing you; but he liked it, and he liked knowing a secret about you as you walked through a crowd of carnival-goers that were none the wiser.

He walked you through the fair and explained how he remembered it, showed you the few things that hadn’t changed much. He bought you a hot dog and even won you a prize at one of the games; that one where you throw a baseball and it measures your pitch speed? Yeah, it’s rigged, but he pitched lefty and it seemed to even everything out. (It’s not cheating, okay? It’s beating them at their own game, literally.)

So with a massive teddy under one arm and his waist wrapped in your other, you two walked through the winding pier, under twinkling lights and over walkways towering over the ocean below. And then you fooled around a bit on the ferris wheel. It was the ideal Coney Island experience, for sure.

Bucky didn’t have a ton of friends, per se, but he was excited for you to meet them. Meeting friends was certainly a step, though; hopefully a step you were willing to take, but he didn’t want to ask you to do it without at least having a title to introduce you with.

“I want you to be my girlfriend,” he finally told you.

“I kinda thought I already was,” you laughed.

And so, with more pride than he might have ever had for anything before, Bucky finally got to take you to meet everyone (‘everyone’ being a mix of his friends and his coworkers, who may or may not be his friends because he couldn’t always tell) and say “I want you guys to meet my girlfriend.”

Of course you were amazing with all of them; you continued that tactful “I know who you are but I’m pretending I don’t to be nice” thing that you’d started with him, and everyone seemed to appreciate it. You cracked a couple jokes, everyone laughed.

You lied about how you and Bucky met, or at least answered very strategically. Everyone at least pretended to believe you.

Afterwards, they all said something about how great you were or about how lucky he was. The only thing he ever said back was “I know.”

Now that he could kiss you without breaking any rules, he never wanted to stop. He hardly ever did, actually. He kissed you basically whenever he could get the chance; you two didn’t even go out much anymore because he wasn’t very good at keeping his hands to himself, but you weren’t exactly complaining about staying in. You were too busy kissing him back, and teasing him mercilessly while you were at it, to do that.

You had already found the fastest way to get him needy and begging, not that any way took very long. If you kissed him while you straddled his lap, wrapping your arms around him and slowly grinding against him, he lost it in minutes. And you really seemed to get a kick out of watching him lose it, just as much as always.

It made him realize that the way you looked at him before, in sessions and scenes together, was a lot less of an act than he’d assumed at the time. He just thought you were a really good actress, or that he was really whipped; and maybe the first was true, and the second was absolutely true, but regardless it had become clear that you had it almost as bad as he did from the beginning. It gave him even more respect for how well you controlled yourself, he certainly hadn’t had much self-control at the time— after all the whole ordeal was about losing control, and occasionally about trying to gain it back.

He didn’t ask you to quit your job. He didn’t want or expect you to; but you did cut down your hours, which gave the two of you more time together.

To be totally honest, part of him got a bit titillated to imagine you with your other clients. He didn’t like the idea of other men touching you, but he smirked at the thought of them begging to touch you and being denied; he liked knowing that you didn’t do with them even half of the stuff you’d done with him when he was your client.

But he wasn’t your client anymore. He was your boyfriend, and he wanted the world to know it.

six months later...

He let you struggle to reach the top shelf for a moment, just because you looked cute on your tip-toes with the tip of your tongue sticking out of the corner of your mouth, before he finally relented and helped you grab the bottle of rice wine vinegar.

“Thanks,” you smiled as he set it in the cart.

After that you let him grab everything, content to stand on the end of the cart and push you around as you reminded him what else you needed.

“We’re out of Captain Crunch!” you remembered as he passed the cereal aisle, pointing to try to get him to turn.

“Yes, and we need to stay that way,” Bucky explained sternly, “that shit is addictive. Only way to avoid it is to not have it in the house.”

You frowned but accepted that he was absolutely right, though you groaned when he took you to the refrigerated section to stock up on chicken breasts. “I swear, you would eat these for breakfast if you didn’t think I’d judge you for it,” you joked.

“What’s wrong with chicken breasts?”

“They’re just so… bland!”

“Not if you season them right,” he corrected.

“Which you don’t,” you rolled your eyes. “Come on, at least splurge on some chicken thighs. They’re basically the same but so much more flavorful.”

“Fine, but no more making fun of my cooking,” Bucky decided, placing the breasts back on the shelf and grabbing two packs of thighs instead. “I’m still adapting to 21st century sensibilities.”

“Right,” you nodded, though he caught your smile in the corner of his eye— you knew he couldn’t exactly claim to still be as conservative as he was raised to be in every way.

Like any well-planned grocery run, it ended at the frozen section where you got some fruit bars and frozen vegetables (you had this theory that frozen vegetables tasted better in fried rice than fresh ones, and so far you’d proven him right) and he got a pizza to have for dinner in a pinch. When shopping alone before, he always did self-checkout to avoid being seen anymore than he had to… he still did it with you, but he didn’t even think about who might be looking at him, because all he saw was you.

You drove for this trip, and he always felt oddly soothed by riding passenger with you at the wheel. He liked to close his eyes and lean back a bit, or occasionally look over at you (but if he did it too much you complained that he was being creepy and distracting you). It shouldn’t be too much of a surprise that he enjoyed the feeling of you taking control, considering everything, but it was one of those little ways that he hadn’t expected. He just felt so comfortable, so safe with you, and never he felt like he was a burden for asking you to take the lead when he didn’t trust himself with it. And that applied to everything— driving, cooking, speaking up in crowds, all those little things that sometimes made him anxious.

There were some things he didn’t have any trouble being dominant about, though. He was very protective of you, for example, and tended to be uptight about how late you went out for walks or where you should be going alone. And he didn’t struggle to ask you for what he wanted— he was getting a lot better at asking for help, specifically.

He used to ask you to say that you loved him, instead of just saying ‘I love you’ himself, because for some reason it was easier to make you do it first. It started as something he’d beg for in the throes of passion, fingers digging into your skin as his eyes watered (as they often did in intimate moments): please, say you love me— jus’ need to hear you say it, please? And you were always sweet about it in return, of course I love you, James, my good boy, I love you so so much. But then he’d ask you to say it whenever he felt like it— he’d come up behind you while you were reading or cooking or something and kiss the top of your head or the shell of your ear and try to act nonchalant as he asked you love me, right?

You’d laugh and roll your eyes before you answered, but it was, thankfully, always a ‘yes.’ Eventually you figured out how often you needed to say it to make him stop asking all the time, which was probably a little too often.

“I love you,” you blurted out randomly as you turned on your signal and leaned a bit to make sure it was safe to make a left— case in point.

“I love you too,” he answered back with a smile.

“I don’t mind saying it so often,” you added, “but you know that I love you even when I’m not saying it, right? I love you all the time.”

It was a simple question, probably mostly rhetorical, but it hit him harder than he expected. “Yeah, I know,” he managed to get out evenly enough that you didn’t notice he was tearing up a bit.

He put the groceries away while you took the trash out; you liked to keep the fridge pretty organized, and it was an adjustment at first, but by now Bucky had it down pat. Before you, he hadn’t even considered that the contents of a refrigerator could be aesthetically pleasing.

Dinner was leftovers in front of the TV— you two were almost done with Frasier, but after that you had ten seasons of Friends to get through. You had tried to encourage him to watch more challenging stuff— you know, True Detective, Hannibal, dark cerebral stuff with arguably more artistic merit than classic sitcoms— but Bucky had had enough darkness in his life that he didn’t need it in his fiction. Maybe he’d find the time to catch up on the last 80 years of dramas and murder mysteries after he caught up on the last 80 years of comedy.

After dinner you were going to do yoga and Bucky, not in the mood to embarrass himself with that, retired to the bedroom a bit early to read his book— he’d heard a lot about this Harry Potter guy and now that he was on the fourth book and could hardly put it down, he understood the hype. He related a bit to the unwilling war hero in its protagonist; most of the time the series enthralled him, but occasionally something would hit too deep and he’d have to put it away for a couple days. At the moment, though, he was in one of the easy parts where it was just about schoolwork and childhood antics.

He instinctively glanced at the door when he heard you open it— he wasn’t sure how long it had been time-wise, but he’d gotten through quite a few pages— but he only quickly looked up at you as you shut the door behind you, before returning his attention to the book he was reading. “So, Bucky…” you began.

“Yeah?” he mumbled.

“James.”

It wasn’t any one thing that got his attention— not just the tone of your voice or the way it got a bit deeper, not just the look you gave him, not just the way the air of the room seemed to shift all at once. It was everything about you that made his body react instantly. He shut the book and set it aside, sitting up straight to look at you expectantly.

And you seemed to notice his instinctual obedience, considering you just barely smirked at him, raising an eyebrow as he spoke his reply: “Yes, Mistress?”

[ink-splotch]

Wangxian + 45 (gift)

Five Times Wei Wuxian Was Hungry + Once When He Was Not 

1 

It was Wei Ying’s favorite spot to scrounge. The morning’s cook cut the vegetables carelessly-- there was always a good few mouthfuls to gnaw off the cabbage and radish ends, the onions and peppers. He remembered having roasted potatoes before, with his mother and father, but it was hard lighting fires. And as soon as things started smelling good, other people came, or dogs. 

Raw potatoes though-- they were barely sweet, crisp, and grainy. He chewed them more for entertainment than because they filled him up. He’d gotten a good instinct for which mouthfuls went the longest ways. Some things stuck to the ribs. 

