#is he seriously taking credit for cold openings and serialization?

[dannyphantomrpg]

Visual Aid: 14 PHAN-TASTIC Facts About Danny Phantom!

Edit: I have no idea why tumblr is flipping out. If you click to Keep Reading, the punctuation is fixed. ???

Hey Hart Phans! I'm going ghost! Or it's "goin’" without the "g". Goin' Ghost. I'm goin’ ghost! You guys like this? Is this is a cool hoodie or what? Check this out. This is based on my Danny Phantom 10 Years Later design. And if you're good, if you're really nice and leave a nice comment in the comment section below and give me a like or subscribe, I just might leave a link in the description below so you can get one of these yourself.

If anyone has the link to the 10YL hoodie, I’ll leave it here.

Fourteen years ago, this week, Danny Phantom premiered on Nickelodeon. So we're gonna do 14 awesome things about Danny Phantom.

Number one, it's a show about teenagers. Danny, Sam, and Tucker - all teenagers in a high school. A lot of shows centered around kids in elementary school, kids in preschool, but not a lot centered around a high school. And I think a lot of kids in their teenage years when they first encounter Danny Phantom really responded to it really well because Danny was going through the same things they were going through, you know? Dealing with girls, dealing with boys, the high school dance, bullies, all those sorts of things. Danny Fenton was going through the same things a lot of the audience was going through. I think that's really why Danny Phantom resonated with a lot of kids and why it still resonated with a lot of teenagers today.

Number two, relationships. Danny Phantom is an awesome show chock full of relationships. And what's cool about that is, you know, everybody loves great characters who have great relationships because that makes it easier for the audience to relate to them. Danny's relationship to Jazz. She loves him but treats him like a little brother until she finds out he's got ghost powers and then she wants to be part of his super team. Danny's nerd relationship with Tucker. They're the best of friends. Danny's relationship to his bumbling, ghost-fighting parents who don't realize that their son is the ultimate ghost prize they've been searching for. And finally, Danny's relationship to Sam. I mean, Sam and Danny start off as really good, close friends and as the show builds, their relationship builds as well. And it finally ends in Phantom Planted where they fly off into the sunset and we're all left wondering, do they get married? Does this relationship continue? What happens to Danny and Sam? And that's awesome. Cause people want to know. Do you want to know? Let me know in the comment section below.

Number three, ghost powers! I mean, how many cool characters you can think of have ghost powers? I can name a few. There's Deadman, from DC Comics, he could sort of take over people's bodies, and he was dead. There's The Spectre from DC Comics who's a big, huge, otherworldly ghost no one can really relate to, but he's kind of cool, I guess. There's Phantom Girl from Legion of Superheroes who... no one's really ever heard of. There's Casper the Friendly Ghost, who... is friendly. And then there's Ghost Rider who rides a motorcycle and isn't really a ghost. He's got, like, a flaming skull head and a chain, so anyway. But Danny had all these cool powers. He had plasma blasts, he had a ghostly chill, and could shoot cold out of his hands because ghosts give you a chill up your spine. He could turn intangible and go through walls, he could grab you and turn you intangible and pull you through walls. All these really cool things and not a lot of other characters have had powers as cool as Danny Phantom.

And in Danny Phantom, we had a rule. We were writing the show that none of the ghosts would be dead people. We never wanted to be the ghost of a dead person. We wanted the ghosts to be creatures from another dimension that could take the shape of a human, could take the shape of something, but they would never be a deceased person's spirit. Like, you'll never see Danny Phantom fighting the ghost of Elvis Presley or the ghost of Abraham Lincoln. I should, we should make a cartoon where Lincoln fights Elvis. Let's write that down! Let's do that!

Number four, Danny's parents. And the fact that they don't know that their own son is the ultimate ghost prize they've been looking for. I mean, let's face it. Jack and Maddie Fenton are awesome. They love each other, they're people of action, they, they kick ghost butt all the time, they got amazing weapons. But the one thing they can't seem to figure out is how to catch a ghost and, number two, that their own son is the ultimate ghost that they've been looking for.

Number five, the Box Ghost! I am the Box Ghost! Actually, not just the Box Ghost, but all of the Danny Phantom ghost villains. Let's face it, without a good group of villains, a hero and a show, or comic or whatever, doesn't have a really great chance to shine, and Danny Phantom's villains really give him a lot to play off of. From the comedy of the Box Ghost, to the sultriness and the musicality of Ember, to the sinisterness of the ultimately deadly Vlad Plasmius, and the action and edginess of Skulker. All of these villains really, really gave Danny Phantom this ultimate ability to become an awesome hero and to give the audience something to really, really be excited about and someone to root for.

Number six, the songs. From the opening notes of the Danny Phantom theme song *hums*, you knew that was Danny Phantom. The end credit music is amazing. The music inside the show, where Danny's fighting a ghost, or when a relationship gets really tender, there's a tender moment. The music there is amazing, too. Plus, to top it all off, the amazing song by Ember "Remember" was a great song. People just loved that song and have really responded to it really well. So I think Danny Phantom didn't old have some of the best music in cartoons, but in all of television.

Number seven, the costume. Starting off with just a black jumpsuit, white boots, white gloves, white belt. We ended up adding a logo into the costume, and I think adding that awesome cool D with the ghostly tail and the P inside of it, elevated that simple, normal costume of Danny's in the first season to one of the most iconic superhero costumes of all time.

Number eight, the Ghost Zone. The Ghost Zone gave Danny a whole other dimension, pardon the pun. I mean, not only does Danny Phantom have to fight ghosts in our world, but then we have him the Ghost Zone where he's got to go fight ghosts there are well. And the awesome thing about the Ghost Zone was that we could give Danny pretty much anything we wanted to in the Ghost Zone. It was really a world with no rules. There were some rules. But what was cool about it, we could have anything we wanted to in there. We could have Frostbite's frozen home world, we could have the Ghostwriter's Library, we could have Skulker's island where he chased Danny and Valerie Grey. We could have doors that opened up into any dimension, in any time period that we wanted to. It just really expanded Danny Phantom from being a city-based superhero show to a dimensionally-based superhero show.

Number nine, superhero ideas. Now, Danny Phantom was one of those shows that took a lot of the classic superhero ideas and kind of turned them a little bit inside out and used them in their own way. For example, the secret identity. Danny Phantom had a secret identity like Clark Kent, or Bruce Wayne, or Peter Parker, but the interesting thing is all of Danny's villains pretty much knew his secret identity. And none of Danny's family did. Also, comedic versus sinister moments. Danny Phantom was a great show, had examples of being funny one second and then being ultimately scary and having lives at stake the next. For example, in The Ultimate Enemy, Danny fights Box Lunch, who is the daughter of the Box Ghost and the Lunch Lady one minute, And then the next minute, he's fighting the ultimate bad, evil future version of himself, Dark Danny, from the future. It was a great show and taking those sort of classic superhero ideas and using it in its own way, keeping those ideas pure, but making it it's very own.

Number ten, story length. We watch a half-hour cartoon show, you can tell one one story, have a commercial, and tell another story. Two eleven minutes in the half hour because we did eight minutes for commercials. Little behind the scenes stuff there. But Danny Phantom was one of the first shows ever that told its stories in 22 minutes. We had a long time to tell our story so we'd have the first part of the story, and then an act break, and then the last part of the story. Danny Phantom even had a cold open before the titles. I don't think I've seen a cartoon like that ever since.

Number eleven, the serialized storytelling in Danny Phantom. What does that mean? Well, basically what it means is you'd watch one episode of Danny Phantom, no problem. It made sense. Watch another one, that one makes sense too. But if you watch all the episodes of Danny Phantom in order, they're all connected in some way. Each episode ties into the next because we're always constantly building the story, the characters, and the world as the show goes on. And that was unique back then, that wasn't really done a lot back then. So I think Danny Phantom really paved the way for a lot more serialized cartoons to come out after it.

Number twelve, the voice acting on Danny Phantom. I mean, not only did Danny Phantom have amazing character concepts, and amazing character designs, but the voice acting, I think, brought the characters up to a whole new level. Like, David Kaufman as Danny Phantom, Rob Paulson as Jack Fenton and Technus, Ricky D'Shon Collins as Tucker, Colleen O'Shaughnessy as Jazz Fenton, Tara Strong as Ember McLean, Martin Mull as Vlad Plasmius, Eric Roberts as the Ultimate Enemy Dark Danny from the future, Jon Cryer as Freakshow, and the list goes on and on and on. These characters not only look great, not only written great, but the voice acting brought them up to an incredible level that, I think, that audience still responds to today. And that's why people love the characters of Danny Phantom.

Number thirteen, the awesome phans - P-H-A-N-S. The Dany Phantom phans are legion. They are unbelievable. you're all awesome, and you're the reason this show still lives on and on and on and on. From the original episodes of Danny Phantom on Nickelodeon to my videos, Danny Phantom 10 Years Later, all the stuff I do with Danny Phantom here on the channel. You guys are what makes Danny Phantom special because you will not let the show go away. And I'm here with you 100%. I want Danny Phantom to live on as long as you do. So keep sending me requests, keep letting me know what you want to see as far as Danny Phantom goes. We'll keep doing amazing stuff and keep making you guys happy because Danny Phantom deserves to go on, and you guys deserve to see more.

Ok, and the fourteenth awesome thing about Danny Phantom is... Young Danny Fenton, he was just fourteen. What? Did I say young? That's right, I said "young". A lot of you think it's "Yo Danny Fenton". It's not. It's "young". How do I know this? Cause I wrote the theme song. So I know, and I wrote "Young Danny Fenton", that's what it is. It is "Young Danny Fenton, he was just fourteen". Did I blow your mind? I blew your mind, didn't I? I didn't mean to.

Hey, I'm so glad you guys are phans - P-H-A-N-S - happy 14th Danaversary, to Danny Phantom

[sodone-withlife]

one sentence

i saw sumayyah‘s answer to an anon’s ask (so all credit for this idea goes to them) about that scene in Omnivore where Rossi is offering Hotch his gun and this thing pretty much wrote itself (which is exceedingly rare lmao), so here is something that i thought would be just a few hundred words but ended up being a really long interpretation of the Foyet arc with hurt/minimal comfort with a good amount of pre-Mortch (or you can see them as platonic, i think it’s up for interpretation). 

also, just a quick heads up, i love Papa Rossi, but for the purposes of this fic, it might seem a little bash-y towards him

warnings: quite a bit of suicidal ideation, (almost) attempted suicide, implied/referenced suicide, canon-typical violence, canonical character death

word count: 7.9k words

The highlighted words stared back at Hotch as Shaunessy’s words echoed in his mind.

A deal with the devil.

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” he told Garcia.

“Because I found it, do I get to know what it’s about?” the analyst asked, unrepentantly curious. Hotch sent her a look.

Might as well. Shaunessy’s not going to last much longer, and we’ll be called in…  “The Reaper,” he said simply.

“Like—the Boston Reaper?” Garcia lowered her voice as she named the notorious killer. Hotch nodded. “I didn’t even know the BAU worked on that case,” she remarked. 

“1998,” Hotch informed her, remembering caffeine-fueled sleepless nights and the palpable fear on the streets. “It was my first case for the BAU as lead profiler.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we don’t have a profile for the Reaper in the system, do we?”

Not in the system, no. “That’ll be all Penelope, you can go home now,” Hotch told Garcia, turning to the bottom drawer of the shelf behind his desk as the analyst nodded and left. Pulling out a worn folder bursting with papers and photos, he placed the newspaper clipping and the evidence bag protecting the contract into it. He left it to the side and refocused on the folder in front of him filled with sheets of old handwritten notes filled with annotations and crossed-out sections. 

There will be no sleeping tonight.

Early September, 1998

“You’re sending me?” Hotch was sitting ramrod straight in surprise, blindsided by Gideon’s sudden decision.

“Yeah,” Gideon answered simply, leaning back in his chair as much as he could in the cramped space and looking supremely unperturbed. “Do you not want to go?”

Hotch shook herself out of his shocked state, scrambling to gather his wits. “No—I mean, I’ll go, but—”

“But?”

Hotch carefully evaluated his words. “I’ve only been here a few months, and you’re sending me to Boston—alone—to help with the Reaper case? The case that has been going on for three years, longer than I’ve even been an agent, involving a killer that could probably put the Zodiac to shame?” 

The older agent shrugged. “I have to stay and hold down the fort since we are severely understaffed, but I’ll always be a phone call away, and you’re mainly there just to act as eyes for the both of us. You’re not working on this alone.”

Hotch stiffened as a sudden—but careful—warm touch on his hand pulled him out of the spiral of self-doubt he had been teetering over and grounded him. He brought his eyes back to Gideon and was surprised to see complete openness and no signs of deception or maliciousness that he had been forced to learn long ago at the hands of his father. 

“I’m not Dave,” Gideon began seriously, “I wasn’t the one who pulled you over here or the one you started out shadowing under, but I do talk to people. I know about your record in prosecution, in Seattle, and in SWAT, and it is very telling. You never doubted yourself before, and I have no doubt that you can handle yourself, so why are you starting now?” 

He leaned back, clearly done with the impromptu pep talk that Hotch, still frozen, figured happened once in a blue moon based on what Rossi had told him about the unit before he retired. The cramped room was silent as Hotch felt Gideon watching him struggling with internal strife. Slowly, he released some of the tension that was coiled within him, and Gideon turned back to his stack of consults with an air of satisfaction. 

“Start packing, Agent Hotchner. Boston awaits your presence.”

Late November, 1998

“Do you know what the hell is going on?” Hotch immediately asked when the call went through, pacing around his hotel room.

“And a good evening to you too.”

“Gideon.”

“What is it, Hotch?” his tone changed from dry to worried in a heartbeat, hearing the uncharacteristic urgency in his agent’s voice and the lack of nervousness that usually showed his agent’s discomfort towards using the less-formal form of address.

“Shaunessy, the lead detective,” Hotch spat out, throwing the case file that was in his hand on the bed. “He closed the case.”

“And that warrants a phone call at eleven PM, why?”

Hotch bit back a sharp retort, letting out a sharp breath. “You know I’ve been re-interviewing the victims’ friends and family, going through everything they had and lines of investigation that may have been dropped, working the profile along the way, but there have been no viable suspects, even with the accelerated killings,” he said quickly, a mess of emotions swirling inside him. “Gideon, no arrests have been made but he closed the case, just like that.”

“Remind me, when was the last victim?”

“Just over six weeks ago, a month after I got here. I know what you’re thinking,” Hotch said when Gideon didn’t respond, “that the case just went cold, but there were still things I had people following up on. It’s not cold,” he insisted.

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it, Hotch. I know you don’t like it, but the locals have point on this.”

Hotch sighed, but it did nothing to calm him down. “I know,” he said, annoyed. “I’m catching an early train back to DC, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

January 2003

“The Reaper?”

Hotch slammed the folder shut and looked up from his desk, startled. He sent Gideon a glare, glad that no one else was there to see his composure slip, but he only looked vaguely concerned. 

“It’s been just over four years,” Gideon commented neutrally. “You’ve had that folder at the bottom of your third drawer, and you’ve pulled it out at least forty different times since ‘98.”

Hotch stared up at him in a challenge. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Gideon shook his head. “Just be careful. Don’t get too drawn into the chase.”

~~~

Sighing as he rubbed the familiar ache on the back of his neck that always appeared during paperwork days and especially stressful cases, Hotch closed his battered folder of notes and opened it back up again. It was almost compulsive at this point, repeating every twenty minutes and each time with the hope something new would catch his attention.

Hotch shifted, the bedsheets suddenly feeling unbearably scratchy and coarse even through his slacks. The case details buzzed around his head incessantly, distracting him from feeling the physical exhaustion and strain caused by the lack of proper sustenance and the stress of a day filled with dead ends.

The sudden ringing shattered the silence of the room, knocking him from his focus. He got up from the bed and warily walked over to the source, picking up the hotel phone and bringing it up to his ear. 

“Hotchner,” he said out of habit, only to freeze as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in reaction to the sudden, heavy breathing. “Who is this?” he demanded, throwing the folder he was still holding back on the bed with dread rising within him. 

“If you stop hunting me, I’ll stop hunting them.” His question about the caller’s identity went unanswered, though the cursed words of the contract spoken by the same distorted voice that was heard on the 911 calls from ten years ago was confirmation enough.

Anger flared inside him at the audacity, and he snapped back, “You think I’d take that?”

“It’s a good deal,” the Reaper replied flatly.

“I’ve misjudged you,” he said, some distant part of him wondering how Shaunessy felt when he himself got the offer ten years ago. “I thought you were smarter than this,” he was unable to help the derisive tone.

The silence was long enough for him to wonder how much he had caught him unawares with his response. 

“You should take it.” 

“And you’ve misjudged me.”

“This is your last chance,” he warned.

Hotch didn’t hesitate. “I don’t make deals. I’m the woman who hunts guys like you.” That got the reaction he was hoping for.

“There are no guys like me,” the killer growled, anger bleeding into his tone.

He scoffed. “You all think that.”

“You’ll regret this,” he warned.

It was said with such certainty that a chill shot down his spine, but it was overshadowed by his anger. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised, promptly hanging up without another word. He walked back around the bed, feeling a sudden need to put as much distance between him and the phone as possible. It was with some hysterical hilarity that he wondered if the next people to stay in this room would know about what had just happened—that a serial killer tried to threaten an FBI agent into surrendering in this room.

Those feelings faded away when a terrible feeling suddenly came over Hotch as he realized the Reaper knew which hotel—which room—he was staying in.

It wasn’t unusual during their cases for an unsub to contact another person in the midst of their crimes, but the memories of Elle in the hospital bed and Morgan in the interrogation room had been seared into his brain. 

Both times, unsubs directly went after members of the team.

Unable to remain in the room any longer, he went around unceremoniously throwing his things inside his bags before leaving the hotel room. Paranoia quickly crept back into his consciousness as he quickly made his way down to the parking garage with a hand near his gun, intent on heading straight to the field office.

Only half an hour later, Hotch was staring at the glinting gold ring on the bus driver’s hand, feeling oddly detached from the situation as he was confronted with the consequences of that cursed phone call.

“6 bodies, not including the driver,” Rossi said from the back of the bus. “He put them down with a gun—or, more likely, guns—and finished them off with his knife.” 

The call had come straight to the field office, just minutes after Hotch walked into the empty conference room that the team had taken command of. A beat cop had heard a series of gunshots and went to investigate, only to see the macabre painting of blood on the side of the bus with its occupants slumped over inside, unmoving. “Arthur Lanessa’s wedding ring,” Hotch heard himself say for the other agent’s benefit.

“What’d he take?” Rossi made his way down to him in the front. 

He snapped back into the present with a sudden surge of anger. “Does it matter?” he asked bitingly, turning and storming away from the crime scene for the relative privacy of a nearby alley.

“Hey,” Rossi called in worry, taken aback by the brash response. “What’s going on with you?”

Hotch stopped some way into the alley and took a deep breath, taking his time before turning to Rossi, who had followed closely behind. “He called me tonight at my hotel room and offered me the deal.” 

“What did you say?”

“I hung up on him,” his eyes burned with the sting of tears—whether out of anger at the Reaper or himself, he wasn’t sure. “And then he does this.”

“So you think this is your fault?”

How could it be anything but? He looked away, trying to hide just how shaken he was. “It is.”

The familiar sound of the safety of a gun being released pulled his attention back to the man in front of him. “Well, here, use mine,” Rossi said, holding out his gun to him. “You convinced me. No, no, you hung up on him,” he pushed as he waved him off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You practically killed them yourself—”

You practically killed them yourself.

You practically killed them yourself.

Killed them yourself.

Killed them. 

Yourself.

You.

You did this.

You should have made the deal

Hotch flinched away from the touch of cold metal against his head only to freeze in his place, ice settling in his bones as he processed what was happening. Barely seeing the horror on Rossi’s face, he stared at the other man’s empty hand before he focused in on the gun that was resting against his own head, tilted at an angle. There were five things he knew:

I have a finger on the trigger. 

My hand is trembling. 

I am still one of the best shots of the agents that are not in a tactical team.

Make one move, fire the gun, only the hearing in my right ear will be gone and the darkness continues to creep towards me.

Make a different move, fire the gun, I’ll leave Jack the legacy of a coward and Haley the knowledge that her efforts back in high school and college were for naught.

You did this, a malicious voice in his head said, sounding oddly like his father. And suddenly, he recalled the memory of the blood droplets hitting him and the ringing in his ears the first time he witnessed a gun go off when he was nine.

Slowly, deliberately, Hotch met Rossi’s horrified and guilt-filled expression and lowered the gun from his head. Carefully measuring his steps, he moved forward and pressed the gun into the older agent’s hand, which dropped down to the side, the weight of the gun now accompanied by something unseen, something much heavier.

Not sparing him another glance, Hotch turned and walked back out of the alley.

This isn’t the time nor place to break. 

But in the end, he didn’t have a choice. 

“Foyet escaped.”

Hotch’s blood ran cold as he processed JJ’s words before he roughly placed his mug onto the desk and stood up from his chair, following JJ outside to the bullpen that was full of noise and movement.

“Guards found him in his cell vomiting blood and convulsing, they rushed him to the prison hospital,” JJ explained quickly as they made their way down the catwalk. Hotch twitched as he heard Rossi’s office door open behind him, the man coming out to see what the commotion was about.

“Get me the US Marshal’s Office,” Hotch ordered, making the executive decision to ignore the older agent in favor of getting down to business. 

“I already called Don Reilly. I offered our assistance, he said they’d call us if they needed it.”

Prentiss rushed to the trio, holding a phone up to her ear. “The Boston field office just identified documents from Foyet’s house,” she reported.

Reid approached the agents gathered in the middle of the room, holding out a printout of what looked to be a set of blueprints. “They’re schematics for the electrical, heating, and water ducts of the East Woburn Correctional Facility.”

Hotch looked at him blankly. “He had the schematics.”

“And not just for Woburn—for every jail, prison, and courthouse in Massachusetts.”

“And ten years to plan,” Rossi added, a heavy silence following as everyone turned to the TV.

Finally, Garcia turned around. “They’re going to find him, right?” she asked worriedly.

Eyes still trained on Foyet's mugshot on the TV, Hotch was completely certain in his answer. “No, they’re not,” he said, just as the memory of Foyet’s words rose to the forefront of his mind, unbidden.

If you know me so well, how come so many had to die to bring you here?

I’m going to be more famous than you realize.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, trying to get a hold of the wave of nausea that suddenly overcame him. He brushed past the team, purposely heading out of the bullpen for one of the bathrooms that was further away for the sake of keeping the team and their concern off his back.

Within minutes he was throwing up bile and the small amount of alcohol he had drank back in his office into the sink, thanking the god he never believed in that the bathroom was rather secluded so there wouldn’t be anyone catching him in this moment of weakness. His eyes burned for the second time in less than twenty-four hours—only this time, a few traitorous tears managed to escape from underneath his eyelids. 

The taste of bile was strong as he turned on the tap and splashed his face with cold water, stiffening when he heard the door swing open and closed. Looking up to the mirror, he was both relieved and unsurprised to see Morgan locking the door behind him. 

“You’ve been avoiding Rossi,” Morgan commented quietly. Hotch huffed a sardonic laugh, straightening up and turning around to face him, leaning against the sink for support. It was a familiar situation, one first started years ago when it was just them and Gideon, and stopped after the team started growing. Then New York happened and Hotch had to de-stress in a gas station they stopped at on the drive back to Quantico, and their secret rendezvous started happening again, when cases hit too close to home for either of them.

Somehow he always knows what the root problem is. “Was I that obvious?”

Morgan shook his head. “You know you hide it well. I’ve just known you far longer than any of the others, besides Rossi, of course.” He didn’t go on, waiting on the other to decide the direction the conversation would go. 

Deciding to go for complete honesty, Hotch swallowed, tilting his head up and avoiding Morgan’s eyes. “He called me at my hotel room and offered me the deal.”

To his credit, Morgan only stepped closer, face creased in concern and a hint of knowing. “I said no, and he shot up a bus,” Hotch continued tonelessly. “I lost it in an alley near the crime scene. Dave had pulled out his gun and was trying to make a point about self-flagellation, but—” he cut himself off and shook his head frustratedly.

“I don’t know what happened. One moment I was just angry, and the next moment I was aiming a gun at my head,” he met Morgan’s eyes desperately, stern facade completely gone. “I don’t know what I wanted to do—I don’t,” his voice cracked as he sagged against the sink and his trembling became more pronounced. He quickly covered his mouth as a sob tried to escape his throat, prompting Morgan to move.

It was surprising to both him and Morgan how willingly he melted into Morgan’s body when the man reached out to stabilize him, but the sensation of the embrace was oddly calming for both of them. Neither spoke as they stood in the bathroom, not even as Morgan felt his shirt getting wet from the tears that Hotch finally let fall, and not even as the crying became more audible. 

Now, they would stay in the bathroom and soak up the comfort that they offered each other. They would talk about Foyet’s taunts and what Hotch confessed later. 

But later never came, because life never waits, and neither do unsubs.

Soon, they were racing against the clock as Reid got infected with an engineered strain of anthrax

Soon, they were investigating one of the worst, stomach-turning crimes they had seen. 

When they got back from the pig farm, Hotch only asked the team for a bare-bones report of the investigation and let them leave to the comfort of their homes while he stayed behind and dealt with the rest of the paperwork and red tape that was involved because of their foray into Canadian jurisdiction. 

It was past midnight when Hotch finally left the office and entered his apartment with the intent of pulling out a glass of scotch and staying on his couch with a book, knowing there was no way he was going to fall asleep that night.  

But Foyet was waiting, and Hotch was weakened by the exhaustion and stress of two all-nighters in a row.  

That night, as his team was sleeping in their beds, dead to the world while he was slowly bleeding out and floating in and out of consciousness in his own apartment, he could only take comfort in the fact that his death sealed Foyet’s fate. There was no way Morgan the team—hell, even Strauss, or anyone in the bureau—would stop hunting his killer to exact their revenge. 

He faded into unconsciousness with the expectation that that was it.

He slowly regained consciousness to the sharp smell of antiseptic and the unpleasantly familiar beeping of a heart monitor. Fatigue settling heavily over his whole body was the next sensation that registered in his foggy mind, and then the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Where am I?” he forced out through a dry throat, eyes still closed.

“In the hospital,” Rossi, his mind told him. He opened his eyes only to close them again when he was met with blindingly bright lights, letting out a pained breath. 

“How did I get here?”

“Foyet drove you.”

Morgan. He drew in a shaky breath as dull, pulsing pain finally made itself known through the painkillers.

“Can you remember what happened?”

That’s Prentiss.

He vaguely felt his head loll to the side before the memories rushed back into the forefront of his mind. Foyet’s words, the same exact words he remembered thinking back in that alley echoed unpleasantly,

You should have made the deal.

Hotch swallowed again and forced his eyes open through the heavy fatigue. “What did he take?” he asked quietly, unwilling to delve deep into what he remembered and deciding to mentally run through the details about the Reaper case instead.

“What do you mean?” Rossi asked, uncomprehending.

“The Reaper always takes something from his victims.” you’re one of his victims now—shut up and think about that later “Do we know what he took?” 

“There was a page missing from your day planner,” his eyes flew open and he looked over at Prentiss as she continued talking, “in the address section, the Bs.” 

No— “What did he leave?” Hotch asked, eyes slipping shut as a trickle of fear went down his spine and his brain screamed out in denial. 

“I don't know,” Prentiss said, floundering.

“He also leaves something with his victims,” he trailed off in a breathless whisper, unable to sustain the volume he had been speaking at as the throbbing grew stronger.

“I looked over your whole apartment,” Prentiss told him helplessly. “Nothing felt out of place.”

A thought came to him. “Where are my clothes?” Hotch asked, slowly trying to force his eyes open again. He turned his head, watching Prentiss bring a plastic bag over to the hospital bed. Careful to avoid looking directly at his bloodied clothes, Hotch managed to pull the bulging manila envelope closer to him on his chest. 