Wei Ying curled up in a different hollow each night, a different rooftop or alley or meadow or tree, and ran his fingers over the curved ridges of his ribs. He counted them and thought of his mother teaching him arithmetic, moving little twigs and stones into place beside a fire. 

2

“Dinner was delicious.” 

Wei Wuxian managed not to flail off the roof. “Jiang Cheng, you’re so mean.” Past his brother’s ugly face, the moon was setting low over the wide, still ponds of Lotus Pier. 

“Well, dumbass, don’t piss off mom next time.” Jiang Cheng scooted slowly down the roof tiles. One day, they would have this down to an art, play light-footed games of tag at midnight. One day, they would huddle on these same tiles and watch their parents bleed out, holding hands. Wei Wuxian dropped down onto the wooden pathway, reaching up a hand to help, which Jiang Cheng ignored. “I tried to sneak you out some bao, but First Uncle caught me.” 

“So you do love me!” Wei Wuxian grinned at him, all of twelve and gangly with it. 

Jiang Cheng shoved him. “If you starve to a skeleton, who will be around for me to beat at swords?” 

“Who will be around to beat you, you mean--”

“Both of you!” 

At the hiss, Wei Wuxian latched onto Jiang Cheng’s startled flail of his arm. The ponds past them were still, painted with moonlight and pockmarked with lotus. 

Jiang Yanli waved at them from the open door of her room. “Come on, in here. You both tiptoe like elephants.” 

“It’s Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian explain, slipping into the room behind her. “I mean, he ate too much at dinner and now he’s going to bust through the floor into the lake.” 

“Sit down, sit down,” Jiang Yanli said. “I’ve been waiting for hours, listening for you.” 

“I was going to head down to town,” Wei Wuxian said. 

“No need for that,” she said. She lifted the lid off a clay pot on her desk. Light pork flavor wafted up and Wei Wuxian’s stomach grumbled. He poked at it, betrayed. 

“Have as much as you want,” Jiang Yanli said, reaching for the ladle. Her voice was soft, but it was always soft, even when they weren’t sitting in the dim light listening for creaks in the hallway. 

“What about me?” Jiang Cheng demanded. 

“You, too, A-Cheng,” she said. “If we run out, we’ll make a brave expedition to the kitchens to acquire more mission materiel.” 

Her eyes sparkled even in the low lights. Wei Wuxian liked this so much better, the slyness in her eyes as she teased her brother, than the way she sat quiet in the daylight, peeling lotus seeds with shaking fingers, while her mother rose up like a bonfire. 

There was a creak from the hallway. Wei Wuxian would have counted it for a mouse in the night, but Jiang Yanli’s head shot up. “That’s mother, coming to check up on me. Quick, both of you, out the window. Sorry, I-- quickly, now.” 

That night, Wei Wuxian lay in bed with a still empty stomach-- an old feeling, a familiar one. He’d last til morning, easy, he knew that. 

But this was unfamiliar, even now: his palms still felt the ghost of heat, of a warm bowl cradled in them, smuggled through the darkness and meant for him. 

3

“Ai, Lan Zhan, you didn’t think to pack anything to eat? So thoughtless. Even those Qishan bao would be acceptable. I mean, I know I told Nie Huaisang they tasted burnt, but that was mostly lies. And if we’re stuck here much longer, I’d even eat that terrible bitter Gusu soup!” 

Lan Zhan’s head was tipped back against the rough stone of the cave, eyes closed. Firelight played softly over the ridge of his jaw, the column of his neck. He didn’t respond to Wei Wuxian, not even to the bit about the soup. 

Wei Wuxian sprawled where he could, trying to find a comfortable bit of ground while keeping an eye on Lan Zhan. “I ate every bowl I was given, when I was there,” he told Lan Zhan. “So I know what I’m talking about. Your clan doesn’t know how to eat. One day, I’ll take you to Lotus Pier, and you’ll see.” 

4

At first the noise distracted him from the emptiness-- from the hunger, yes, but also from the quiet lack where his golden core once had been. It felt silent inside of him, that void under his belly, the way he hadn’t felt silent in years. 

Spirits called for vengeance, for justice and fury, for freedom and power. Beneath the black cloud of that rage, there were quieter voices too-- asking for rest, for remembrance, for respite. 

Beneath it all, though, he still had a body, however empty. He found water dripping down the cliff face. He dug up roots and caught rats. He lit fires to roast them. He figured that everything that could scare him already knew how to find him. 

He remembered how it felt to wither, day by day. He watched his body shrink and hollow, familiar.

The spirits called for vengeance and he agreed. The spirits cried for justice and he promised it. His body begged for sustenance and he told it to wait. There were more important things. 

5

Lil Apple reached out his neck, trying to snap his big ugly teeth at some greener grass growing off the path. “Ah, yeah, you hungry, you spoiled beast?” Wei Wuxian said, trying to tug him forward. “I gave you my last bit of melon this morning.” 

Wei Wuxian managed to drag the donkey a few strides further before he gave up, sagging against a tree while Lil Apple waded out into greener pastures. He brayed again and Wei Wuxian hoped it was joy, but suspected it was something a little more vengeful. 

“You’re lucky you can eat grass,” he called after him. 

They��d left a town with a water spirit problem five days ago--well, a town that had previously had a water spirit problem. They’d given him a bag of apples, a stack of flatbread, and a big meal before he’d left. He rolled the memory over his tongue-- creamy eggplant and salted fish, spicy enough even to satisfy him. 

It was days ago now, and that old familiar ache was curling under his heart. But there’d be a village around any corner now, a farm with a blight, or a merchant caravan looking for some peace of mind. 

Even if there wasn’t, he could go far longer than this without a shake to his legs or to his smile. He had. 

Even if the land was barren for miles, at the end of it he’d wash up in Caiyi town in time for loquat season. He’d climb the mountain by foot, palming the jade pass in his sleeve, and there would be a hot meal waiting for him when he arrived. 

But for now, the crickets were calling from the grass. Heat beat down from a wide, clear sky and Wei Wuxian closed his eyes. 

His body whispered for sustenance and he told it wait, wait, but this time it was a promise cradled warm and soft in his palms.

+1

“You’re not busy, are you?” Wen Ning said. 

Wei Wuxian glanced up from gnawing on the end of his calligraphy brush. It wasn’t an old bad habit of his, but he thought it might have been one of Mo Xuanyu’s. Also, the first time Lan Qiren had caught him doing it, he’d gone red in the face, so Wei Wuxian had rather leaned into it. 

“We don’t want to bother you,” Wen Ning went on, bobbing his head. “I know you’re doing important work…” 

“If I haven’t figured out how to balance this talisman yet-- and I haven’t,” Wei Wuxian said, wrinkling his nose at the crumbled papers beside him, “then it’s not going to happen tonight.” He leaned back, elbows on the wood floor of the inn. “What’s going on, Wen Ning? You and Sizhui get into trouble in the market?” 

“No, we had some good luck.” Wen Ning stepped finally through the door. “If you could come down to the…”

“Did you find something on the case?” Wei Wuxian leapt to his feet. 

“No, no,” Wen Ning said, following him down the stairs. One of the inn staff caught one look at Wen Ning and threw himself backward into an open room. “We just, I mean, I hope it’s not overstepping.” 

Down on the ground floor of the inn, Lan Sizhui looked up and smiled to see them. He rose from the table where he’d been laying out four bowls. “Wei-qianbei." 

"What's this, now?" Wei Wuxian said, glancing over the table. 

“Wen Ning has been telling me stories of when I was little,” Lan Sizhui said, settling his hands gently on the lid of the pot. He did most things gently, that kid, and it didn’t come from Lan Zhan, who was deliberate in every movement but rarely soft in the public eye, or Lan Qiren. It certainly didn’t come from Wei Wuxian. 

Wen Ning settled down opposite Lan Sizhui at Lan Sizhui’s encouraging nod, and Wei Wuxian realized-- it was his uncles. It was the way Lan Xichen had used to move quiet and kind through a crowded room. It was the way Wen Ning was so careful with his strength. 

“He told me about a day when he carried a little bowl of soup miles home from Yiling, so I could try it. It was cold by the time he got there, of course, but… I don’t remember it really.” Lan Sizhui pulled the lid from the pot, the rich scent rising up. “But helping Madam Wang in the kitchen, the smell-- I think I do remember, a little.” 

“We found lotus root in the market,” Wen Ning said. “And pork ribs, and the landlady here has a cousin from Lotus Pier. We thought…”

Wei Wuxian dropped down into a seat at the table, heavy and silent. He closed a hand over Wen Ning’s wrist, softly. 

“Have as much as you want,” Lan Sizhui said, reaching for the ladle. His voice was soft. 

-

When Lan Zhan got back to the inn, he found them still there, leaning over empty bowls and laughing about radishes. 

He paused in the doorway to take in the sight-- Wei Ying with his head thrown back; Wen Ning waving his hands while he talked, like he'd forgotten to shrink himself down; Lan Sizhui soaking it in like he had years of family to catch up on. 

Lan Zhan crossed the room to join them, Wei Ying spotting him when he got close. He was smiling already, but he smiled wider. "Ai, Lan Zhan, you're here! Sit down, sit down. We even saved you some soup." 