His hands froze as his credentials slipped out and he noticed a folded paper tucked inside. Slowly, shakily, Hotch pulled them out of the envelope and carefully flipped it open. 

He sank deeper into the bed as the breath he had been holding was almost punched out of him by the sheer terror that pulsed through him, the treasured picture of Haley and Jack staring back at him tauntingly. That’s my blood, he thought blankly, staring at the red streak he knew was deliberately painted over his family’s smiling faces.

“Haley’s maiden name is Brooks,” he finally said, almost numb to the implications. “I always listed her in the Bs in my personal information in case it fell into the wrong hands.” 

Some kind of precaution it turned out to be. 

“He knows where they live.”

And that was that. As Hotch was stuck in flashbacks and lied to Prentiss about what happened, Morgan led the SWAT team in sweeping Hotch’s old house and picked Jack up from his playdate. As Hotch talked with Haley and failed to not think about that night in the alley with the cold metal against his head, Morgan played with Jack outside and failed to not think about Foyet using his credentials so he could continue to torture his friend boss. As Hotch remained confined to the hospital bed, Morgan watched through an upper-story window as Haley and Jack were driven off into the distance to a location unknown to anyone but a select few in the Marshals service. 

Nine stab wounds, thirty minutes down time, and six days in the cursed hospital.

The numbers circled through Hotch’s mind when he stepped back into his apartment and had to work through the panic that rose within as he stared towards the place where he knew Foyet had been hiding. 

In the end, what brought him back from the edge was when his eyes caught the new security panel that had been installed over where he knew the bullet had made a hole and the sticky note with what he recognized as Morgan’s handwriting that was stuck over it, concisely written instructions on how to use it. If he looked around carefully enough for other signs of Morgan’s presence, he could see where the section of bloodstained carpet had been replaced, and that was only because there was the tiniest spot that had been missed. 

The tiniest reminder was enough to send Hotch into a panic, but he knew there was no way he could tell Morgan about it. 

Is this what you felt like, Elle? Unsafe in your own home, having to sweep each room for fear of another one of the monsters we hunt lurking in the shadows?

Slowly, numbly, Hotch worked his way through medical leave and physiotherapy, during which everyone in his team came over at least twice, Prentiss and Morgan the most often to help change his bandages. He knew they worried, but he couldn’t summon the will to care nor the words to thank them for keeping him company and preventing the darkness in his mind from taking over. 

And maybe it was a good thing, because there were things they didn’t know, things that he lied to them about. He lied and he lied, and he knew that if he had the words, they would all come tumbling out, and what little of himself that he had left would be exposed for all to see. 

Even if Morgan had tried to take everything he might be able to use, there was still his mind, and so if he had the words, they would all know how many times he envisioned holding cold metal against his head just as he had back in that alley.

On the thirty-fifth day after he was discharged from the hospital, when they were discussing Darren Call on the plane, they came close to finding out. 

So why hasn’t he killed himself yet? Sprees usually end in suicide. If he's got nothing to live for, why hasn't he ended it?

It was much later, after a day of being on the receiving end of careful, worried glances, and overhearing Morgan’s firm declaration from inside his office that he realized his slip. 

“I’m not going to stand by and watch this man kill himself,” Hotch had heard Morgan snap towards Rossi. Moments later, Morgan passed in front of his office window and made eye contact with him, making it clear that his choice of words was deliberate. 

Suddenly Hotch was back in the alleyway with the gun pressed to his head and managed to talk himself off the ledge he didn’t know he was standing on while Rossi stood there, frozen and horrified that his brazen attempt at making a point had backfired so disastrously. His own words on the plane came back to him, then thought about what others would have seen when he walked into that house unarmed, and he understood. 

He hadn’t been thinking at all when he went in to try and talk Darren Call down, but though he didn’t have a background in psychology, there were some things that didn’t need expert opinion to be said, and so he knew exactly his action could be classified as. 

Don’t lie to yourself, you know exactly what that was.

Hotch swallowed convulsively and broke eye contact with Morgan, turning back to stare at paperwork until the other man walked back to his desk in the empty bullpen. As much as he tried, he couldn’t forget Morgan’s impassioned exclamation nor the depth of the worry that was present in his eyes when they made eye contact through the window.

Maybe that was the day when things shifted. It wasn’t a complete change—the team still hovered around Hotch in uncertain worry, his thoughts never completely disappeared, and he nearly broke down in the bathroom the day Jack turned four in witness protection after seeing what footage of his child on a playground Garcia could enhance. 

There was, however, a different air to his and Morgan’s interactions after that case. Perhaps it was a long time coming, stemming from the painful understanding that was formed that day in the secluded bathroom when they found comfort in each other.

It wasn’t news that the higher-ups were watching him again, but then he walked back to his office after helping JJ triage consult requests to see Strauss fixing him with a stern stare. The next few days he spent trying to work through the frustration of recording and justifying every decision while trying and failing not to antagonize Morgan. And so while he waited for Morgan to come into his office, he could only hope that he hadn’t managed to destroy the strange friendship that had been built between them based on their shared knowledge of just how close he was to the ledge sometimes.

I should give him more credit, I don’t know how he puts up with me sometimes, and he has more than enough reason to report me to Strauss.

“Come on, Hotch, nobody's gonna replace you,” Morgan said, incredulous at the notion of Hotch getting replaced. “Fight Strauss. I'll go to the mat for you, so will everybody else. You know that.” 

“Morgan, it won't work,” Hotch spoke over him, trying to get him to understand. “Decisions like this have their own momentum. Unless I step down—”

“Step down? What are you talking about?”

A foreign feeling Hotch recognized with some surprise as amusement wriggled its way into his consciousness as he anticipated Morgan’s reaction to his coming announcement, “I'm resigning as unit chief at the end of the week”

“What? No!” Hotch couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching as his feeling of amusement grew slightly stronger at the visceral reaction. “Hotch, look, yeah, ok, sometimes your actions, I may disagree with them, but it's not enough for you to leave this team.”

“I'm not leaving the team, I'm just no longer in charge,” Hotch corrected, continuing before Morgan could get in a word. “You are.”

He watched as Morgan’s jaw dropped in shock, before finally asking, “Me?” Detecting no deception from Hotch who had nodded, he continued. “Look, I had the chance to be unit chief in New York, and I said no. I turned it down because I like this team. Strauss can't just fire you like this.”

“She can reassign me, and we can avoid that if I promote internally.”

Unable to come up with a counterargument, Morgan was silent for a moment. “This is wrong,” he finally said. 

A strange thrill went through Hotch at the confidence Morgan had in him—their relationship, while slightly different now, ultimately had been built on unstated respect and the ease with which both were able to call each other out on their bullshit; it wasn’t built on such blatant declarations of trust and confidence. Hotch opened his hands, shrugging helplessly. “It's the only way to keep the team together.”

Morgan nodded consideringly before carefully eyeing Hotch. “So all of this,” he gestured between them, bringing up the tension that had built up between them in the last case, “this is why you've been pushing me so hard, huh?”

“I haven't been pushing you that hard,” Hotch denied, only to get a disbelieving look from the other man. He let out a faint smile before regarding the other with a serious look again. “Morgan, I need to know right now. Will you do this?”

He couldn’t articulate the relief he felt when Morgan finally agreed and continued to feel for the rest of the night as he introduced Morgan to the other parts of the job. Just like every other positive emotion he had felt over the past few years, however, it was short-lived, as Hotch had freed up time to dedicate to the hunt, even as he often stayed later to help Morgan get adjusted. Within months, they were called into a family annihilator case and Hotch was confronting Karl Arnold, one of the few unsubs that had continued to haunt him even after the case was closed and they were killed or incarcerated.

Of course, Arnold had to get in the last word, and oh, did he get it in. 

The cursed eye of providence, now drawn over a newspaper article about the attack months ago, never failed to create a surge of anger and fear within him, but never had it created such a storm of emotions before now. One torturous night of waiting as the envelope the taunts were sent in went through the lab, and the whole team was in the throes of the hunt, and in the process, fell victim to tunnel vision.

What if they had slowed down and remembered that Foyet worked with computers? Would they have managed to catch him at the apartment unawares? Would they have been better prepared for what Foyet had planned to do?

But there wasn’t anything Hotch could do except try and talk Foyet out of going through with his plans while trying to maintain as level of a head as possible.

“Your mother tried to protect you from your father, but she wasn’t strong enough, and you hated her for that, didn’t you? So, you decided that all women were weak,” Hotch suddenly brought up, hoping to catch him off guard as he vaguely wondered if the team was on the line, listening. 

“Those are your words, not mine,” came the grating, annoyingly blasé reply.

“What were you, nine when you killed them?

“It was a car accident. And, now that I think about it, our childhoods are eerily similar, don’t you think?” 

Caught unawares, Hotch jerked the steering wheel, barely managing to avoid crashing the car as Foyet continued. “But it was only your father who died, whereas your mother remarried.”

How—? He turned cold at the show of Foyet’s obsession, which was clearly much deeper than he or anyone in the team could have predicted.

“No response?” the killer taunted.

“My father swallowed a bullet because he couldn’t live with his self loathing or the cancer,” Hotch finally snapped, quickly directing the subject back towards Foyet. Even with the pit in his stomach growing as it became clearer that he was being toyed with, he couldn’t help but use every negotiation tactic he knew and taught at the Academy, desperately but futilely trying to dissuade the killer. 

“Haven't you gotten what you wanted?” Hotch tried, somehow having regained his composure after the unpleasant bombshell. “You've set yourself apart from anybody we've ever dealt with. You're not just a famous serial killer, you're the Reaper. We're going to study you and your methods for years and years.”

“You know what I've been thinking?” Foyet finally asked after a few moments of silence, his next words sending his heart pounding in fear. “Haley looks really good with dark hair. She’s lost some weight. Must be all the stress you caused her. Where's the little man?” No, don’t you dare— “Oh. There he is. Does he like Captain America because of you?” 

Hotch gripped his phone tightly as he heard the ringing of another phone. “That's your wife. Hold, please—Mrs. Hotchner,” Foyet took on an accent, tone turning jovial. “Open the gate and I'll drive in.”

Open the gate? That son of a—of course.

“Aaron?” the malicious glee was back, cutting right to Hotch’s core. “I really gotta go.”

Almost frozen with fear, he pushed the car faster, heading straight towards the old house and praying to whatever deity he could think of that he could get there in time. He wasn’t sure how long had passed when he got Morgan’s call, which was confirmation that the team had indeed been listening. He didn’t dwell on it and only continued to push the car, disregarding speed limits and almost hysterically glad that it was the middle of the day and the streets were relatively empty. 

When his phone rang, it was with numb, mechanical movements that he answered, fully prepared to beg and bargain for his family’s life if he had to, only to sharply inhale at Haley’s dearly missed voice, which turned shaky with fear when she realized the danger she was in. As Foyet undercut their exchange with his maliciously satisfied taunts, telling Haley all that he could never bring himself to confess about the case, Hotch could only think about how he was just too far away, Haley, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for lying to you about everything, I’ll never forgive myself—

But then Jack was on the phone, and the pure innocence and eagerness with which his son greeted him after months of no contact was enough to send a fresh wave of tears coursing down his face.

“Is George a bad guy?”

“Yes, he is,” Hotch answered, wanting to scream at him to just run away, get as far away from him as you can when an old memory was suddenly brought forth from his subconscious. “Jack, I need you on this case with me. Do you understand?” he tried to keep his voice steady, hoping with his whole being that his son would remember. “I need you to work the case with me.”

“Ok, Daddy.”

“Jack, hug your mom for me,” he requested, voice cracking and desperately trying to contain the sobs that were steadily building. He could only imagine the warmth his son was feeling from his mother now, potentially the last memory he would ever have of her. Hearing his son’s too-inquisitive question about his mother’s mood left him viciously biting down on his bottom lip, trying to maintain some modicum of control over himself.

“Is he gone?” Hotch finally asked, nausea joining the storm of emotions within him at the nickname Foyet had given his son.

“Yes,” Haley confirmed, letting her fear shine through now that Jack wasn’t there to see it. 

Each shaking breath was a stab straight to his core.“You’re so strong, Haley, you’re stronger than I ever was.”

Her response nearly sent him shattering into the pieces she had so carefully helped him put back together back in high school after his stepfather died.

“You’ll hurry, right?”

I can’t lie, I’m so sorry, Haley. I can’t lie to you. Not after everything I’ve already done, “I know you didn’t sign on for this.”

“Neither did you.”

Why does it have to be now that we finally talk about what caused the divorce?

“I’m sorry for everything.”

There was a short pause as Haley inhaled sharply, before leveling out into shaky breaths. “Promise me that you will tell him how we met and how you used to make me laugh.”

No, please— “Haley,” Hotch trailed off, unable to continue and almost paralyzed at the knowledge that these might be her last words because he’s too far away, I’m not going to—

“He needs to know that you weren't always so serious, Aaron. He needs to believe in love, because it is the most important thing, but you need to show him. Promise me,” she ordered him forcefully.

“I promise.”

The sound of three gunshots tore straight into his soul. 

And then he was finding Haley’s body, trying not to let the seams break when renewed rage roared to life within him at the extinguishing of the light that had been inside her and lit up every room she walked in. Minutes later, he was straddling the demon that had haunted him for over a decade, the demon that he finally caught up to but at a terrible cost and then he was punching—

I’m going to kill that bastard son of yours and I’m going to tell him it was all your fault— 

and punching—

You practically killed them yourself—

and punching—

You should have made the deal—

someone yelled his name—

Promise me.

“—dead. He’s dead,” someone was shouting as Hotch tried to lunge forward away from the person pulling him back and towards the man who killed my wife HE KILLED HALEY—

But all the fight that had been inside him suddenly disappeared, and he was left staggering backward, mouth open in a silent, rage-filled scream as someone—it’s Derek—kept a careful grip on his body, holding his shattered pieces together just long enough for him to gather his tattered seams close to his chest and fling himself away towards the stairs. 

Hotch collapsed to his knees in front of the chest, seeing no indication of any taunting messages and daring to hope that his son was—

And the sight of his son, unharmed and blinking at the sudden change in brightness, nearly sent him into a mess of relieved tears that were also tears of unadulterated grief because I got his mother killed—

He held himself together and lifted his son out of the chest, seeing all the features he got from Haley—her his hair, her his eyes, her his inquisitiveness—and struggling to maintain his weakening control as he told Jack to go to Ms. Jareau, who was waiting with open arms in the doorway to the room that had once been his office. 

Hearing their footsteps fade away and shaking with suppressed sobs, he slowly stood up, injuries that he sustained in the fight finally making themselves known as he made his way across the hall to the room he knew Haley was lying in—

He saw Morgan taking her pulse and for a moment he couldn’t help but hope that she was still—

But Morgan was pulling back and he was gently placing Haley’s right arm back on the ground and he wasn’t yelling for medics and—

“I’m so sorry, Aaron,” Morgan said softly as Hotch knelt down, his trembling becoming more palpable by the moment. 

If he looked past the unseeing eyes and the blood that pooled everywhere and her lying on the floor and—

He could almost convince himself that she was sleeping. For a moment, he was almost afraid to touch her, afraid to disturb her in her sleep, but in the next moment—

He was pulling her cooling body close to his chest and burying his face into the crook of her neck, gut wrenching sobs escaping his lips as a wave of grief shattered the flimsy show of control he had put up for Jack’s sake, his son who just lost his mother because his father was addicted to the chase and I broke my promise, Haley, I’m so sorry—

She’s gone. 

The solemn silence weighed heavily on the team as they waited for Hotch to finish testifying before Strauss and the brass. They had all expressed their outrage when they got the orders to come in for their statements, only two days after their leader nearly lost everything, but there was nothing they could do.

It had been painful to watch the man who had been a protector for so long, since childhood through his teenage years and into adulthood, try to maintain the post, disregarding his own health in favor of being the earliest in the office and last to leave, spending every free moment trying to get rid of the threat to his family. It was worse having to listen over the phone as his control started to slip while he tried so desperately to save his family from a madman. 

With the sight of him savagely beating Foyet’s dead body into the ground, all vestiges of the infamous controlled facade gone, they all hoped for Hotch’s sake that Jack had found safety and were beyond relieved to see him in JJ’s arms. Reality caught up to them, however, when they watched as Morgan had to physically wrestle Hotch away from Haley’s body so she could be transported to the ME’s office.

When they got the full autopsy, they could only be glad that Hotch wasn’t there to find out all that Foyet did to his first love.

And within a year, Hotch’s family had been ruthlessly snatched from his desperate, flailing grip and torn into broken pieces before being shoved back at him, misshapen with pieces missing. 

The faint sound of a door swinging closed had them all straightening up in their seats, turning to look into the bullpen where Hotch was walking up the stairs in front of his office, only to freeze right in front of the door with his hand just in front of the door knob. 

They watched worriedly as he let his outstretched hand fall back to his side and slowly backed up from the door, almost as if he were in a trance and startled when Morgan suddenly jumped up and ran out of the room and through the bullpen towards the man.

Their confusion cleared up when they realized that Hotch wasn’t stopping as he backed up, somehow unaware that the stairs were right behind him and stumbled, only barely catching himself on the railing. For Jack’s sake, they forced themselves to stay seated but watched out of the corner of their eyes as he tried to stand back up, only for his knees to buckle underneath him. 

Before he could hit the ground, Morgan quickly grabbed onto his arms, almost collapsing himself under his dead weight but managing to lower them both onto the ground, holding onto him in a way eerily reminiscent of what he had done when he pulled Hotch off of the barely-recognizable body of George Foyet. 

Hotch was still staring at his office door as if he had seen a ghost, and it was with heartbreak that Morgan realized what it represented to him—it was the source of so much passion and temptation that had gotten the love of his life killed. Looking back at the conference room and seeing the eyes focused on the two men, Morgan carefully pulled Hotch up from the ground and slowly guided him out of the bullpen, knowing that the team had Jack taken care of.

They walked through the winding hallways and into the bathroom that he followed Hotch into the night it all started to go horribly wrong. This time, it was different and yet the exact same, and after Morgan locked the door behind them, he pulled Hotch towards him, mindful of his bruised ribs. 

Surrounded by the four walls that heard so many of their small talks and witnessed their vulnerabilities, it wasn’t long before Hotch’s eyes began to burn as he finally melted into Morgan’s protective hold when the dam finally broke, letting out a wave of pain and anguish that was only made the slightest bit more bearable by the warmth of Morgan’s his friend’s care.

But even that couldn’t make that one sentence disappear.

You practically killed them yourself.

[etherrealoblivion]

Chapter Four: Supper

Table Of Contents

Fic summary: Owning a bookstore in downtown D.C. came with its fair share of downsides. You never thought that being the target of a serial killer would be one of them. Luckily, a nice FBI agent by the name of Spencer Reid is assigned to watch over you. What's the worst that could happen?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Words: 1,748

MASTERLIST

~

A sudden loud beep had you shooting upright in bed. You leapt up and put your ear to the door. Rather than sinister noises, you heard the faint humming of a very familiar theme song.

You cracked open the bedroom door, peeking into the kitchen where Spencer was bustling around with a frying pan and a spatula with a focused expression on his face, humming the theme music to Doctor Who under his breath.

It was actually kind of adorable. You pushed open the bedroom door further to get a better look, but the door creaked and Spencer spun around, withdrawing his gun and pointing it square in your face.

“I’m sorry!” you squealed, throwing your hands up in surrender.

He quickly holstered his gun and ran over to you. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” you tried to laugh. “A little shaken but I’m okay. Really!” you added after a doubtful look from him.

His eyes were a deep hazel that seemed to peer into your soul. His hands felt good on your shoulders, clutching you tightly in comfort. It had been a while since you’d had, well, any physical contact. He was so tall he had to lean down to level his face with yours.

Suddenly, he seemed to realize how close the two of you were and stepped back, clearing his throat. 

“I was, uh, trying to make dinner.”

“I can see that,” you said playfully, with a glance at the kitchen in disarray.

“Yeah. I’m not the best cook. I can memorize thousands of recipes in minutes but i’ve never seemed to master the execution.”

You hesitated. 

“Thousands of recipes in minutes? What are you a genius?” you laughed.

“Scientifically, yes. An I.Q. score over 160 classifies someone as a genius.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You’re kidding?”

He shook his head, slipping his hands into his pockets and shrugging.

“Nope.”

“Wait so you can read like, a thousand words per minute?”

“Twenty-thousand,” he corrected, stepping back into the kitchen to continue cooking.

“Twenty-thousand!? That’s impossible!”

“Actually, the unconscious brain can process up to eleven million bits of information per second. It’s just a matter of being able to—“

“—to access the information from your subconscious,” you said, cutting him off. “Wow. That’s impressive.”

He looked at you in shock.

“What’s even more impressive is that you finished a sentence for me.”

“Sorry,” you blushed.

“No! No, I mean, not a lot of people can, erm, keep up. When you start college at fourteen, not many people expect you to be smarter than them. Then when they find out how smart you really are, it can be intimidating.”

Your mouth twitched up into a smile. Spencer was impressive, for sure, but he was also entertaining. Not in a make-fun-of kind of way, but he made you laugh. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. 

“Supper’s ready!”

You stifled a laugh.

“Supper?”

“What?” he looked over at you, reaching up to get two plates.

“Who says supper? Are you eighty?” you teased. 

“I’m twenty-six!” he said indignantly.

You froze.

“Wait, really?” He nodded. “You’re only twenty-six and you’re a prominent FBI agent? How?”

“Genius I.Q, three Ph.D.’s, and my irresistible charm,” he said, giving a goofy smile.

“Three PhDs? How? I’m getting a PhD and I can barely keep up with the workload!”

“You‘re getting a Ph.D.? That wasn’t in your police report. What’s it in?” he asked as he filled your plates. 

“Actually, I’m working on two.”

“Two!?”

You nodded, happy that you’d been able to shock him.

“Yep. Linguistics and Philosophy. I like Philosophy better but Linguistics is more challenging. The library won't let you into the section with the really good language books without a certain clearance. But I've actually nearly finished my thesis for it. What?” you added, noticing him staring at you.

“You’re working on two doctorates simultaneously?”

“Surprised you’re not the only genius?” you joked, taking your plate from him, then, upon seeing what he’d made, bursting out into laughter. 

“What?” he looked genuinely confused, which only made you laugh harder.

“Bacon?” you said through gasps. “Bacon and pancakes? You are aware it’s—“ you glanced at the clock, “—nine forty at night?”

“Gimme a break!” he said defensively. “It’s the only thing I can cook. The word ‘cook‘ being a generous descriptor.” 

It was better than Doritos and bourbon for dinner, your go to meal. You were just glad you’d had the stuff to make dinner. It would be very awkward trying to explain your unhealthy eating habits to Spencer.

You didn’t have a dining table. Anyway, you usually ate on the couch and watched something on TV. That was normal nowadays right? Whatever. Spencer didn’t seem to mind which was good enough for you.

“So, um,” he said nervously, pulling out a pad of paper and pencil. “There’s a few things I need to go over with you.”

You nodded, remembering the situation you were in.

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have shown a sort of stalking behavior before? They’d be unreliable, constantly late, not being able to stick to a schedule?”

“The only person I know like that is Claire, one of my co-workers, but she’s not a stalker, she's just always late to work. Honestly, the only people I really know are my co-workers, some people from school, and Steve, my friend.”

“The FBI is going to need a list of people you see frequently. If you could put that together as soon as you’re ready. Also, all your credit card information will have to be analyzed, everywhere it’s been used. Whoever accesses your card, even for something as small as a stick of gum, has the opportunity to use that information to find your name, your address, your workplace—”

“Ok. I get it. People I see frequently and my credit card info. Gotta warn you, there’s not much I buy with it other than books and coffee. Then again, there’s the occasional splurge at the mall.”

“Well, the FBI needs all of it.”

You nodded softly, staring at the bacon on your plate. He hadn’t said I need he’d said The FBI needs. You weren’t sure what that meant exactly.

“Do you want to watch something?” he said, gesturing toward the TV. “It might be a good distraction?”

“Yeah,” you put your plate on the coffee table, noticing that you’d barely eaten. “Yeah that sounds good. Could you just put something on? I don’t wanna choose.”

He nodded and picked up the remote.

The only thing he really knew you liked was Doctor Who so he put on a random episode. You let the TV become background noise to your thoughts as you stared off into space.

Spencer was comforting to be around. He helped take your mind off the situation you were in. You looked over at him on the couch, long legs crossed under him. He had taken off his tie and shoes and changed into more casual clothes: a jumper and some jeans. He was absentmindedly fiddling with the throw blanket between you on the couch. 

His hands are so long, you thought. Wait, why were you thinking that? You shouldn’t be thinking about his hands. Or how long they were. Or what they could—

“Are you alright?”

You felt yourself twitch, startled by his sudden acknowledgment. Even more embarrassing, you were sure he’d seen you staring at his hands.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Hey,” he moved closer on the couch, “you don’t have to be sorry. It’s alright to not be okay.”

They were just words, they didn’t help. What did help was the care behind them. He wasn’t just saying it to comfort you, he actually meant it. To him, it really was ok to not be okay.

“Thank you Spencer, that actually helps.”

You glanced at the clock. It was 10:26.

“I should do some schoolwork,” you said, cringing afterward. You didn’t want him to think of you as some school kid.

“Okay!” he chirped happily, standing as you stood like a proper gentleman. “I’ll just be out here. Is it okay if I keep watching?” The episode played on, The Doctor dangling from a rope above London. “I really like this episode,” he said sheepishly.

“Sure,” you chuckled. “I’ll be in my room and please let me know if you need anything, seriously.”

He nodded assent, but you weren’t sure if he actually would. He seemed a little withdrawn, comforting you when you needed but keeping his distance when possible. It’s his job to keep you safe, you reminded yourself. Don’t get excited.

An hour later your eyes watered from the strain of keeping them open. But you were almost done with this paper. Sure, it was due next week but you were on a roll. Using an allusion to the Holocaust to support the point that Hollywood writing is riddled with antisemitism. In the morning, it might not sound as clever, but to your sleep-deprived brain, it was poetry.

A light knock on your door startled you.

“Come in,” you croaked.

Spencer peeked into your room, squinting.

“It’s pitch black in here,” he said, reaching for the light.

You shrieked as the light filled the room, blinding you.

“TOO BRIGHT!” you yelled, slamming your computer shut and throwing your arms over your eyes.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he fumbled with the switch and clicked it off. The room was now shrouded in darkness, neither of you able to see yet.

“Are you there, Spencer?”

“Yeah.”

You were both whispering. Why was it that people whispered in the dark? 

“You should try and get some sleep,” Spencer said. He was becoming more visible as your eyes adjusted to the light. He had changed into a blue set of pajamas. The fabric looked so soft.

“Yeah,” you muttered, moving toward the bed, “Yeah, I’ll do that.” 

Your bed felt scratchy and cold. Just last night getting in bed had been such a relaxing experience. So much had changed in a day.

“I’ll be right in the next room if you need anything,” 

“Hmm,” you hummed.

Spencer padded back out of your room.

The moment before the door closed you thought you heard a very faint, “Good night, Y/N.” But before you could wonder if it had happened or not, you were dropping off into a deep sleep. Knowing that you were safe with Spencer in the next room.

~

Taglist: @aperrywilliams @mjloveskids666 @dolanfivsosxox @criesinreid @fanficsrmylife @racerparker @sammypotato67 @lukeskisses @reidcrimes @you-had-me-at-hello-dear @l0ve-0f-my-life @thatsonezesty13

[karliesbuzzcut]

When art really speaks to you, pt. 2: probably just a coincidence but idk

Disclaimer: all these theories are rabbit holes on their own, so trying to explain them in a couple of paragraphs is, automatically, doing them a disservice. Especially since I’m only going to be primarily addressing the part of the theory that focuses on the artist communicating with their public through their work.

Since I’ve already dedicated paragraphs to the introduction in part 1, let’s just jump into it.