[lenademonn]

All This Time - 3

*Summary: Elena used to be closed off and composed, always in  control of her feelings and actions. She knew how to survive long before  world ended and didn’t need anyone to keep her alive. Because  attachments are liability, make you weak especially in this new world  where dead are walking and living are more dangerous than before.

A slow burn Daryl Dixon x OC; from season 1 forward, ongoing. Angst, Violence, strong language, sarcastic humour and more.

Warnings: Swearing, some anger managment issues.

Chapter 3

Day 45 The next day was quiet; the silence between Daryl and me uncomfortable. He woke me up a few hours before dusk, which meant that he took the long shift, nothing new in this aspect. He laid down without saying anything after waking me up, and I spend the next few hours watching the area and thinking about our conversation from before. Daryl woke up before I even had a chance to shake him awake. So lack of sleep, that's another thing I can add to my list of what I know about Daryl Dixon. We quickly packed what little we had and started trekking through woods, following the tracks we noticed yesterday. Finding them wasn't that hard, especially not for a brown-haired man. What turned out to be a challenge was picking up a fresh trail. We walked around for good three hours before Daryl crouched down to touch a set of hoof prints when I followed his action I could tell that those tracks were fresher than the one we found previously. Next to me, the man looked around the forest ground and pointed the way he thought we had to go. It took us another hour to finally find the animal, we spotted it standing in the middle of a small clearing, nibbling on grass. Daryl stopped and rose his clenched fist, signaling for me to stay still. I stopped dead in my tracks and slowly took an arrow out of my quiver, and lined it up on my bow and stretched the string. Steading my breathing and not taking my eyes out of our game, I was waiting for Dixon's directions. He also prepped his weapon and was watching the animal intensely. "Three, two, one," His whisper was barely hearable, and once he said 'one', we both released our arrows. His bolt hit the deer in its side while mine pierced its belly. Animal yelped in pain and took off instantly, its steps uneasy. "C'mon!" After hearing Daryl's voice, I moved quickly jogging after the animal, to not lose it in the woods again. I was pretty sure that I nicked some significant organs, and even though it didn't go down, it should bleed out soon enough; in that case, we didn't want to lose sight of it and allow geeks a free lunch. We followed the trace of blood left on the ground and leaves for some time when we heard a piercing scream, and I realized how close to the quarry we actually were. It sounded like one of the women or even one of the kids. Oh God, I hope it's not Carl or Sophia and that it's nothing. I quickly looked at Daryl. "That's coming from the camp, hurry up Dixon," Before he could react, I jogged in the direction we heard screaming. It didn't take us long to approach the edge of the camp. Daryl moved in front of me at some point, shoving me behind him when we heard concoction just in front of us. Advancing slowly, we finally emerged into a clearing, and I could see familiar faces of Shane, T-dog, Dale, and others. They all were pointing some sort of weapon in our direction.

"We surrender?" I joked while Shane put his gun down, mumbling under his nose. Dixon, on the other hand... well, he was pissed. And I wasn't surprised when I realized that on the ground just in front of us was a headless geek and half-eaten deer. Our fucking deer, the same we were tracking since yesterday. "Son of a bitch" Brown-haired man moved from in front me, around the bushes towards the deer. "That's mah deer!" His accent deepening signaling how angry he actually was. "Look at it, all gnawed on by this filthy, disease-bearing, motherless, poxy bastard." With each word, he gave a sharp kick to the geeks' side, letting his aggression go somewhere else than people in front of us. "Calm down, son. That's not helping," Oh Dale. Why would you say it to Dixon? Do you have a death wish? "What do you know, old man. Why don't you take that stupid hat and go back to 'On Golden Pond'. I've been trackin' this deer for miles." He pointed a finger in Dale's general direction and moved on to retrieve his bolt. I coughed as a reminder that I'm still here. "We. We tracked that deer for miles, Dixon!" Saying that I finally made my way to the dead animal and crouched down to get my arrow. "And by the looks of it out of our shots, mine was more deadly, so technically this deer is mine, you asshole!" I quickly stood up and wiped the blood off my arrow with my rug, then I put it back into the quiver and made my way back to the camp. On my way out, I made sure to push Daryl out of my way with my shoulder. Who the hell does he think he is? We've been hunting together for months now, and yes, of course, I may not be as skilled as he is, but for fuck sake, I am not terrible. Ignoring the men, I patted Amy and Andrea on the shoulder while walking past them. "Good that you back safe" I gave them a small smile and made my way towards the camp to find Lori. She stood next to the RV with Carol and a few other women. When she saw me she smiled, but I could tell it was strained, and I started to have a bad feeling. I approached them and took the zip bags with meat out of my backpack, watching people in front of me carefully. "That's all the meat we got, it should be enough for a few days. We got a deer as well, but fucking geek gnawed on it before we could get to it." I passed the bags to Lori and Carol, as they were the best cooks out of us, trust me you don't want me to cook you dinner unless you're willing to be ill after eating it. "Thanks, Elena, it means a lot. Listen--" Lori started playing with her fingers, after putting the meat bags on a small foldable table next to the RV's door. So there was something wrong. "There isn't a good way of saying it. Merle was left behind on that run, and we know that Daryl will be so angry, and he is really unpredictable in that state. Can you try to calm him down when the guys gonna tell him?" She sputtered, and for a second there a thought I misunderstood what she said. Merle left behind. What does it even mean? Before I could ask any more questions, I could hear Daryl shouting for his brother, and I felt so bad for him. And angry with everyone who went for that run, how could you leave someone behind?! I mean yeah, sure Merle Dixon is a colossal dick and dumbass, but that's not the reason to just-- "Merle, get yur ass out here. We got us some squirrel." He smirked in my direction when he noticed me looking at him "Yes, I said 'we', women. Merle!" I really hoped that my face didn't show any emotions because that was just heartbreaking. And I was also slightly concerned for whoever will deliver the news to him. "Daryl, slow up a bit. I need to talk to you." Shane was the one to speak, and behind him, I could see the rest of men with a new face in between them.

"Hey, Amy, who's that guy behind Shane?" I asked the blonde woman who was now standing next to me on my right.

"You won't believe it. That's Lori's husband." The fuck? I looked at browned haired women and then at the new guy and tried to hide my surprised face. This is going to be interesting. Making a mental note to ask Lori all about that, I focused on the conversation in front of me.

"There was a problem in Atlanta" Shane touched his face for a second, showing how uncomfortable he was saying it and then moved his hands to rest on his hips. Daryl looked around and hold my gaze for a second before he took a few steps.

"He dead?"

"We're not sure." After that, Daryl moved towards Shane, his voice getting louder.

"He either is or he ain't."

"No easy way to say this so I'll just say it." I could see this new guy move forward, and towards Daryl, he wasn't looking directly at him at all.

"Who are you?"

"Rick Grimes"

"Rick Grimes, ya got something ya want to tell me?" Oh, I could tell that Daryl is starting to lose his patience. Yeah, I know, he doesn't have a lot of it in the first place.

"Your brother was a danger to us all, so I handcuffed him on a roof, hooked him to a piece of metal. He's still there" When this Rick guy answered, I found myself moving forward too, annoyed at what he was saying. What stopped me was Daryl and his face full of tears when he turned around away from the new guy. He glanced at me for a second before wiping his eyes and then clenched his jaw, turning back to Rick.

"Let me process this. So, ya handcuffed mah brother to a roof, and ya left 'im there?"

"Yeah," Answer was short, and I could hear the shame in the new guy's voice, then with anger on his face, Daryl threw a string of squirrels we caught this morning at Rick Grimes and was ready to beat the shit out of the guy. That was until Shane literally tackled younger Dixon to the ground. Shane quickly stood up while brown-haired men was still lying on the ground, but I could see him reaching for his hunting knife, which was secured on his belt.

"Daryl -" I was cut off by T-Dog, who dropped the logs he was collecting.

"Hey, watch out for the knife!" At this same moment, Daryl got up and swang his arm at Rick, who dodged it. That didn't stop younger Dixon, he moved again, aiming at the men in front of him, but Rick managed to avoid it again and get a hold of Daryl's wrist pushing it away from both of them. Shane sneaked behind Daryl and put him in a headlock. With that, Dixon was shoved to the ground, with Shane's arm still around his neck. In the meantime, Rick pried the knife and dropped on the ground away from the fight.

"You'd best let me go!" Daryl was still struggling and trying to get away.

"Nah, I think it's better if I don't" I rolled my eyes and finally made my way towards the three of them.

"Shane, let him go!" Using my stern 'work' voice, it usually worked well with criminals and kids, mainly with kids.

"Daryl stop struggling, please. Just calm down for a second so we can get a full story out of them." I crouched in front of him and looked into his blue eyes, now full of tears and rage, his chest rising quickly and his fists clenched, one by his side and the other around Shane's arm, trying to ease the hold. He looked at me for a while and nodded, making me smile just a little.

"Shane, let him go! You know I can handle him if necessary." Both of them looked at me now, one unsure of what to do and the other with a look of pain in his eyes, even though it disappeared very quickly. Shane finally let him go, so I took the opportunity to turn toward this Rick guy and T-Dog.

"Great, now can someone tell us what the fuck happened in Atlanta, and how could you leave a man behind?" I put my hands on my hips, face blank, but my eyebrows rose slightly.

"What I did was not on a whim, Ma'am. His brother does not work and play well with others. He beat T-Dog and was shooting from the rooftop, attracting more and more walkers to our location." Daryl and I exchanged a look, he was biting his lower lip, a clear sign of anxiety. Yeah, unfortunately, what this man was saying was sounding precisely like Merle Dixon.

"It's not Rick's fault." That came from T-dog, "I had a key. I dropped it." Now my face was for sure, showing surprise and confusion, but it was Daryl who voiced what I was thinking.

"You couldn't pick it up?"

"I dropped it down the drain" I run my hand over my face trying to compose myself, while Daryl just scoffed in disbelief.

"If it's supposed to make me feel better, it don't." He finally stood up and tried to walk away from the group—T-Dog's voice stopping him in his tracks.

"Maybe this will. I chained the door to the roof so the geeks couldn't get at him with a padlock." I looked up at them, confused.

"Are you saying that Merle is alive?" I asked in a low voice.

"Yeah"

"You fucking idiots. Don't you think that's the kind of information you should start with?!" I nearly shouted in Shane's face, seeing as he was the one to start all this show.

"Hell with all y'all. Just tell me where he is so that I can go get him."

"He'll show you." Lori's voice was calm, but when I turned around to face her, she was anything but. Oh, I see how it is. The first day back and the Grimes family already got problems.

"Yeah, I'm going back."

*

As I was getting ready in my tent, I tried to not listen to what else people got to say about all that. I re-checked if my knives were secure and put my short sleeve blue flannel shirt over the reins. I checked if my Glock is fully loaded and put it in the holster on my right side. I put some water and granola bars in small backpack Glenn found in Atlanta some time ago.

I took my machete and made my way to the track I knew we gonna be taking. I could see Glenn already sitting in the driver's seat while Daryl was pacing the truck's back. I walked past Rick and T-Dog and put my machete down on the floor of the vehicle. I pushed myself up on my arms and got into the back of the truck, making Daryl stop his pacing.

He looked at me, his blue eyes narrowing "What the hell ya doing here, women?"

I just looked at him calmly and picked up my weapon "What does it look like I'm doing, Dixon? Did you really think that I would let you go without me?" He just scoffed and mumbled under his nose, something about a stupid woman.

"Hey! Don't go breaking my records now! We went all 15 days without you calling me stupid." At that comment, I could see his lips twitch just a little, and then he made his way to the seats at the front of the car and used his foot to pressed a horn.

"Hurry up, y'all!" Rick and T-Dog made their way towards us, the new guy was wearing a sheriffs uniform, I guess he was a cop just like Shane, before all this.

"Ma'am, I don't think it's safe for you to go with us. The city is completely overrun, and it might be dangerous." I let a small laugh escape my lips, the others following my steps, except Daryl, of course. That guy doesn't laugh.

"Rick, this is Elena, we were telling you about her last night." Glenn introduced me, and it got me really interested in what they were telling him about me.

"SSA Elena James, not that it matters anymore. Trust me, I had my experience with the dead already, and yet I'm still here alive." I spun my machete in a circle, careful to not nick Daryl with a blade. After that, we finally were ready to go, Rick taking the passenger side at the front, T-Dog climbing up to sit with younger Dixon and me.

*

The journey to Atlanta was uneventful, except few snarky comments from Daryl. Glenn finally parked the car, and we all jumped out, making our way to a chained fence, to go through it. The first time I saw the city after that day on a highway and boy let me tell you it was horrible.

The streets were abandoned except for a few geeks - or walkers, as Rick calls them. I could see abandoned cars and here and there we passed burned down buildings, seeing what napalm actually did to Atlanta and how deserted it looked.

It's kind of image you'd only see in a movie, laughing and asking your friends what would you do if apocalypse, of any kind, would hit. And now we fucking living it and it's scary to think about because it seems like humanity lost and what was left of us was in the minority.

"Merle! We ain't even having this conversation." Daryl's gravelly voice pulled me out of my thoughts. It seems as he and Officer Friendly were having a go at each other. Again.

"We are. You know the geography, it's your call" That last part was intended for Glenn, who, in fact, like I mentioned before, is a walking map of Atlanta.

"Merle's closest. The guns would mean doubling back. Merle first." I was so happy when Glenn said it. I didn't know if I could stop Daryl if he'd decide to punch Rick, or I should say I wasn't sure if I was willing to do so. I was pissed too, you don't leave people behind like that, it doesn't matter how fucking annoying they are.

We jogged through the streets for about five minutes before making it to the convenience store they left Merle in. I heard a low growl behind me and T, so I quickly spun on my heel and rose my blade into dead men's eye. He was wearing a suit, now shredded in many places, his stomach ripped open and once-white shirt now deep red and brown from all the blood.

As quickly as I sunk my machete in, I pulled it out, pushing caracas to the ground, making the rest of my group look at me. I gave a quick smile in their direction before advancing to the front, following Daryl through a ransacked shop. He gestured for me to take a right, while he went to the left and we both slowly and quietly moved forward, I heard the swish of Daryl's crossbow and then sound of a body going down. When I rounded the corner, I was met with an arrow pointed straight between my eyes. I used my left hand to gently push it down cocking my eyebrow a little.

"Come on, Dixon, you would be super sad if you'd kill me. Who would make you laugh and complement that sexy body of yours if I'd be gone?" He just rolled his eyes and scowled at me before going in the direction we should be going. I looked at Rick, and he had a weird expression on his face. Like a combination of disbelieve, amusement, and resentment all at this same time.

"Don't worry, Rick," T-Dog said, chuckling. "That's just the relationship they have, she pushes his buttons, and he tries not to kill her."

I sent a sweet smile in their direction and moved after Daryl. We finally made our way up the stairs to where the roof door was. When on the top, Daryl made space for T-Dog to use bolt cutters on a padlock and then kicked the door rushing first to get his brother. We all followed him through a platform to a pipe where Merle supposed to be. Yeah, supposed to be...

"No! No!" Daryl's cries broke me a little, he was pacing, and tears rolled down his face. The handcuffs were still attached to the pipe blood all over them, on the floor bloodied handsaw and... a hand.

Impatient prick cut off his own hand. Fuck.

Next Chapter

[oneidjitatatime]

Curiosity in a Junkyard

The Clever Magenta Box faded and trembled into existence, throomed to a stop next to a black Dodge Avenger that had seen better days and an orange Charger with a Confederate flag on the roof that had seen better decades. The door creaked open in its distinctive way, and The Second Anomaly-- Jenny, The Doctor's Daughter-- stepped out. She tugged a business card out of her pocket, glanced up at the sign-- "Singer Auto Self-Service Salvage Yard," she muttered. "I wonder if he knows it spells 'sassy?' The extra 's' is for extra 'sass.'" "Doesn't look like much," the cat muttered in his telepathic Tasmanian accent as he trotted out of the magenta TARDIS Police Box behind Jenny, wove between her legs and sat down in the dirt. Jenny smirked faintly, tugged the door shut behind Jack, and moved towards the main building. "Don't sell it short. Some pretty wonderful things have happened in junkyards." Jack's upper lip twitched pensively, dubiously, showing one side of his teeth for a moment before he languidly wheeled about to pad after her. "In my experience, they usually have way too many very big, very hungry dogs for that to be true." Jenny reached up and rapped gently on the house's front door, sliding her hands into the pockets of her green coat as she waited. "From what that adorable skinny werewolf boy told me, with this yard the big dog's actually the proprietor."

"Dammit, Frank, I don't give two shits! Just haul ass over there and get them damn blades ASAP!" Bobby slammed the phone down on the desk cradle and took a long pull on his beer. He grimaced and mumbled something about how can that idjit still be alive. Sitting back down at the desk he was about to start translating a piece of text someone needed for a case in Missoula when a sound that was decidedly not automotive kicked up at the front gate of the yard. "Balls." Reaching behind him he grabbed the sawed off shotgun always kept loaded and walked quietly across the living room, staying well away from the windows. He saw a youngish looking redhead walking up the porch with a yellow cat, not stopping to think that was in any way odd, and stood to the side of the door. She knocked and seemed content to wait, which narrowed the possibilities of who the hell she was and what the hell she was doing on his porch. He cracked the door just enough to get the curled bill of his hat out. "I ain't got no interest in yer relationship with Jesus and I don't need any encyclopedias, so unless you got a box a Thin Mints in that coat, take a hike." Then promptly slammed the door in her face and crossed his arms to wait.

Jenny arched a red eyebrow at the slammed door, an expression subconsciously very much like her father. Jack glanced up at her, squinching his eyes. "Rude. Stroppy, even. And what's a Thin Mint, when it's at home?" Glancing back down at him, Jenny replied: "Girl Scouts of America. I'm programmed with the tactics of every military and paramilitary organization in human history, and their door-to-door fundraising campaigns were quite effective. They proved useful couriers for The Blue States Faction in The Culture War of the mid-21st Century." Jack snuffled dubiously. "Get you, Digger. A regular Encyclopedia Ginger." Turning her attention back to the door, keeping her hands in her pockets the whole time, utterly unflapped, Jenny announced. "I don't have any cookies, Mister Singer, and I don't know Jesus personally, though I bivouacked with some Anglican Marines once so you might call Him a friend of a friend." "...I need help learning to fight monsters, Mister Singer. Aliens I can handle, monsters are a very different thing. And a lad named Garth told me you were the best in history at training Hunters."