Leonardo Da Vinci’s fuckton of theories.

Let’s start with the daddy of all conspiracies. After all, not many can gloat about their reachings becoming a movie starring Tom Hanks.

The thing with Da Vinci’s conspiracies is that there are so many of them, and they range from “maybe this is also a painting made by Da Vinci but he wasn’t credited because of reasons” to ALIENS. Which, I think, shows how different our interpretations of art can be, and how much it depends on an already established worldview.

But the most interesting part isn’t the conclusions, but how people look for clues. For example, just like people say Taylor Swift is obsessed with numbers or oranges (depending who you ask, I guess), Da Vinci was supposedly a big fan of reflections. So, if you want to decode his paintings you must mirror them... and then move then a little bit... there you go, you’ve just found yourself an alien...! Or a daemon...! Or someone wearing a funny hat! And that’s totally what he wanted us to find, right? Why else would he had shown any sort of interest in reflections if he didn’t want us to reflect everything!!

Shakespeare is an illusion... kinda, but yeah.

Personally, I think Kaylors would love to dig into this one. Sure, it doesn’t have many lesbians playing political spies. But it does involve a lot of literature analysis. Just like Kaylors don’t think a heterosexual woman could’ve written Taylor’s songs; some people (referred as anti-Stratfordians, thank you very much) don’t think someone from a lower class could’ve written Shakespeare’s plays. 

Here’s the tea... the very cold tea: because Shakespeare was the son of a glover, anti-Stratfordians say he couldn’t have had the knowledge to write his plays. They, instead, come up with a list of “more suitable” writers that could’ve worked together. But they decided to keep their identities a secret because being a play writer, at that time, wasn’t respectable. Here, we will start noticing a trend with Conspiracy Theories: society, as a whole, can’t handle the truth, only a selected few. That’s where Francis Bacon comes in.

Francis Bacon was a very smart dude. He, also, worked for the state - giving him the credentials to be worthy of writing Shakespeare calibre plays. And also, also, he developed a method to conceal messages in the presentation of a text. To be able to do this, you would need to use two typefaces. Guess what has more than one typeface? Shakespeare’s plays.

I have to say - while I don’t believe either theory we have seen, they are somewhat understandable. We barely know anything about Shakespeare and Da Vinci beyond their work, so it’s normal that people are trying to figure out who they were; what did they believed in; where did they get all of their knowledge. We like theorising about the answers to these questions, knowing we’ll never get a confirmed truth. Not so the case with our next conspiracy...

Lewis Carroll was Jack the Ripper - someone had to be, right?

Now, allow me to fangirl all over this one. It combines my interests for conspiracy theories, true crime and pop-culture.

I’m assuming everyone here knows about Jack the Ripper: a serial killer who murdered at least 5 people (mainly prostitutes) in London, between the years 1888 and 1891. Well, someone looked at this and thought “you know what this murder-mystery is missing? Famous people”. Well, this theory says that the author of Alice in Wonderland did it He was the only celebrity living nearby at the time of the killings, so... 🤷‍♀️

This becomes a case of “I have already made up my mind about this issue, so I’m going to go ahead and search for proof that confirms it”. Authors and, now, internet sleuths went through his books, selected this random-ass excerpt from the nursery version of Alice and decided it was an anagram. And a crappy one at that. Supposedly, if you arrange the letters you get a detailed and gruesome confession. You, however, have to take away some letter and add others. Listen, I’m not an English major, but I’ve heard that’s cheating.

This theory also has that characteristic we mentioned: the “I don’t want to admit it out loud, so I’m going to come up with convoluted ways for my audience to figure it out” - which almost borders on psychotic behaviour. But at least it, somewhat, works with the serial killer narrative, you know? Not very much with Taylor, a woman who simply wants to chill with her girlfriend.

The moon landing was fake and directed by Stanley Kubrick.

I’m not going to dig into the moon landing conspiracy, this post is going to be long enough already. Just know that, when the USA government was planning to fake the whole thing, they had just watched ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ and they were all like “that’s so cool! That’s how we want our fake moon landing to look!” So they contacted its director, Kubrick.

According to the theory, Kubrick felt really guilty afterwards but he couldn’t say anything about it because he signed an NDA? it would be dangerous, I guess. So he did the same thing Taylor would do decades later: he “spelled it out” for us on his work, under the excuse of “I didn’t explicitly said it, did I? My most intelligent and attractive fans just happened to figure it out for themselves”. 

The movie ‘The Shinning’ has been analysed to shreds. Think ‘Look What You Made Me Do’ music video, but 2 hours and 26 minutes instead. There are many theories about its underlying theme, but we’re only focusing on the moon landing one. The biggest piece of evidence, according to believers, comes from that famous scene in the hallway. Basically, the kid, Danny, is on the floor playing and wearing an Apollo 11 sweater. He stands up = the rocket launches. He walks to Room N.237. Which is almost an anagram for MOON - but actually, a perfect anagram for MORON - I didn’t come up with that joke, I’m just sharing it. Anyway. In the book, the room number is 217 but Kubrick changed it to 237 because there are 237,000 miles between the Earth and the Moon... except that’s not exactly true, but this is their Kissgate, you see? 

“Paul is Dead” aka “the granddaddy of Kaylor is Real”

Now, this is THE conspiracy theory. Kaylors would love to have the amount of evidence this theory has. Give them 50 years, they’ll get there. 

Our story starts in 1966, Paul McCartney dies in a car accident. The British Government panics, “this will drive our teenagers into a massive suicide!” So they cover it up. They find this guy who looks like Paul and hire him to replace the original. 

You might’ve only heard about those stores where pop-stars get their beards. But there’s also a branch that focuses on celebrity look-a-likes.

The rest of The Beatles went along with it (because that’s how these artists seem to operate, they’re always the victims of their circumstances) but they did not like it. So - you guessed it - they used their music, artwork, photo-shoots, etc. to communicate the truth. Faux-Paul might’ve felt a bit awkward about it, but he’s a nice chap and let the other guys work through their grief. 

Kaylors might have agreed on blue being the colour of breaks up and yellow is for Karlie-Sunshine; but the Paul-truthers concluded white is the colour of heaven, jeans are for gravediggers and black for morticians... oh! And not wearing shoes means you’re dead. Taylor being near a door symbolises her leaving the closet; Paul being near an open trunk symbolises him being in a coffin. Is the letter K, for Karlie, surrounding Taylor? Well, there’s a 28IF in the plaques of a car, for Paul being 28 IF he hadn’t died. People hear a phantasmagorical “she” in ‘Call It What You Want’; just like people heard “I buried Paul” in ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’.

If you have never looked up this theory, I seriously recommend it. There are so many parallels with Kaylor. Here’s a 30 minute video, if you’re interested. It summarises the theory neatly while discussing the effects that these, seemingly innocent, conspiracies have on the way we absorb information.

Paul might be dead but 2pac is very much alive.

If I haven’t made it clear by now, I think it’s very deceptive to use a musician’s lyrics to back up your alternate version of events. As confessional as these verses can be, they’re still a form of art. Which, in terms of music lyrics, they need to follow certain parameters, as well as a desired sound. And, as many other forms of art, they might focus a bit more on transmitting a feeling, rather than an accurate portrayal of reality.

Why am I stopping to say all of this now? Well, because this specific theory relies a lot on Tupac’s lyrics.

A bit of context: In 1996, Tupac Shakur was shot 4 times while at a stoplight. He died from his injuries days later. While there are theories, to this day, no one knows who killed him. Unless you believe one of those theories, which claims no one did.

The believers of this theory cite Tupac’s lyrics to argue that he was explicitly telling his fans that he was going to fake his own death. Here are two examples:

I’ve been shot and murdered, can’t tell you how it happened word for word but best believe that n*****’ gonna get what they deserve. - Richie Rich’s N***** Done Change

I heard rumours that I died murdered in cold blood, traumatised pictures of me in my final states — you know mama cried. But that was fiction, some coward got the story twisted - Aint’ Hard 2 Find

Just like anti-Kaylors don’t necessarily oppose the idea of Taylor being gay; I bet the “antis” of this theory aren’t happy Tupac died and weren’t against his existence on the first place. It’s more of an argument about confusing your feelings with facts, just because they can be more comforting or exciting.

“Avril Lavigne is dead”... or “every artist you think is alive is, actually, dead and, the ones you think are dead, aren’t” I guess.

After everything we have seen, this one isn’t that interesting. The real Avril died in 2003, right after her first album. Her record label bought a new one. Proof? She says ‘dead’ in ‘My Happy Ending’, blah, blah. A poor man’s “Paul is Dead”.

I added it, mainly for the lulz, after the last entry, I needed them. But also because it all started with a blog. What’s hilarious is that the guy who created it admitted he only did it to show how gullible people are but, at that point, he had already convinced people about. The conspirators didn’t need him anymore. So they discarded him but not the Theory... which just reminds me a little too much of how TCG, HBH, Jennyboom &co. have been excommunicated from the Church of Kaylor.

Beyonce and Jay Z are members of the sexy sexy Illuminati.

I did not save the best for last. But maybe I’m just biased because the Illuminati theory bores me to death. However, if you allow me a bit of social criticism... remember how the Shakespeare Conspiracy started because a bunch of classicist people didn’t believe a lower class citizen could write such good plays? I think this one has a bit of that. I’d bet my life that this one started when a bunch of white dudes got super uncomfortable by black people being so talented and earning their successful.

What this Conspiracy shows, too, is the amplifying effect the internet has had on the proliferation of such theories. Most of the conspiracies I’ve mentioned were huge... but how were you supposed to communicate your ideas and add to the old ones, before the internet? You could publish a book. Talk about it at parties. And, at some point, there were internet forums but, still, you can’t compare that to how widespread Social Media is nowadays. 

Today, we can watch someone ramble for 2 hours on YouTube about how Beyonce looks like a robot if you watch Single Ladies in reverse; read someone’s dissertation of ‘Apeshit’; or spend all night looking at those pictures where someone has drawn a red circle around anything that resembles a triangle. 

It might look like a lot of evidence but that’s only because there are a lot of people very attached to this theory. Wanting - for whatever reason - for it to be true (perhaps because it would confirm that their fears about the world were well founded). And all those dozens or hundredths of people were working together to form as many patterns as possible.

Unfortunately we are going to keep talking about the Illuminati in Part 3 but also about Taylor, so that should be nice. Because - to the surprise of absolutely no one - there’s a bunch of people who also think they understand Taylor better than the rest. That they have figured out her secret codes and her ultimate message. Only, not all of those theories involve lesbian supermodels, so they aren’t as popular on Tumblr.

[searchingforstarss]

I'm playing the ultimate spiderman game and there's these guys with bats and now I can't get the idea out of my head. could you write irondad whump h/c with peter being beaten with a bat, maybe getting his jaw broken? Love all your fics so much!!!

i’m so sorry this took me a few days anon! i adored the prompt and i really wanted to make sure i did it justice. thank you so much for sending this in, i loved writing it so i hope you enjoy it x

–

“Look, kid, I’m listening to you, trust me, and I know things are getting bad but I’m not back in town until Thursday and I just need you to wait until then. Once I’m back we can come up with a game plan together.”

“I can handle it by myself, Mister Stark, we might not have until Thursday.”

“Peter Benjamin Parker, I do not, under any circumstances at all, want you going anywhere near this guy without me there. You hear me?”

“Okay, fine. I hear you.”

–

For the last three months, women have been being attacked in the middle of the night, usually in alleyways or secluded areas of parks, the kinds that most people know not to go anywhere near at night. None of this is particularly new, per se, because New York is a dangerous city and that’s why Peter spends so much time out patrolling, trying to protect the people and the city that he loves.

But it’s the same man, tall, broad shoulders, dark clothing and masked every time. Rumours have been flitting about the city that he carries a baseball bat with him.

Peter’s been dreaming of finally achieving something important, being able to break a big case all by himself, to prove to the Avengers and the NYPD that he’s capable of much more than they give him credit for.

This seemed like exactly the right opportunity, even if Tony kept telling him to leave it the hell alone. Once Peter’s successfully caught the guy, he’ll change his tune, surely. Just like the Vulture all over again.

So, he mapped it all out as carefully as he possibly could. He tracked the masked man’s movements around New York using Karen to hack into the city’s security camera network (and a whole lot of bribing and convincing her not to tell FRIDAY about his efforts because that would have Mister Stark putting an end to everything before he would even have a chance to go after the guy.)

The man operates between midnight and three am, Peter noted, and then he catches a C line train back to a ramshackle apartment block on the outskirts of Brownsville.

Peter figured that would give him a three-hour window. It all seemed quite easy, really. Wait until Mister Stark was out of town, tell May he was spending the night at Ned’s to work on a physics project and sneak out the window in his Spider-Man suit to slip into the man’s home. He thought maybe he could rummage around a bit, look for come evidence while he waited for the man to come home, only to ambush him and call the police on him in his own home. Right where he’s not expecting it.

Peter was quite proud of himself, honestly. He was so sure that he was going to prove Tony wrong, show him that he can do things like this himself.

It all would have been fine if Peter didn’t miss one tiny little detail. The man always returns home earlier on a Saturday night.

(Maybe he’s religious; maybe he has to get up early for church in the morning, Peter thinks to himself slightly deliriously, later on, wouldn’t that just be wildly ironic.)

He was caught off guard, so engrossed in the pair of bloody gloves that he’d found just lying out on the couch that he hadn’t heard the masked man creep into the apartment behind him.

Then everything went horribly, horribly wrong and he ended up here.

Wrists shackled to the wall behind him, slumped up against the ratty wallpaper in what looks like a bedroom inside of the apartment that he’s spent the last few days monitoring security footage of so closely. He really didn’t mean for this to happen. He should have listened to Tony.

Now, he’s just sitting, arms aching and splinters poking through the suit into the backs of his thighs from the neglected wooden floor below him. But honestly, most of his worries stem from the fact that this masked man is just sitting across from him. He’s settled on the edge a threadbare looking mattress, unmoving. It’s dark in the room and the only light slipping through the windows is from the flickering streetlamps outside. Peter can barely see the man anyway, face shielded by the mask, but he can tell he’s being stared at.