Son of a bitch. Bobby looked out the window again at the oh so very young girl and swore to put a silver bullet in Garth himself. He cracked the door just enough to make himself clear. "Garth ain't right in the head, darlin. That boy's mamma dropped him on his head one too many times. And I ain't too sure about your mamma either. Monsters are a load a bullshit, so you just go back in yer spaceship an go fight little green men. I'm just an old grease monkey who ain't got time fer yer teenage delusions." Bobby had a sinking feeling she wasn't as crazy as he thought she was, but he'd be damned if he'd be responsible for another young kid goin' off and gettin herself killed because a him.

"I don't, ah," Jenny smiled a tiny, tiny smile, "have a mother. I never did." Unless you count Donna. She named me. Not to mention, am I even a teenager yet? But he says it like he'd say child, and I've never been one of those, either. "If I'm delusional, sir," she suggested, "then I'm no more delusional than you. And it's the same delusion. The same... 'family business.' 'Saving people, hunting things,' or 'saving worlds, rescuing civilizations, and defeating terrible creatures.' Either way, it involves an awful lot of running. ...love the running." She reached down and she picked up the cat, slung him over her shoulder. He widened his eyes in surprise at first, but then stretched and arched happily, reaching a paw out to grasp at the air. Then she turned to walk away, and glanced back over her other shoulder at that part-open door. "And, being delusional, I'm going to keep pursuing this. Going to keep looking 'till I find someone else to teach me, whatever it takes. But that'll be a shame, won't it? Because that means whoever teaches me won't do nearly as good a job as you would have, and a little lycanthrope told me there's nothing that bothers you more than Hunters who half-arse The Job." Jack jumped down almost immediately, trotting along beside her, he never did like to be picked up for very long-- and he glanced up at her as they went. "We're giving up?" he murmured. "Just like that?" "Either the conversation's at a South Dakotan stand-off," The Anomaly replied, wryly, "or..."

'Family Business'. Either Garth was runnin his mouth more than usual or she had at least run in the same circles as the boys for some time. He listened to that tone in her voice, watched her turn and walk off, saw blond wavy hair and a dinky little heirloom pigsticker twirling in her hand. Tucking the sawed off in the crook of his elbow, mumbling to himself that he was too fuckin old for this shit, he stepped out on the porch. "What're you after?"

Garth had been running his mouth, in a sense. Preaching the gospel of The Brothers Winchester and their "real" father, Bobby Singer, over a campfire while he held hands with his pretty young bride. Perhaps he had been waxing nostalgic for his days in the field, but he spared no gushes about his heroes. Jenny had not yet met those brothers herself. She was still learning how to pilot her TARDIS, and indeed, her TARDIS was still learning how to fly-- the fact that they were learning together actually helped matters more often than not, making their errors a little bit less of a trial. Running with Samuel Colt and Wade Wilson in The Old, Wild West was still in her future. But by damn, she'd be ready for it when the time came. "What're you after?" She smirked to herself and then down at Jack as Bobby called after them. Jack squinted at her. "...you weren't nearly so chessmastery when you were blonde." "Maybe I'm just taking after my dad," Jenny drawled in reply, and turned to face Bobby, speaking up to call across the near distance: "I have military training, sir. Pretty extensive training. I've fought in trenches even you might have trouble imagining. But it's come to my attention that there's creatures out there I'm not trained to fight. Creatures that don't necessarily follow the rules of warfare I've come to know, ones that pose a threat to people who just want to live in peace. And what sort of soldier would I be if I went into battle unprepared against things like that?"

Bobby stood and looked...looked at the little slip of a girl standing there talking to a cat. Yeah, she probably had done everything she said she'd done. John Winchester was a fuckin Marine and look where it got him. And then he laughed. A full bellied laugh that eased into a chuckle as he ambled down the stairs and set the shotgun down on the trunk of the junker in front of the porch and leaned an elbow next to it. "Look, sweetheart, I don't know what Garth told you, but there ain't no Monster College, or Monster 101 course I can teach you. I've been doin this shit fer 30 odd years and I still don't know half a what I don't know. Hunters get into the business for mostly the same reason. Someone close to em got took or killed or both by some supernatural bastard or other. If you got somethin' specific you need to know how to kill, I might and I mean MIGHT be able to help ya out. But if yer just here for Monster Boot Camp it don't exist. Now haul on outta here cause yer waistin time I need ta be spendin translatin Aramaic so some dumbass can try not ta get hisself killed."

She took a moment to respect the fine care that had been taken of that shotgun. Was that Boeing oil she smelled? But then he answered. Jenny's eyes narrowed slightly and, hands coming out of her coat pockets, she crossed her arms over her stomach-- the same classic posture she'd taken when standing off against her father. This was not the reply she'd been hoping for. "I suppose I didn't know what I was asking. This is a new theater of war for me." "New species hiding under the fabric of reality that each obey their own rules of physics. Sufficiently advanced biology is indistinguishable from magic." "I fought a strain of werewolves inhabiting an isolated corner of The Appalachians in Vermont, but they were resistant to the weapons described in The Torchwood Archive, mistletoe and concentrated moonlight, and realized that this species was terrestrial in origin, not extraterrestrial." Jack shuddered and cleaned himself intently, gnawing on one of his front paws. "(Bad dogs. Scary bad dogs.)" "We lost track of them, but picked up rumors of another pack-- which was how we met your friend Garth," Jenny continued. "I know better than to commit genocide, over-my-dead-body-- werewolves can be people too, just like The Hath-- but if I come up against dangerous ones, I need to know how to protect people. I've inherited my father's drive to fight the good fight-- while I try and find him, I want to honor his code." She hesitated. "And then there's these-- black smoke entities. They jump from body to body like The Gelth. How can I fight something like that?"

Bobby closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He could feel a whopper of a headache coming on. She was already just running around out there with some cracked up intel from some group over in Britain. Torchwood had come up in conversation and none of it was good, and if she was misidentifying aliens and demons she was about two steps from being hell hound chow if she stayed on her own. "I don't know what the hell a Gelth is, but that black smoke is a demon, a damned soul possessing a live human body. Werewolves can only be killed with a silver bullet to the heart. This is what I was tellin ya sweetheart, you don't even know what you don't know." he sighed. Looking over her shoulder he saw the pinkish looking box. It was the same design as the blue one that alien fella the boys ran around with drove. "If yer gonna stay, ya might as well park that box out back where it ain't gonna draw attention. And that cat had better be trained cause I ain't got no litter boxes or flaps in the doors, and I definitely got no patience for animals shreddin my books and furniture." He picked up the shotgun and turned back to the house. "Come on in when ya get settled and we'll see how ya are with translatin languages."

Jenny's brow furrowed more than a little at the you don't even know what you don't know. God, this was-- this must be what it had been like for members of the conventional military to transition into black ops spy work. They'd gotten so good at swimming in their depth of the pond that they had no Earthly (or exoplanetary) concept of how deep it really went once the continental shelf dropped out from under you. And then he namedropped dark spirits, and she felt the jarring impact of a new floor dropping out from under her. "A demon. An actual demon. The choirboys I bivouacked with would talk about them in the metaphorical sense--" --a chill raced up her spine, and, continuing the analogy about the ground dropping out from under her feet, right now she felt a bit like her father had, perched and poised over that yawning pit on Krop Tor, that dark urge to jump to fall-- She shook her head, her red red hair washing about as she did so. Managed to find her proverbial footing. For now. "That Box as you call it," she smirked faintly, "actually draws precious little attention, considering her color. But if it's throwing off your feng shui, I can move her. She's got this perception filter thing, usually the only people who register that she really doesn't blend in are the astutely observant-- those attuned to the oddities of The Universe-- and some slightly psychic people." "Can't be that astute, or that psychic," Jack squinted. "...I don't think he can hear me." Jenny shot her Cat an odd look. "Don't be ridiculous," she murmured, "of course he can." But then Bobby was going on about cat flaps and scratching posts and training, and it dawned on Jenny that no-one who'd actually heard Jack carry on a telepathic conversation, sentient as could be, could doubt his ability to self-regulate. She opened her mouth. And shut it again. How curious. Did he have some kind of psychic training, then? Defenses? She wagered psychic paper wouldn't work on him either. "He'll be fine. He can keep his claws to himself, and he has a rather Heinleinian way of not needing cat flaps." Jack harrumphed. "I can keep my claws to myself if he keeps those big stompy boots away from my tail. And his rocking chairs, he looks like a rocking chair sort of bloke." Jenny simultaneously ignored Jack, and watched Bobby for any hint or clue that he was hearing Jack and pretending not to. Now might not be the best time to insist that your housepet could deliver telepathic one-liners in a Hobart accent, you know, on top of showing up on an old soldier's doorstep demanding he dust off the old drill sergeant uniform. "I might be more help with those languages than you'd think. One of the perks of my particular mode of transportation. It's still hit or miss, though. She's still learning how to be a time machine, I'm still learning how to be a time traveler, it's an odd dynamic but it works surprisingly well."

He stopped with his hand on the door. "I don't know about any a that perception bullshit, I just know there's a big damn pink box sitting in the front a my salvage yard. Ya'd have ta be blind NOT ta see it." He watched how she moved, listened to how she talked, lamented at how young she was. It was too late to protect her from knowing about the bad things, even too late to keep her from fighting bad things. He looked back at himself and a much younger Dean, heading out to play catch in the park. The look on the kid's face when he realized they weren't going to be drilling anything, just...playing, like any other normal kid. The way she moved, the way she spoke, told him she'd never even had days like that. Wouldn't know a baseball from a hand grenade. And now she wanted him to fill her head full of more evil shit and how to kill it. He sighed and dipped his head. Pulling the door open he shouted over his shoulder. "Well park it out back, ask it how much Aramaic it knows, then get yer ass in here."

"Well," Jenny smiled faintly. "Blindness is in the eye of the beholder. It's like you just said, 'I don't even know what I don't know.' I'd imagine that's true of a lot of people and a lot of things. A lot of people don't know how to look and don't know how to see and don't know how to observe. So they can't see her." "And she's magenta, not pink," she corrected after another heartsbeat. "She's very particular about that." Then she turned and walked back to her ship, vanishing inside-- at which point it vanished in a slow, fading VWORRP. VWORRP. VWORRP. with the light atop strobing white white light. As Bobby had opened the door, Captain Jack had bounded over and slithered in through the gap, trotting in and squinting his eyes as he looked about, tail furling and unfurling. "Mate, you weren't joking about the books, hey? Well. I promise not to sharpen my claws on any first editions if you promise not to use my teleporting arse as target practice." Making himself at home, Jack spotted an old wheelchair in the corner that had gathered some quantity of dust, and immediately bounded into it like it was a Captain's Chair-- and started cleaning himself, very studiously licking down his own back. It was a few minutes later that Jenny walked back in, looking annoyed but trying to be Zen. She'd been gone about a week, and had had to lead a cell of Ogron mercenaries in rebellion against their Dalek employers and that had really taken some convincing. But eventually she'd made it back to Bobby's backyard not so very much the worse for wear and with very little observable time having passed. "Right then, sorry, she's sorted." "And, ah, she says Aramaic is easy, it's Enochian that's hard. And something called Krop Torese, but honestly that just sounds made up."

He watched the ginger furball streak passed his boots and grumbled, closing the door behind. He walked over to the desk, put the shotgun back in easy reach, sat down, pulled open the drawer, took out the scotch and poured it into the nearest drinking vessel. This just happened to be a yunomi which was fine since it wasn't a formal occasion. He knocked the drink back and looked across the room to see the cat sitting in his old wheelchair. Pouring another snort, he raised his cup. "Better you than me, pal." Bobby had just set his cup down, preparing to get back into his books when the girl strode in. He squinted at her, something was decidedly...off...about her, but he couldn't tell what. He indicated the chair in front of his desk for her to sit. "Before we get all mixed up in business, you need to give me some background. I'm guessin' yer the same kinda alien that Doctor fella is. We ain't met, but my boys have run with him some. Secretive. Enigmatic. That shit don't fly here. There are at LEAST three things I can name off the top of my head that can make themselves look so much like you yer mamma....well...folks who saw you everyday couldn't tell the difference." He poured another shot and sat back, looking at her over the cup. "Also, there's something damned peculiar about that cat. So give me as much as you can about who you are and what you're really doin' here. I need to be able to get a feel for you, see if I can trust you before we start formalizin' any arrangements."

"Better you than me, pal," Singer drawled. Captain Jack the Cat glanced up from his throne upon the wheelchair, and squinted his eyes at the older human. "At least if I'm sitting in it, you can't roll over my tail with it. Brrrr, and I thought rocking chairs were bad." Then Jenny came back, and despite himself, The Captain started purrrrrring again, purring not unlike a certain Impala, a rrrrrrumble deep in his orange belly. Unlike his telepathic dialogue, Bobby should be able to hear that plain as day. And he resumed cleaning himself, this time picking the claws of a hind-paw with his teeth. "Yes," Jenny nodded, smirking appreciatively at the fact that he caught himself with the reference to a hypothetical mother. "Some intel would not go amiss. I'll... try to be brief. But it's complicated." She draped her blue-green coat over the back of a chair and leaned against a table, arms over her tummy, standard at-rest posture for her. "I'm... similar to The Doctor. I seem to have most of his abilities and a wild, instinctive, hit-or-miss ability to use them, especially since my first regeneration. But I wasn't born naturally of his species and none of us are quite sure how exactly like him I really am. I was-- progenated off of him, it's sort of like cloning-- in the middle of a war zone on a distant planet in the year 6012. Part of that progenation process was to fill my mind with the kind of training and indoctrination that would make me a perfect soldier in our war against The Hath." "But my Dad was rather fed up with wars. And he taught me a better way." "He thought I died, and we got separated. I went looking for him through time, riding a shuttlecraft back through Rifts and Time Eddies and wormholes until I got to the early 21st Century. Picked that cat up along the way-- he's a funny story in and of himself." "I managed to find my Dad almost by accident. We both got roped into a conflict that almost unwrote all of reality-- and I got killed. Again. And we were separated. Again. And now I'm looking for him. Again." "Except this time when I came back I think I got a little more of my Dad in the bargain, a little cooler a little cleverer, and this time-- this time I have Magenta. So I'll find Dad again. It's only a matter of time." "But until then, I try to do what he would do. Fight the good fight, the only way I know how. And it looks like that includes fighting magical monsters, not just alien ones." "That's why I'm here, Mr. Singer." "It's my Family Business too."

He tipped the cup back in one knock and placed it gently on the desk. "Yep, that was pretty much as weird as I'd expected." He waved at the chair. "Sit down, yer makin' me edgy. Well, edgier." He arranged the research he was doing into a coherent pile and sat back in his chair. "I don't do a whole lot of field work anymore. I'm gettin' older and I'm sorta the only one who keeps track of the lore." He indicated the overflowing bookshelves and bookfurniture. "The hunters on the road who run into somethin' they don't recognize, or don't know how to get rid of, they call me. I reckon I'm the Spooky Shit Database." Bobby sighed and poured himself another shot, still debating whether to empty the bottle and send this girl packing or not. "I get that you've seen battle. I even get that you've fought some of the evil bastards we deal with. I understand the whole Family Business thing, lord knows. Half the hunters who do this have that particular baggage attached. What I want you to understand is that if I do take you on as an...apprentice, I guess you'd call it, there'd be more book learnin' to start with than actual monster killin'." Taking a sip of his drink he eyed her for microreactions. "If yer not stayin', if yer gonna run off in that pink box of yours more than you're here, there's not much point in this exercise either. You were gone a bit longer than the 5 minutes I didn't see you, which means whatever I teach you is gonna be gone just through diminished retention and intermediate distraction." He chuckled. "Yeah, I'm self taught, but I know the big words." "Here's what it boils down to. If I agree to this, I am accepting responsibility for your ass, no matter how much you tell me I'm not, so don't even start. Just cause you can't physically die don't mean there ain't a thousand other ways you can get damaged, possibly permanently, and if I start trainin' you then you run off and get pureed by a Hellhound, that's on me." He downed the rest of his drink. "That's it. That's the speech. If we can come to an accord, fine. But then I get the scoop on what the hell is goin on with that cat."

That was... quite a speech. Her microreactions had been-- perhaps infuriatingly steady, though there had been a furrowing of brow near-infinitesimal when he had mentioned book learning. She sat for a moment, in the chair he'd indicated, and dwelt in the moment. Weighed and measured. Considered all the angles. And when she spoke, she spoke from the heart, and her eyes didn't flicker upward at such an angle as suggested deceit or prevarication. "Your autodidacticism is impressive," Jenny replied, after a period of silence, see, I can do big words too. "I concede that I don't have a lot... of experience... with actual book learning. With protracted study. It's been programming and muscle memory and fieldwork all the way. So this will be an... adjustment. But it's an adjustment I'm willing to make, if you're willing to put up with the fact that it is an adjustment. An operation is useless without good intel-- even more so, an operative." "Mr. Singer, I have a brain like a sponge and I have near-eidetic physical memory. Whatever skills I learn, I retain. But I can promise you-- when I'm here, I'm here. I only went away for-- an unexpected interval-- because parking my machine isn't an exact science. (At least not for me.) But now my boots are on this ground and unless I'm called away suddenly by unexpected cosmic events-- it's been known to happen --I expect to carry out my tour with you without going AWOL or MIA or getting KIA... or worse." "A superior officer is always responsible for those under his command, whether he likes it or not, whether they like it or not. But I, in turn, will fulfill my responsibility to you. I'm reporting for duty. And that means something. I won't derelict that duty. I won't disgrace your leadership or your teachings." "An accord?" She glanced at Captain Jack, who didn't say anything, but he did that slow-blink thing cats do when they trust you. Jenny nodded to him gratefully, then looked back to Bobby. "That's affirm, if you'll have me." "But. Two things." "One:" she grinned softly, wrly. "She's Magenta. Not pink. She's very particular about that. It's her name and it's her color." "Two: Captain Jack is a really long story. And you might need a bigger glass."

"Alrighty then." Bobby reached behind him and pulled out a smallish, oldish tome; his most reliable book of exorcism incantations. He handed it across the desk to Jenny. "You take a look at that. Tell me what language it's in and based on the contents what you think its purpose is. If you need that box to help you translate, you'd either better start learning earth languages, or make sure it's with you every single time you go anywhere." He smirked and refilled his cup. "I recommend option one."