He’s getting sick of it. Sure, maybe he’s in a little over his head and maybe this is all just the universe punishing him for deliberately going against what Tony told him to do, but he’s over it and he wants to go home.

“Nice place you got here, but would you mind, like letting me go? I have places to be, man.”

“You’ve been pissing me off, Spider, prancing around the city in those tights, trying to get in my way. I think I’ll keep you right here.”

So he does speak. It’s a little unnerving when Peter can’t see the lips move from behind the mask.

“First of all, they’re not tights. Plus, who are you to talk, anyway? Who’s your style icon, Jason Voorhees?”

The man stares at him. “Shut up.”

“Oh c’mon. Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th? You really don’t know him? He’s kinda a psychopath, not to spoil the whole thing for you or anything. It really is a great movie, you really should sit down and give it a watch sometime.”

“I said, shut up.”

“Alright, alright. Just trying to be helpful, but clearly, I’m not here for my movie recommendations. That’s fine, I get it.”

More silence.

“Seriously, though, I’m getting kinda bored over here. What are we doing, exactly? Apart from the whole me sitting here and looking pretty while you stare at me like a serial killer thing. Now that I think about it, the resemblance between you and Jason really is uncanny. “

“I’m trying to figure out what to do with you.”

Kinda ominous, but whatever.

“Whatever you do, I’d like to be wined and dined first, preferably.”

“If you don’t shut up right now, I’m going to make you,” the man growls, voice low and ripping from the back of his throat.

“That sounds a little like an innuendo and I’d really rather you didn’t.”  

“That’s it,” he mutters, turning to leave the room. Peter is relieved to have a break from dark eyes boring into him when the man returns only a minute or so later, breaking Peter’s brief solitude far too soon and oh - shit, there’s a bat clutched in his grip and his blood runs cold through his veins because holy fuck, clearly the baseball bat rumours were true.

Peter swallows down his panic.

“We’re gonna go play baseball? I’m not exactly a great shot, and you might have to let me out of these first,” Peter rattles his wrists around in the metal chains and they clink together, echoing around the sparse room, “but sounds like fun.”

“We’re not playing baseball.”

“Shame, because I passed a park on my way here and I’m pretty sure that there’s only been like, six murders there this year so that could have been a fun spot.”

“I’m going to enjoy this, you fucked up little kid.”

“Hey, I’m not a little-” Peter starts, but he’s cut off by all the air being knocked out of his lungs as he sees the bat raised in front of him.

People - mostly Tony, really - have always told him that his big mouth in the worst situations will get him in trouble someday. Today’s the day, apparently. Tony will have a great time telling him ‘I told you so,’ over this one.

His thoughts are cut off when the baseball bat collides with his jaw and a searing, fiery pain consumes his entire being. He’s engulfed by it, bones crunching and splintering underneath the unforgiving wood of the bat as it returns, again and again and again. No matter how desperately Peter begs and pleads, his pride and smart quips surrendering to the raw agony, the bat doesn’t stop.

His mouth is awash with the metallic taste of his own blood, and he spits it out uselessly around the pulverised bones of his jaw. It only fills right back up, coating the inside of his mouth with red once more. A drop trickles down his chin.

His jaw radiates a throbbing pain that courses through his veins. Dark spots dance and blur in the edge of his vision as his consciousness ebbs. At least if he’s unconscious he won’t have to feel any of this.

“Finally, peace and quiet. Let’s see how easy it is for you to run that mouth of yours now.”

Peter tries to spit another lot of blood out of his mouth in one last show of defiance, but he can’t even open his mouth properly without feeling like the pain will quite literally tear his entire skull open, let alone get the muscles to function enough to propel the blood anywhere, anyway.

Everything hurts.

He tips his head back against the wall in defeat. His eyelids droop, feeling too heavy to keep open, but the pain is worse when he closes his eyes. It’s all he has to focus on.

There’s a thunk, something heavy landing on the floorboards in front of him. Heavy footsteps leave the room. When he chances cracking one eye open, the man is gone, but the baseball bat, decorated with smears of Peter’s own crimson blood, has been tossed onto the floor in front of him.

—

There’s a crash at the door and Peter flinches back into the wall behind him. He’s not sure how long he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness and his entire jaw screams at the sudden movement but he doesn’t care because the man is back and he can’t do it again, he can’t.

He screws his eyes shut in misery and tries to prepare himself to take it because this is his fault, after all, he was stupid and he didn’t listen to Tony.

Now he’s paying the price because maybe Tony’ll be mad, maybe he won’t even come to get Peter - or even worse, maybe no one will come at all, to teach him a lesson and he’ll be left curled up here forever, shackled to the wall, bleeding and broken with the constant threat of a bat to the face looming over him the second he steps out of line.

Footsteps stop in front of him.

His lungs burn as he holds his breath unsurely. He waits for the sound of the bat being picked up off the floor in front of him but it never comes. Instead, it sounds like it’s kicked away. Peter resists the urge to cringe away because god, that’s maybe that’s even worse. The man could be sick of the bat already, maybe it’s not enjoyable enough for him anymore - not that it was ever enjoyable for Peter but he thinks it was probably better than a knife to the chest or a bullet to the head.

Based on his research, Peter is pretty sure that this man hasn’t killed anyone yet, hasn’t gone quite that far, but there’s a first time for everything.

He can vaguely sense movement in front of him. Someone is getting closer and he doesn’t dare to move or breath, knowing that he’s completely unable to protect himself with his arms compromised behind him.

Then there’s a voice.

“Hey, kid. Wanna open those eyes for me?”

Tony.

He blinks his heavy eyes open, doing what the man asks because avoiding doing so was what got him in this whole mess in the first place. Sure enough, when he does, he finds Tony crouched in front of him. He’s in a three-piece suit, glasses hastily shoved down the front of his shirt, the Iron-Man armour standing sentry behind him.

He stares.

Tony came. He’s here. Even though he was stupid and he didn’t listen and he fucked things up. Tony only forgave him after the Vulture because he saved the day. He did what he was meant to do, as a superhero. Tonight he’s only managed to piss off a notorious serial-attacker and consequently screw up his jaw past even the best abilities of his healing.

He needs to apologise, he needs Tony to see how sorry he is for everything, because maybe if he does Tony might get him out of here. Try as he might, he can’t form proper words around his broken jaw. Instead, whines and mumbles slip past his lips incoherently, eyes blown wide with all the words he wants to say but can’t force out.

“Shh, no buddy, don’t strain yourself, it’s all okay, everything is okay.”

Tony is lowering himself onto the floor next to Peter, reaching up to undo his shackles from the wall with a small rusted key. Peter doesn’t know where he got it from, but he’d entirely forgotten about the ache in his arms from the restraints, anyway, too focused on his jaw. He shakes them out at his sides.

If Peter is being uncuffed, then surely that must mean that Tony is considering getting him out of here. Peter so desperately wants to get out of here. What if Tony won’t take him with him if he doesn’t know exactly how sorry Peter is?

“Pl’se. S…s-s’rry.”

“No, Pete, it’s okay.”

Peter shakes his head frantically, the movement irritating his jaw but he continues anyway. He needs to keep apologising. He doesn’t want Tony to leave him here, he’s already in an insurmountable amount of pain and he doesn’t think he can survive anymore if the man with the bat comes back.

He won’t argue with Tony ever again. He’d be willing to promise anything if he could form words around the stabbing pain and shattered bones of his jaw.

“W’nna go h’me. W’th you. Pl’se. Don’t l’ve me.”

“I’m taking you home, I promise,” Tony says, never taking his eyes away from Peter’s. He’s strong and steady in a way that Peter definitely isn’t right now. It’s reassuring. “I just don’t want to risk flying and irritating that nasty looking jaw of yours, buddy. You’re not bleeding out so we’re safe to just wait here, you’re fine. Brucie and the medics will be here soon and we’ll be home before you know it.”

“‘M’st’r St’rk.”

“I’m here. You’re okay,” Tony murmurs and Peter lets the gentle tone wash over him, settling over his ragged and aching body, soothing like a balm.

He reaches a hand out to tangle it in the stiff fabric of Tony’s suit jacket sleeve. It’s not the softened cotton of his lab outfits that Peter is so used to but it will do. It’s enough.

Tony leans over and as gently as he can, lowers Peter down so his head is resting in his lap. “Get comfy down there for a minute, Pete. Won’t be long ‘til we’re out of this dump.”

Peter nods weakly. Now that Tony’s here, this dump isn’t nearly half as bad as it was only half an hour ago. Home sounds good though. He’d kill for a warm bed and some painkillers. Maybe he can even bribe Tony to keep this from May for a day or two so he can avoid being violently chewed out for lying to her about his and Ned’s physics project - though, he’s sure there’s a very slim chance of convincing him of that. He and May are a formidable force when combined.

Hands find his shoulders and they rub slowly at the tenseness there and the back of his neck with the sort of tenderness that only comes out when Peter’s upset or in a considerable amount of pain. Right now probably counts as both.

Peter doesn’t want to talk anymore, doesn’t want to risk aggravating his broken bones further now that Tony’s comfort is giving him something to focus on rather than the never-ending pain. He just wants to lie here and listen to him talk until it’s time to go home.

“Gotta tell you, kid, you gave me a hell of a scare. Your vitals went all wonky. I couldn’t get the baby monitor footage without your mask on but I could still track you. I owe the Secretary of State another meeting since I crashed out of our last one. Maybe I’ll drag you out there with me to get you back for this little stunt, huh? It’ll bore you to death, that’s a promise,” Tony chuckles. There’s no malice to his words, and Peter lets himself relax further back against him.

He was stupid, but it’s okay because Tony is here and Tony is looking after him.

Tony won’t let anyone hurt him anymore.

—

When Peter can talk properly and form full sentences again two days later, after bone reconstruction surgery and lots of help from his accelerated healing, the first words out of his mouth, in true Peter Parker fashion, are, “I’m so, so sorry, Mister Stark.”

Tony shushes him almost immediately. “Nuh-uh, none of that. God, you’re a stupidly self-sacrificing kid, have I ever told you that?”

“Maybe once or twice.”

“You’re lucky I love you then, huh, bud?”

“Mmm. Guess I am.”

“If you ever pull something like this again, I might have to reconsider.”

“Nah, you won’t.”

Tony’s silent for a moment. “Yeah, you got me there. I won’t.”

[calliecat93]

(Part Two)

Another volume, done. God, I feel like I just survived a whirlwind. To say that this has been a very eventful volume of RWBY would be a /huge/ understatement. We had so, so much happen. New characters, uncovered truths, political battles, murder and chaos at every turn, just… a lot. But we once again made it to this point folks. We made it to the end and we can take it easy as we await Volume 8. But with the volume now over, how did it fare? Was it a success? A failure? Or somewhere in between? And how does it measure compared to the previous six?

We have a lot to go over folks. So much that I had no choice but to make this a two-parter. Yeah, that long folks. The last two-parter I did was twelve pages long, so… yeah.  In this section, we will cover Animation/Visuals, Audio, and the first half of the Character section (mainly the Atlas characters and villains). Part Two will cover the rest of the Characters (RWBYJNRQO), Story, Volume Stats, and my Final Thoughts. Everyone got all that? Good! With that said, let’s conclude this year’s RWBY Reviews with the biggest one of all: the full Volume Seven Review.

Animation/Visuals

Perfect as always. The design work once again proves perfect. CRWBY described Mantle and Atlas as based on different industrial ages, and it shows. Mantle is a big, but worn down city. It has some major New York vibes. Heck, maybe even some Gotham City with how bleak it is. The people are down-trodden and the place just looks dirty. It is a relic of the past, while Atlas represents the future. Clean, shades of blue and white to show how pristine it is, fancy locations like Atlas Academy or the Schnee Manor. Atlas is the future. A representation of the greatness that humanity can achieve… at least it looks that way. The two cities contrast so much, and it’s just so well done. When you compare to how we sadly saw so little of Mistral in comparison seeing this much with Atlas was a real treat.

Character stuff continues to be great. All of the new outfits of the heroes look fantastic. Even Jaune’s dumb hair ended up better in actual animation than it did in the still they showed at NYCC. Every character looks fantastic. Expressions are once more on point. One of the best cases is Ironwood. You can see how worn down the man is at every single turn, but also the steely determination. You can just look at him and you get the sense of strong authority, yet plain exhaustion all at the same time. In Chapter 11 when he goes from exhausted relief to full-blown horror, you feel it. Oh God do you feel it. You feel what all of these characters are feeling. Ruby’s despair in Chapter 11, Blake and Yang’s confliction in Chapter 7, Nora’s growing rage about Mantle all throughout the volume. How broken Ren feels in Chapter 13. The pure coldness from James form the same chapter when he shoots Oscar. The character animation was just on point.

The effects are also well done. I mean the Salem apparition in Chapter 11? Horrifying. Fria’s Maiden-charged blizzard was the best though. Powerful, yet somehow haunting beautiful. There have been some updates as well, like Neon’s rainbow trail and Neo’s Semblance look a lot better. Some new Grimm designs like the Saybers and the pterodactyl thing. There’s kind of a dinosaur/Ice Age theme with the Grimm, which fits with the Antarctica-esque environment of Solitas. The fight scenes were very well done, especially in the final chapters. The Ironwood vs Watts fight was freakin’ excellent and we finally got to see the Anti-Gravity biome! RWBY vs Ace-Ops was amazing on all fronts, both with the choreography and on a symbolic level. The best fight imo though is Cinder vs Penny and Winter, especially when it gets taken out into the open air. Pure epicness. Seriously, every fight was freakin’ fantastic, even minor ones like JNRO vs FNKI or the Bees vs Robyn. Even some that I wasn’t into, like Tyrian vs Qrow, CLover, and Robyn were fun to watch~

Overall, the animation and visuals were excellent~ Five starts!

Audio

If I went over every voice acting performance, we’d be here all day. Every actor was excellent. The regulars were excellent. The newbies were excellent. Everyone was excellent. We get people that we haven’t heard in a long while, like Taylor McNee (Penny), Elizabeth Maxwell (Winter), and Jason Rose (Ironwood). None of them have lost their touch. Taylor still captures Penny’s innocent charm beautifully, and her performance when Penny is just broken after being framed was heartbreaking. Jason was /especially/ good. He still carries the General’s strong authority while adding more weight, but when he becomes utterly unhinged? He did a masterful job with the performance. We also let Chris Sabat and Josh Grelle do more with their characters and it’s wonderful. Josh as Tyrian has always been great, but getting to hear Chris do more Watts? Excellent. I’m so used to him being the brute guy, like Vegeta in DBZ or Zoro in One Piece. But he does the calculated egomaniac very well and you can tell that he’s enjoying every single scene. Excellent job sir~ Jessica Nigri ended up stealing the show though, giving by far her most insane performance as Cinder yet and she 100% killed it.