Jenny warily took the book from him-- but she pointedly didn't glance at the cover immediately. "Well. She is with me every time I go anywhere. She's how I go everywhere." "But I do see your point. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say." She stared to nowhere for a moment. And sort of-- conferred-- with that psychic presence always at the back of her mind. Well, sometimes at the front. And Magenta was... surprised by the question. She'd been programmed with just the scantest source-code for a Matrixian OS, and a lot of the things she did she sort of did just on... instinct. Jungian default settings, so to speak. So she really didn't know a lot of what... wasn't possible. So when Jenny asked if Magenta could temporarily disable the autotranslate function of the telepathic circuit formed by Jenny's ersatz "Time Lady" brain and Magenta's learning psychic interface-- Magenta had no idea. But she didn't see why not. All of this communicated in a couple of heartsbeats with just-- the vaguest impressions. Like holding a conversation with just your eyebrows. But then Jenny felt a certain neuropsychic sensation-- that was, itself, completely untranslatable if you didn't already know what it felt like --just sort of fade away. And then she nodded. "Okay, I'll give it a go." She glanced down at the book, and frowned. "...actually. I think I do know this one. Sort of." Jenny opened the book and began to page through it. "Okay, definitely only sort of. My programming includes the entire military history of humankind, including the martial philosophies of Ancient Romans, and this is... Latin? It doesn't read like military rhetoric, though. For one thing, Cicero was funnier. There's a lot of names and epithets I don't recognize." Her eyes narrowed to laser thin lines as she concentrated. "It's for... removing something. Uninstalling? ...something?"

Bobby nodded and put down his glass. "I'll have to take your word on Cicero's wit, but yeah, that's Latin. The fact that they didn't put anything in your programmin' about any of the 13 crusades leads me to suggest you get your money back on that Roman History section. "Those other words are religious in nature. I don't know how things work out there in the rest of the universe but down here on good ol terra firma, there's gods, demons, angels, demigods, all that bullshit. And there's different pantheons that follow different rules and different hierarchies. What you got there is the Roman Catholic Church's Greatest Hits for exorcisin a demon from a human host. Takin the black smoke out and sendin it back where it came from." He leaned back in his chair and rested his elbows on the arms. "You've got a good basic understandin of readin a second language and takin cues from context. That's important. It's a skill I'd like you to keep workin on a little while every day, without the box." He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Right now, I sure as hell ain't gonna turn down something that can read Aramaic, and I'm hungry." He grabbed his research pile, stood up and walked toward the kitchen. "So you and the box can take up this translation I've been workin on all mornin, and I'll make lunch." He plopped the pile on the kitchen table. "You got a food preference? I don't serve safety pin soufflé or anythin weird like that."

"27 Crusades," Jenny corrected automatically, and then paused. "Oh, right. 21st Century. No, right, just 13 at this point. Well, most of the historical files embedded in my head were translated into 61st Century English, not a lot of the original Latin text was preserved. Just... bits and pieces. Cicero. A bit of Marcus Aurelius. That bit about coming, seeing, and conquering, that's in there a lot." "Suffice it to say that the better part of my real-world religious education is Anglican in nature. Not much call for Latin in the 51st Century Anglican Marines. And so far-- most of? --the deities and celestials I've encountered were just aliens posing as gods, or misinterpreted as gods, sufficiently advanced biology is indistinguishable from godhood. But I suppose all myths have an element of truth. Some more than others, it would seem." Her eyes widened and glittered almost animalistically as she processed what he was saying about the black smoke. These creatures were mental in nature! Psychospiritual, neuropsychic, of course their Achilles heel was conceptual in nature, spoken aloud instead of fired as a projectile! This book was an arsenal! "You're an arms dealer," she murmured, not realizing the lyrics she was paraphrasing. "Filling us with weapons in the form of words." "Yes," she nodded, as Bobby described his intentions as regards her lesson plan. "That sounds like a good way to arm myself." She smirked at the idea of fair exchanged he suggested, and gently mentally asked Magenta to re-furnish the translation protocols. Magenta only hesitated a little while she scrambled to figure out how, bless her, and Jenny felt that untranslatable sensation reinitialize in her limbic system. "Aramaic back online. And food sounds lovely, thank you." "Safety... pin... no, I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that recipe." "I've... I've developed sort of an affection for late 1950s diner food. D'you have anything like that? Chili?"

Bobby only understood about every third word she said, but he got the gist. "All I know for sure is that all the critters of a deific persuasion here are indigenous. And all the things that you need to kill, maim, or trap 'em are also indigenous. Either incantations, spells, weapons, they'll all be found on Planet Earth." Hearing her request, he went to the fridge to see what he had in stock. "You're in luck. I ate my way through childhood on late 1950s diner food and I do indeed have the makins for chili." He started pulling things from shelves and putting pots and pans on the stove. "With beans or without?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Fascinating." Jenny frowned. She didn't have nearly the experience or the education necessary to conceptualize this. But there were beginnings. Beginnings of learning and moving beyond just the soldiery indoctrination embedded in her brains and her genes. "The whole of The Universe to choose from, and all these... 'gods' emerge here? Their whole food chain evolves... here? No wonder aliens are always trying to invade this planet, no wonder my Dad can't stay away for more than a little while. It's like some sort of... spiritual junction-point for the whole of Reality..." She trailed off, lost in thought, trying to wrap her head around the theory... but a moment later, she realized he'd asked her something. "Oh! Um. Beans, please. And five alarms minimum. I'm fairly red-blooded." She paused. "Well, a tinge of orange." "It's a good color," Captain Jack approved, curled up in a ball and mostly asleep on Bobby's wheelchair.

Opening the cupboard and taking out the Scotch Bonnets he looked at her and mumbled, "On your head be it.". Bobby started frying, chopping, boiling, and reducing while glancing at the table to see if his 'student' was making any progress on the text. He had two fellas tryin not to get killed by a particularly nasty Tunannu living in the Clark Fork River. "You and the box getting anywhere with that text?" Then he remembered the cat, for some reason and asked if that critter needed feedin too.

Jenny had never gotten to fight a lupine-wavelength haemovariform with her dad. (Family business, indeed.) So she had never gotten to see him pore over tomes and find the weakness of a monster hidden between the lines of ancient poetry or prose. The greatest weapons in the world were books, he'd be the first to say-- and without even realizing it, Jenny was just now realizing how true that was. She squinted down at the page, mouthing words to herself. She turned one page forward and back and forward again, trying to get the flow of the text, and then nodding to herself. It took her a moment or two before she realized Bobby had asked her anything, so intent was she on her search. Though of course Jack had sat up instantly at the mention of critter-feedin' time. "Oh, um-- what?" she glanced up and blinked. "Ah-- tuna? He's not supposed to have too much of it, but once in a while as a treat is fine, if you've got it. Or any of that tinned chicken. Just put a plate down, he'll go mad for it." Captain Jack didn't need the plate to be down for him to go a bit mad, he bounded down from the wheelchair and padded as close as he dared to Robert Singer's clompy booted feet, and the glass-pack that was his purr rumbled like he was carrying the storm in his wake. His eyes were wide and his tail expressive and he kept saying "Food please? Food? Please?" instinctively excitedly even though he knew for whatever reason Bobby couldn't hear him. Speaking a little louder over the cat's perseverations, Jenny continued: "As for your-- ah-- Tunannu--" she paused to reflect wryly on the false-cognate similarities between Tunannu and Tuna "--it seems here like it's related to The Leviathan, and can take many forms, whale, fire-breathing sea serpent, hydra... crocodile... not much is said about how to kill it, something about Ba'al killing them, or-- Ba'al's sister binding them-- in one version, God Himself shatters the heads of the beast. In another, he slaughters Leviathan to feed the faithful in Heaven." She hesitated and she frowned. "Oh, hang on a tick. It's afraid of a... parasite? A 'kilbit' worm? Gets in the gills? ...Does that help? I don't know if you can find that at the local bait shop."

Bobby looked down at the ginger furball, who appeared as if called, purring and emanating Did Someone Say Food? vibes. Feeling a bit silly he indicated the stove. "Delicate cookin goin on here, cat. Gimme ten minutes and I'll see what kinda white meat I have on hand." Rolling his eyes he added "Please." He figured he should get his head examined for talking to a damn cat, but it just seemed the thing to do. As he was combining things to put on the simmer, he heard about the worm. "Ok, Antediluvian fauna." He tapped the wooden spoon on the pot handle rhythmically. "Back in the living room, over in the wall shelves in the corner there are some scrolls. Should be on the third shelf down." Then he turned to the cabinet looking for tuna.

"Ten whole minutes?" Jack squeaked disappointedly. "But I could be starved by then! Utter cactus!" Jenny rolled her eyes, and muttered. "Drama queen. I haven't seen a Captain this hysterical since we ended up on that starship that was a mock-up of The HMS Pinafore and were beset by robots that thought they were The Pirates of Penzance. Besides, ten's a good number. Ten's my favorite." "Yeah, yeah," Jack grumped, wandering back away from Bobby again so the busy kitchen boss wouldn't clomp a boot down on his tail as previously discussed. "Living room, wall shelves, corner, third shelf down," Jenny nodded at Bobby's instruction, and whisked off to investigate, the orange cat trotting on after her, gazing up at her like she was the sun and he was Copernicus. "Now, when you say 'antediluvian,'" Jenny called out loudly as she examined the scrolls on the shelf to find the ones he meant, "do you mean strictly in a metaphorical sense? Because while my files are strictly military based, I happen to know that there was never any literal Flood--" She stopped talking. She had opened one of the scrolls and was staring at it bewilderedly. Then she returned to the kitchen, gazing bewilderedly from the scroll to Bobby and back again as she walked, Jack wandering in a lazy zig-zag ahead of her like he'd gotten into some rum as an apertif for the impending victuals. "...I don't understand. I know for a fact that the fossil and the geological record give an accurate representation of historical progression, but according to this... according to this there was a Biblical Deluge, and before it, Enoch, and Nod, and Eden... how can... how can this be possible? Two histories simultaneously true and completely contradictory, parallel lines nested into each other like a double helix? This is... this is making my head hurt."

Holding the can of Chicken of the Sea and now digging through a drawer for a can opener, he listened to her walking back into the kitchen and probably got one out of five words this time. Improvement. "I think that intel you got grafted on your gray matter was shoddy at best, young'un. Cause as long as I've been alive on this earth the fossil record has shown evidence of the Flood. Not sayin it was Biblical in nature cause all the religions that I know of have a myth related to it, but it definitely happened." He found the can opener, scooped the tuna on a ceramic dish and put it down outside his cooking area. Then he got a bowl and put some water in it and decided that was about as hospitable as he was going to be to a cat. "Alright, cat. Come and get it." He walked over and examined the scroll over her shoulder. Yep. Biblical flood. He pulled his wallet out and got Kimber Mac's cell number out. "Here's my contact on all things alien, and timey. And really good Scotch. Give her a call if you want to discuss the whole layered thing. That shit doesn't even stick in my brain long enough to make it hurt. Or ask your box. I gather they understand that nonsense better than any of us."

Jenny frowned. "How perplexing. I'll need to talk to Magenta about this. She has a better multidimensional perspective than I do. But no, the creation myth where I came from was a little... different. Had more of a feminine touch, for one thing. But more focus on the mission at hand." Of course then Jack basically galloped over to the bowls that Bobby put down, skidding to a stop on the floor and diving his orange face deep into the bowl of the tuna. Immediately he started rumble-purring as he chewed, creating a fantastic combination of noises-- rumblechewing-- --all the while crowing telepathically about it. "Strewth, I haven't had proper albacore in aaaaaaages, this is brilliant--" Jenny squinted down at the scroll as she spread it out over the table. "Don't talk with your mouth full, it's rude." Captain Jack chuckled and kept making a sound as close to the onomatopoeia OMNOMNOM as humanly imaginable. Jenny glanced up from the scroll and took the number Bobby offered her. And she blinked. "Wait. I know this one? I met her! We fought The Knell together! Oh, I loved her hair!"

"Never met her in person. Seems nice enough though." He sat down while the chili simmered and tapped the tabletop. "Ok. The chili's gotta simmer an hour. That's plenty of time to consult with your box. Now, you can tell me what the story is with that cat."

"She's a peach," Jenny informed him in no uncertain tones. Not to mention-- maybe she could get in contact with my dad? All this fruitless searching... She snapped back out of her reverie when she realized he'd asked her that question again, and it still wasn't any easier an answer than the last time he'd asked. "That's a funny story." "I actually picked up Jack when I was stranded on a spaceship fighting xenomorphs in 2179, as cliche as that sounds." "And you know? He's never actually given me a straight answer as to where he comes from. He thinks it's hilarious to give a different answer every time someone asks him for a backstory, like it adds to his 'feline mystique.'" "In one story, he's descended from an orange cat that got ionically manipulated by an empathic Isolus, that it left a permanent impact on his genetic structure and future descendants had a latent gene involving teleportation and psychic communication, which Jack manifested as a kitten." "In another story, he's descended from a Cheetah World kitling who crossbred with a local feline while hunting for prey on Earth." "In yet another story, he's the immortal spirit of a small town in Lowell County, Kansas." "He once tried to tell me he was a Whifferdill who copied a psychokinetic alien cat too closely and got stuck. Or that he was a ship's cat for a certain Pirate of The Caribbean that got lost in The Bermuda Triangle. Or that he's from a planet with superheroes and he just happens to have a metagene. Or that he was the result of genetic experimentation gone wrong by The Bureau Tygon in the latter half of The 24th Century." Jack scoffed. "Not gone wrong, it went perfectly, it just had unexpected results. They were trying to make some wishing thing, but I think I came out much nicer." Jenny rolled her eyes, and kept going. "He could also have been the Earth's memory of Tasmanian Tigers once they'd gone extinct, living on in the Aboriginal Dreamtime, but he managed to escape to the material world by taking the form of an extant species." "Doesn't have to be Earth's Tasmania," Jack pointed out. "Lots of planets have a Tasmania." Ignoring him, Jenny continued: "But my favorite is this, because it seems to be the one he mentions the least often and I think that's likely to make it the truest: he's the son of a rogue Time Agent with one of The Catkind from New Earth shortly after The Year 5 Billion. How he got from The Year 5 Billion to The 22nd Century, I don't know, but still-- I think he's named after his dad, not after that Caribbean Pirate as he claims." Jack got a bit grumpier at that one, his tail rattlesnaking, and he sullenly began lapping up the water in the bowl next to the tuna. "They named the monkey Jack. Why not me too?"

"So, boiled down, that's an alien cat that can appear and disappear, and can talk with it's brain." Bobby sat there a minute, then got up to stir the chili. That kind of made sense of the weird feelings he got around the cat sometimes, like it was person-ish. Well, more person-ish than most cats thought they were. "I reckon the reason I can't hear him is one of the amulets or charms I carry around. I tend to be paranoid about things that ain't me getting inside my body." He looked down at the cat taking a drink and looking slightly moody. "Alright, Jack. I apologize if I've been rude. You're a guest in my house. If there's anything you need, just tell Miss Jenny and she can tell me. That work for everyone involved?"

"Well, he might not be alien," Jenny clarified. "Unless he is." Not really much of a clarification, but that was Captain Jack for you. "That makes sense," she then nodded. "I've encountered amulets that enable latent telepathy in humans. Makes sense there would be artifacts that instill the opposite effect. Psychospiritual firewall. Smart precaution. Where can I get one?" Jack paused in his drinking, and glanced up at Bobby. He squinched his golden eyes at the man, and his tail curled and unfurled and swayed back and forth behind him. "Cheers, mate. No worries, she'll be apples." And then he started cleaning himself again, happily full-bellied.

"I'm gonna take that as a yes since your not currently tryin' to shred me or my belongins." He went back to the table and sat. "I can probably dig somethin up for you, but for one thing, you couldn't talk to your pal there, and for another I seem to remember your clan can do your own internal warding. "Now. What does that say about aquatic parasites?"

"Don't count your chickens, mate," Jack chuckled, gleefully enjoying being able to prattle on incognito. "I show affection by sharpenin' me claws on your best leather furniture." "Rethink it," Jenny chided. Captain Jack scoffed. "My 'clan' usually has some pretty substantial training, or so I'm told," Jenny admitted, "and I'm at best a self-taught amateur. It would be great to have a back-up option in case of mental incursion." She paused. "And a little peace and quiet during my sleep cycles wouldn't hurt." Jack snorted. "If you just made my food dish bigger on the inside, I wouldn't have to come wake you up when you lie there for hours and let me starve." Jenny rolled her eyes, and then refocused on the matter at hand. "Right. Well. So we've got the cranial breach option-- the shattering of heads-- but since it's God described as doing it in the, ah, 'lore,' you'll probably need something with some serious kick. Man-portable, your options would probably be a Carl Gustaf 84-milimeter recoilless rifle, or a Kinetic Energy Penetrator if you know someone with access to that level of ordnance. My old sonic shotgun might have done it on full blast but somebody planted bananas where they used to sell fresh batteries." "As for the bioweapon option," she gestured to the scroll, frowning, "I mean, from the sound of things they've been extinct for--" She trailed off, stared to nowhere for a second. "I could get some. I could go back and get some."

Watching the girl talk to the cat and knowing it was talking back was a little unnerving, he had to admit. She had a point about the ordinance. It was very rare that they'd had to physically blow some shit up, so he back burnered that one for a while. He knew where he could get some military grade stuff, but getting it to those boys out there could take time and still might not work. He pondered what she'd said about going back and getting some. Not completely dismissing the idea. "Can you steer that thing to exactly where and when those things lived? Does that thing have a close enough illustration of what they looked like, so you'd know one when you saw it? Hell, can you even swim?"

"I beg your pardon!" Jenny arched both eyebrows. "I can swim like a seal! Well, a Navy SEAL, maybe not a seal seal." "Not to mention, the first Time Lady ability that I managed to teach myself-- completely by accident --is a thing called the respiratory bypass system that lets me hold my breath for ages. Came in handy when I was blowing a Queen Alien out through an airlock..." "Cheers for that, by the way," Jack piped up. "As for finding them..." Jenny shook her head. "Maybe I can convince Magenta to tune into their position-- to home in on them? Like what we were talking about earlier, asking her to figure out the timelines..." "It's more negotiating than steering at the best of times. I'll just have to negotiate... harder?"

Bobby chuckled. "Alright, you won't drown. But my more important point is, these are millennia old illustrations of critters that have never actually been sampled for DNA cause they're extinct. How're you gonna know if you found one when we can't even be a hundred percent sure this is what they actually look like?!"

"Yes," Jenny grimaced. "I suppose there is sort of an element of Here There Be Monsters mapmaking about this. Not exactly a 68T manual." She tilted her head and squinted at him. "Guess I'll have to bring a trained, experienced monster hunter with me. I mean, you use this lore all the time to figure out how to catch things with undocumented or poorly documented appearances, right? I mean-- you've fought invisible things!"

TBC