We got some new people as well, and they were all great. I was so happy to see Cristina Vee getting cast and she does such a good job as Robyn. Playful but also determined. The Ace-Ops cast was good with Chris Wehkamp (Clover), Anaris Quinones (Harriet), and Mick Lauer (Marrow) being the stand-outs. Caitlin Glass got one episode as Willow, but she did an excellent job portraying how broken she is but also has just a spark of fight in her. She only got like… three minutes, and she did it perfectly. David Fennoy was a surprise to hear considering he was already in Grimm Eclipse, but it was a wonderful surprise. He perfectly portrays Pietro as this Gepetto-esque father figure who I fell in love with immediately. Then, of course, we have Jason Liebrecht as Qrow. To say that the guy was put into the not so flattering task of taking over due to the circumstances with Vic’s firing is putting it mildly. But he pulled it off. By the second chapter alone, I was already sold. He did an excellent job portraying Qrow and imo, already surpassed Vic. Like everything in Chapter 12? Jason /nailed/ every single emotion right on the head. I’m greatly looking forward to hearing more of him in the future~

The main cast as I said, were excellent. Some got it a bit easier this year, like Miles, Arryn, and Barbara. They still did great, but they took a bit more of a back seat and we’ll go more into that in Character. Neath and Aaron, while their characters stuff is more subdued, did an excellent job with their respective character’s viewpoints. Sam Ireland /finally/ got to do more with Nora outside ‘bubble and energetic’ with Nora’s anger about Mantle and her conflictions about Ren. She did it beautifully. Kara got much more with Weiss compared to last year, and she portrays all of Weiss’ worries and conflict perfectly. Especially in Chapter 4 when she tells her father off. I cheered so much. Lindsay with Ruby was perfect. She got a lot more serious moments with hr compared to the past, but she handled them all excellently. She goes through so many emotions in Chapter 11 alone and she hits every single one right in the head. She and Sam are tied for the standout among the mains, but all of them did an excellent job as always.

Then what’s RWBY without its soundtrack? Once more, perfect work. The scores were all excellent. Penny’s letimotif, instrumentals of songs like The Path to Isolation and Trust Love, the haunting violins at the end of Chapter 9, even the three-second bit of Indomitable in Chapter 10. Alex Abraham once more does an amazing job. I still remember the kickass guitar during the first fight in Chapter 1 and I was immediately pumped. Every score added to every scene and added so much more to them. But they also knew when to just let scenes be quiet, and it added so much weight. Once more, quality sound work.

But then we have Jeff Williams. What do you want me to say that I haven’t been saying since Volume 1? The man is a genius. He did amazing. Casey did amazing. I got nothing new to add. The songs this volume were freakin’ excellent. The opening, while kind of a tone contrast to the volume, was an excellent song and perfectly expresses the themes of the volume. Then we have things like the uplifting rock ballad Brand New Day, the badassness of Hero featuring Caleb Hyles, and the credits song as per usual. Speaking of Caleb though, it was nice to hear some new vocalists with him, Santi C, and the quartet in War, though of course, Casey remains flawless as ever. I loved all of the songs. IDK if it tops V6’s soundtrack yet, but it’s up there. Now, of course, my favorites will likely change when the full tracks are out, but here is the current ranking:

War (Chapter 12)

Hero (Chapter 11)

Fear (Chapter 13 Credits)

Trust Love (Opening Theme)

Brand New Day (Chapter 5)

Until the End (Chapter 13)

Touch the Sky (Chapter 3)

Let’s Get Real (Chapter 6)

Celebrate (Chapter 6)

Audio-wise, the volume was great. Great voice acting. Great sound effects. Great music. Just great all around~

Characters, Part One (Villains and Atlas)

There are… so many characters this volume. So, so many. Hence why I had to divide it up. We’ll cover the villains and Atlas characters here, and we’ll focus on the mains in Part 2 of the review. Since the villains won’t take too long we’ll start with them and go from there.

Not too much to say about Tyrian. He’s as terrifying and crazy as ever, and even moreso after Chapter 12, but it was nice to get some more details on his history before Salem. Him being a serial killer makes sense, as is his undying worship of Salem since she both saved him and she’s the manifestation of every twisted thing that he believes in. I think Chapter 12 also helped re-ignite his threat level with his brutal murder of Qrow, which reminded me even more than Chapter 6 of how terrifying the man is. Still, he was just there to be cray and murderous, and he did so. Watts thought was more interesting. We got some more background, like how he was a former Atlesian scientist who created Mantle’s security network and he joined Salem essentially because he felt like Ironwood put him down and he got jealous that Pietro’s project was chosen over his. It’s petty, but all the villains are petty. It helps him stand out though and he’s certainly one of the more interesting of Salem’s cult due to it. We also see that he does have some combat still, which is nice. No idea what happens with him now, but he served his role in this volume very well.

But then we have Cinder and Neo. Neither of which I was expecting anything major from this volume. Well, guess I was wrong. Cinder as of late has attracted a lot of hate… I mean yeah we /are/ supposed to hate her, but people just hate her as a character. The main thing seems to be how we don’t know Cinder’s motivations, and I get that. But really? I think that she was excellent here. Unlike in Mistral, she is once more in control and thus her smug personality is back in full. She’s only in four episodes, and she uses that time masterfully to turn everything on its head. The way she broke Ironwood alone with just a glass chess piece. She clearly learned from Salem well. I mean the way that Salem broke Ruby by just mentioning Summer’s fate? That is some master class psychological warfare. Something that Cinder has clearly mastered and when she isn’t running off rage she can pull it off excellently. But of course, at the end, she again failed to get the Maiden powers. With how she became more and more insane throughout the fight, I fear that she’s going to become even more callous than ever before.

I’m also really starting to grow fond of Neo. She started off as an overhyped character (imo) that was brought back for mere fanservice, but they are clearly trying to use her as best as possible. And I think that they’re doing a great job. Neo has an agenda against Ruby and knows that Cinder can easily obliterate her, which is the only reason why Neo is dealing with this. You can tell that unlike Emerald and Mercury, she is not happy following Cinder’s orders. She’s only following her to both get at her target and to live, not out of gratitude or feeling like it’s all that she has due to her upbringing. It’s nice to see someone who Cinder has no control over, yet Cinder can still over-power her so she has to go with it for now. But it helps give Neo a character and compared to before where I just didn’t get why she existed, I’m legit excited to see what happens with her next.

Now we can cover the Atlesian Military. They are… a complex bunch. Fitting, considering who their general is. James Ironwood has always been a very complicated character. On the one hand, we’ve seen through volumes 2-4 that he is genuinely a good person who wants to protect the people and do what’s right. But the problem with him has always been that he makes all the wrong choices. He didn’t heed Ozpin warnings in Beacon about showing off his military might, and it leads to the Fall and Atlas being made out as the villains. He hasn’t gotten any better. If anything, he’s gotten worse. He’s still well-intentioned, but as the old saying goes  “The pathway to Hell is paved with good intentions.”, and Jame is the living embodiment of it.

We see that James did genuinely want to trust the heroes. He gives them the Lamp back, he gives them their license, he has them train with his best. He was sincere and he just wants to protect people. But his own paranoia and flaws as a person have overwhelmed him. His TSD has deteriorated his mind and since he isn’t getting proper help, it’s making him lose it. He’s terrified of Salem, so much that once he saw that Black Queen chess piece and doubt was placed into his mind, he snapped. He went from taking RWBY’s secret-keeping well and keeping focused on what was important, to turning on them and leaving a city that he is just as responsible for as Atlas to die. It’s a truly tragic tale. You /want/ James to do the right thing. He’s not a bad person, and you can see the logic with all of his decisions. But they are the wrong decisions not just on a logical level when you really think about it, but especially on a moral level. You can see that he knows what he’s doing is wrong and that he isn’t happy about it, but he still does it and now hundreds will die because of it. He has gone from a flawed but heroic man, to no better than Salem herself which he seals by shooting Oscar with no hesitation. It is a sad tale, but it is a well-done arc and just shows how excellent of a character James is. I am very pleased with his character here.

The Ace-Ops are decent additions. We don’t know a lot about them, but they have personality. Clover is the nice guy leader, Harriet is the confident and competitive second-in-command, Marrow is the out-going rookie, Elm is the out-going bruiser, and VIne is the calm, logical one. On the surface, they are heroic people… but like with James, it’s more complex. None of them are bad people, Marrow especially considering his Faunus status and he is fully aware of Atlas’ bigotry/messed up class system. But they were trained to not care about emotions or relationships. Priority Number One is obeying the general’s orders without question, and if they do, to go against those urges. It’s harsh because you can see that the five are good and friendly people, but once Ironwood lost it, that conditioning came into full effect. 

You can tell that RWBY’s ‘betrayal’ hurt them. Harriet, despite saying that none of them are friends, clearly felt hurt and enraged. Same with Elm, though unlike Harriet who was practically going for the kill, Elm seemed to be trying to force herself to do so. Vine tried to solve it peacefully, clearly not wanting to fight, but no one else was willing to follow. Marrow was the biggest example. His heart was not in the fight, and I think he honestly did agree with RWBY. He tried to push himself otherwise, but it failed. Then Clover, who has stood by James’ side throughout even if he seemed unhappy with it, tried to arrest Qrow on the spot even when Tyrian re-entered the fray. That blind devotion sadly cost him his life… and I wonder how this is going to affect Ace-Ops. Despite what Harriet said, they were still all allies and I can see this messing them up. It either makes them want payback or see the light. Regardless, they were a good bunch of side-characters and I look forward to seeing what happens next.

A bigger, and much sadder, example of this Atlas conditioning is Winter. She is loyal to James because due to him and the military, she got out of her abusive home and a shot at a better life. But the sad reality is that she's really in no better position than she would have been otherwise. She’s been groomed to become the Winter Maiden and despite her choosing it to make it her own, it's still pretty much someone deciding her life for her. She internalizes her feelings and continues to obey James, despite knowing and feeling that it is wrong. Just like she was trained to do. The only person that she makes an exception for is Weiss, which seeing how much she cares and is proud of her sister and even taking her to the Winter Maiden facility was super sweet. But even then not only does she still keep a composed demeanor around Weiss, but she still stood by James even after Weiss became wanted. But hopefully, with the Maiden destiny not off the table and Weiss a fugitive, this will give Winter the chance to accept her own emotions and begin to carve her own destiny. One not chosen by anyone but herself.

But of course, the one we can blame for Winter’s state, along with James, is Jaques Schnee. I didn’t think I could hate him anymore than I already did, but I got proven wrong. The man is ambitious, willing to do anything to keep his business (well… the business he stole) running and himself in power. He runs for Council pretty much just to get rid of the embargo and takedown James. He’s despicable and I hate him and I hope he rots behind jail. Whitley doesn't really have anything new, just a bit more hammering down that he is the way he is due to the abuse and his sister’s leaving him behind. Willow though? She gets one episode, and I feel horrible for this woman. While her shutting down pretty much ruined her kids' lives, you can see why and feel sympathy for her. His is a woman worn down, and while the smallest spark of fight is in her as she gives Weiss the key to burying her father, it’s so clear that she’s broken. It’s going to take a very long time for her to recover if she does. As for Whitley, his father may be gone. But the control he had over his son is likely still firm. Which can only mean bad things for Weiss.

Opposing Atlas is Robyn Hill, Mantle’s Hometown Hero. She is very much the anti-Ironwood. She’s devoted to Mantle and wants to do what’s best for them, even if it means breaking the law. But she’s not unreasonable either. She was very friendly to Clover and Marrow, only becoming antagonistic after Penny got framed for murdering her supporters. And even then, she listened to Blake and Yang and was willing to give Ironwood a chance. One that he blew sky high. But Robyn comes off as a good person who sees the injustices with Mantle and once making a change the legal way became impossible, she resorted to the illegal route. And even then, she and her Happy Huntresses never hurt anyone and were trying to help the people that James was making suffer. Just as her inspiration of Robin Hood. She’s a very likable, inspiring character though I do wish we got some more backstory for her. But hey, she’s a good person who didn’t fall into Atlas’ conditioning trying to help those who need it, and you don’t need a motivation to do the right thing. 

This brings us to Penny Polendina and her father Pietro. I’m so, soooo happy to have Penny back. I have some issues with her return, mainly in that she and Ruby never talk about what happened, But that’s more for when I get to Ruby. But aside from that, Penny was excellent. She’s still the same quirky, sweet girl that we met back early on, but we get much more of her this time. She’s been made Mante’s protector, and it is a duty that he is full-heartedly devoted to. She wants to understand feelings more, like how to balance the things she wants to do with her duties and is confused about how Winter can shove her emotions aside to do what is clearly wrong. Penny may be a robot, but she is by far the most human of the Atlesian cast. It made how broken she was when framed by Tyrian and Watts hurt so much, as well as Ironwood’s comments about how she’s under his control. He talks as though she’s just another robot soldier, and you can see how much that hurts her. But at the very end, she proved how goodhearted she is when she calms/comforts Fria in her final moments, and due to it, Fria chooses her to be the next Winter Maiden. A title that she absolutely deserves.

We can probably thank Pietro for Penny being a good person. He’s just as lively as she is and clearly loves her with all of his heart. I mean he’s given up chunks of his Aura in order to bring her back. That is love, people. While I wish he had more of him (and Maria for that matter), Pietro was so much fun and a welcome addition to the supporting cast. He’s a genius responsible for much of Atlas’ technological achievements, but he also takes time to help those in Mantle. He wanted to create a savior with a soul, which I think says a lot about him as a person. While I wish he and Penny had more interaction, that loving father/daughter bond is there and it helps them both stand out among a cast slowly losing their humanity. I worry for them, especially with Salem having Grimm Monstro on her side, but doesn’t change how happy I was with them here.

Then we, of course, have our main cast… but that is something that we shall cover in Part Two. Stay tuned~

[atinywriting]

Bloody Pen | Wooyoung Serial Killer AU Chapter 5

Rumination

The kinda very long overdue Ch 5 rewrite is here! Some things are the same but it’s mostly different from before.

Ch 6 will be out in a few hours so everyone reads this first ^^

“Any fingerprints at all, Mingi?”

The tall man in front of Hongjoong was examining the note and puppet doll found on the crime scene. To Hongjoong’s disappointment, Mingi shook his head.

“Nope. None at all.”

“Of course.” Hongjoong huffed. “Of course, they leave no fingerprints behind. Just great,” he muttered.

It had been a few days since the body and evidence had been transported to the forensic center. By this time, a few traces would’ve been found that easily lead to the suspect.

Then again, he supposed it was foolish to think that the killer would leave fingerprints behind this time. As he suspected earlier, this was no normal killer. Most of the time (or at least in his opinion based on his experience so far), murders were solvable because the perpetrators were still human.

Most of the time, it would be their first time killing and it was done of out emotion (anger, fear, jealous, etc.). They would panic, realizing they’ve committed a crime and try their best to clean up the crime scene. And it was their panic that would be their undoing, as it would cause them to rush and accidentally leave traces behind that got them caught even easier.

Or, they were just plainly stupid and taunted the law enforcement by taking credit of the crime. He remembered one time some idiot, who thought he was anonymous, called the department about crimes the police weren’t even aware of in the first place and said that he did it. By doing so, the fool had clued them in and aided their investigation. All they had to do was trace the call.

But, it was clear for this case that this killer was no dunce. They were deliberate and careful. That was evident enough with the way they put extra effort into setting up the crime scene themselves as if it were a movie set.

No weapon was found. It was most likely disposed of. No fingerprints were found. The killer most definitely was wearing gloves as they wrote the note and set up the crime scene.

Hongjoong sighed. There was no point complaining over spilled milk after all. This was just one inconvenience. There was still plenty of other types of evidence that could be discovered later. He’d just have to press on forward till they found that one damning evidence that trapped the criminal.

“Were you able to identify the body by fingerprints at least?”

At the question, Mingi’s eyes instantly brightened up. “We were!”

Placing the note and doll back into their respective sealed bags, Mingi walked over to a drawer and pulled out a file. He handed it over and Hongjoong skimmed through it. Quickly in a notepad, he scribbled down a summary.

Pat Miller. Resident of Nocturne since birth. No family. Unemployed for 40 years.

“Thank you, Mingi.”

“Good luck!”

It was a good start. Hongjoong now had a picture of the victim he could use to ask people if they’ve seen the victim around before death.

Now for the next stop.

“Well?” Hongjoong asked, standing behind San as he examined the bugs under a microscope.

“Good news,” San replied. He turned his head to Hongjoong. “The flies are regional to this area. So, no need to worry about the crime scene being somewhere else entirely. The stage of the maggot’s are consistent with autopsy. Dead for three days.”

Even more better. Combined with the victim’s information, it effectively had cut down the investigation parameters to Nocturne only.

Speaking of autopsies. “Is Wooyoung here?” Hongjoong asked.

“Yup! Checked up on him a bit earlier. I think he might actually be done with the autopsy by now.”

Nodding, Hongjoong rushed out the door to the next room. It took only a few minutes of jogging to get there. As he opened the door, he let out a sigh of relief that Wooyoung was still here.

Not that he had anything against the others, but he trusted Wooyoung’s judgement the most. Approaching closer, Hongjoong noticed something was a little off.

Wooyoung was just staring. Staring off into space with a forlorn expression that Hongjoong had never seen on Wooyoung’s face before. Clearing his throat, Hongjoong tapped on Wooyoung’s shoulder. Wooyoung jumped a little, whirling around to meet Hongjoong.

“Hey, there. Did you find anything new?”

“Oh, 0.20 percent of alcohol was found in his bloodstream.“

“That much? He must have been drunk as shit.”

“Well you have to keep in mind, it could be a false positive. Scores are only really valid within 48 hours. And, we were one day late when the body was found.”

True. However, it was still a lead. Already the cogs in Hongjoong’s head was turning. The victim with his background info most likely was a stereotypical drunkard that drank alcohol to forget the pain. This made them a much easier target to kill.

Whether the killer dragged him off or convinced him to come with them, there could be potential witnesses that saw the victim before his death. And if Hongjoong was lucky, the witnesses saw the killer with the victim. He could start with the bars or any store that sold alcohol (which luckily, there weren’t too many of either options).

“Thank you, Wooyoung. This is really helpful. Was there anything else on the body?”

Wooyoung shook his head. “Not even hair fibers.”

Not that anyone would know, he thought to himself. Everyone trusted him. They’d never stop to think that he cleaned up the evidence while examining the body.

Hongjoong groaned. Of course. What a pain. Why couldn’t this killer make it easier for him and be an idiot like all the others?

Looking back at Wooyoung, Hongjoong noticed the same forlorn expression he had seen a few minutes ago.

Okay, something was up.

“Wooyoung, are you hiding something?”

At the question, Wooyoung stiffened. There was no way Hongjoong could be suspecting him now, could he?

“Seriously, you look like crap. Did something bad happen?”

“Oh...” All the tension that had suddenly built up in Wooyoung relaxed. “I just randomly remembered some really bad memories. That’s all.”

Hongjoong nodded sympathetically. “Well if you want to forget the bad times, drinks are on me—“

He caught himself upon immediately noticing Wooyoung’s revolted look at the suggestion.

Ah right.

“Sorry. Forgot you weren’t that fond of alcohol.” Hongjoong scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “I’ll just treat you to some nice dinner or something.”

Hongjoong went back to his notepad and scribbled down the newly found information. He sighed, seeing the little amount of notes he’d written.

This seriously was going to be a pain to solve.

Wooyoung patted him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll catch them like you always do.”

“Thanks for the reassurance.”

As soon as Hongjoong left, Wooyoung let out a sigh of relief. Honestly, why did he even worry? Hongjoong trusted him too much. He would never suspect him.

After changing out of his work uniform, he walked out of the building and put his hood over his head. He put in some earphones and began to wonder around town. He needed something to distract himself. Something to keep his mind off.

But it was useless, his mind would only keep on going back to you. Especially after what happened the other day with you.

Why did you suddenly just remind him of the past?

Before, he was sure that he buried his past into the back of his mind. It had been years since the past haunted him.

So, why now?

“Excuse me.”

He suddenly felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned around. His eyes widened at the sight and his heart almost stopped.

Red lipstick. Red nails.

It brought back horrible memories. Terrible memories of that locked room. The locked room where he was forced to...

He stopped his train of thoughts. No, he rationalized. That person was gone from his life. He blinked and the memories flashing in his mind disappeared, replaced by a petite woman scantily clad with prominent red lips and nails in his line of sight.

He sighed in relief. He was right after all. It wasn’t the same person. Just someone that happened to have similar features.

“Hello there, sir,” she purred and batted her eyelashes. She leaned into him and trailed a finger up his arm. “Would a handsome man like you… want to spend the night with me?” She whispered in his ear, “I’ll make you feel good.”

Wooyoung flinched at her touch and shivered. She was too close. This random stranger wasn’t the same person, but she did awfully remind him a lot of that horrid woman.

“Ahem, sir?” She was still patiently waiting.

Annoyed and realizing that she wasn’t taking no for an answer, he swallowed a breath. He strained, plastering on the sweetest smile he could muster.

“Why not? You look absolutely beautiful,” he lied through his teeth.

He had to get rid of her. He had to get rid of the disgusting sensation that was crawling throughout his body.

She giggled and held on to his arm. The entire way as they walked to his house, he was stiff as she clung to his arm. As soon as they reached his house and entered, his hands lunged for her neck and tightly grasped around it.

Wooyoung’s eyes burned with emptiness and anger as she uselessly struggled, screaming silently and gasping for breath. Her face began to turn into a sickening color as her eyes bulged out. After a few minutes, her hands fell to her side. Satisfaction ran through his body as the life left it’s eyes. He let go and the body fell with a thump.

Once the euphoric rush had ended, Wooyoung sighed and ran his hand through his hair. This put a damper on his plans. He wanted to plan out the victim and still needed more research to execute the plan. But no matter. The show must go on. This could be a trial run, and if it failed, he’d just dispose of the body and do the plan perfectly next time.

Wooyoung moved the carpet over and lifted the floorboard. The empty basement would be cold and dry enough for the body to not decompose fast. He kicked the body down the steps and closed up the basement.

He wrapped his arms around his self, feeling the touch burning into his skin. It reminded him of...

No, he didn’t want to remember at all. He had to get rid of this feeling somehow. He tried washing himself with a shower, but the sickening sensation still lingered. The sensation crawled under his skin, clawing at him.

No matter what he did, he couldn’t get rid of it. Suddenly, his thoughts went back to you.

Maybe he’d feel better if he saw you again?

He threw on some clothes, bolted out of his house and jumped into his car. The drive was only a few minutes. As he went up to your door, he paused. His finger pressed the bell and that opened almost instantly.

“Wooyoung!?” Your eyes widened and you almost jumped back in surprise. It had been a few days since he abruptly left. You honestly were about to give up hope, thinking you had randomly screw everything up.

But, he was here again.

You recollected yourself and cleared your throat. “Good morning. Um, what brings you here?”

“Well... I was wondering if we could just hang out.”

“Oh!” Your eyes immediately brightened. “Sure! That is, if you don’t mind helping me babysit?”

“Babysit?”

You nodded. “A friend of mine had something come up, so I’m looking after her kid for today. I was just about to take him to the park and then you showed up.” You turned your head back and called out, “Soohyun! Are you done?”

Soohyun?

Wooyoung almost flinched hearing the name. It had been years since he heard that name. As he heard little, light steps run to the door, he peered over your shoulder and his eyes widened once they laid on the child.

He almost gasped.

Why did this keep on happening? Memories once again appeared in Wooyoung’s head. In your place and Soohyun’s place, he saw two familiar faces that merged with yours and Soohyun’s.

No. He took a deep breath to ground himself in reality once again. Those two people were gone forever. He blinked several times and the image disappeared.

“Soohyun,” You gentle pulled the shy child away from your legs and put him in front of Wooyoung. “This is Wooyoung. Say hi.”

He looked up at Wooyoung before looking down at his feet again. “H-hi.”

At the sight, Wooyoung’s heart softened and he bent down to Soohyun’s level. Curiously, Soohyun’s wide, innocent eyes peered up at Wooyoung again.

Wooyoung smiled and held out his hand in front of Soohyun. “Hello. I’m Woohyun. It’s nice to meet you.”

It looked as if Soohyun’s shyness had broken down a little and he smiled back up at Wooyoung. He held out his small hand and shook Wooyoung’s hand.

Internally squealing at the sight, you composed yourself and looked at the two with a smile.

“Let’s head to the park, shall we?”

When you reached the park, it was filled with the unexpectedly loud screeches of Soohyun and Wooyoung running around as you watched. Honestly, it felt like you were one that had randomly been tagged in to help babysit and not Wooyoung.

Not that you minded though. It was adorable seeing the two of them get along so well.

“Arrghhh! The tickle monster’s coming to get you!” Wooyoung was creeping around in a crouched position with his hands out like claws. “Where are you?”

Hiding behind a tree, Soohyun giggled. Wooyoung smirked hearing the sound and quietly crept up behind the tree. Then...

“Gotcha!”

Soohyun screamed and tried to run. But he was easily scooped up into Wooyoung’s arm and he was subjected to a vicious amount of tickling. Giggles and screams filled the air.

You smiled, chuckling to yourself as you held out your phone to film the moment. It would be a cute moment you saved to watch later whenever you felt stressed. A familiar sound suddenly rang nearby. You turned your head towards the noise.

It was an ice cream truck!

Soohyun whirled around and excitedly screamed, “Ice cream!”

Somehow managing to slip himself from Wooyoung’s grasp, he ran up to you and tugged at your sleeve. He jumped up and down energetically in place.

“Can we get ice cream? Pretty please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

You nodded eagerly. You were about to pull out your wallet from your purse before Wooyoung’s hand laid on yours. You turned to him with a questioning gaze.

“I can buy ice cream for us.”

“What? No, I’m paying.” You protested. “You paid for our date last time, it’s my turn!”

“A proper gentleman always pays—“ But just as Wooyoung reached into his pocket, he felt nothing.

Right. He didn’t have his wallet with him since he rushed to your apartment.

Realizing what Wooyoung’s surprised face meant when he was feeling his pockets, you smirked.

“You dumb dumb.” You playfully stuck your tongue out at Wooyoung. With a smug, triumphant look, you took out your wallet and smiled at Soohyun.

“What do you want Soohyun?”

“Chocolate!” He beamed back with a wide smile.

After paying and finishing up your ice creams, you and Wooyoung sat watching Soohyun as he finished up his ice cream.

“Hey, Soohyun?” Wooyoung asked.

“Hm?” Soohyun looked up at Wooyoung with his big, innocent eyes.

“Who do you like better? Me or ____?”

You looked at Wooyoung confusingly. Where did this come from all the sudden?

Soohyun hesitated for a moment as he looked between you two. With his free hand, he pointed at you.

“What!?“

You bursted out laughing almost maniacally as Wooyoung looked at Soohyun with the most betrayed face you had ever seen in your entire life.

“I played with you all day!”

“But...” Soohyun looked up at Wooyoung innocently before going back to eat his ice cream. “____ gave me ice cream.”

At the answer, Wooyoung slouched down his seat in utter betrayal and defeat. He turned his head to the side with a pout. You leaned your head on Wooyoung’s shoulder and looked up at him.

“Aww, are you salty?” You snickered to yourself and sang under your breath, “Sore loser.”

“I heard that.”

“What are ya gonna do Wooyoung? Tickle me to death?”

Wooyoung’s eyes looked down at you and they began began to sparkle with a mischievous glint that made you gulp. You slowly scooted away, chuckling nervously as you waved your hands in front of you.

“Come on. I was just jo—“ You squeaked, laughing as you were suddenly attacked by a barrage of tickles. “Wooyoung! Stop-“ You tried to stop him through your fits of giggles, but it wasn’t working at all.

“What are the magic words?”

“I’m—“ You wheezed, gasping out for breath as he continued his tickle attack. “I’m sorry!”

He finally stopped, laughing at your pouting self before pressing a quick kiss on your cheek.

“Eww.”

The both of you turned your heads to Soohyun, who was looking at you two with a scrunched up face filled with disgust. With a giggle at the sight, you stroked Soohyun’s head.

“Sorry. We won’t do it in front of you again.“

After a few more hours, it was unfortunately time for Soohyun to go home. After you all went back to your apartment, there your friend was waiting patiently in front of your door.

“Mommy!” Soohyun ran at his mom with open, wide arms and hugged her legs.

“Ah hello there, my sweetie!” She looked up and finally took notice of Wooyoung, who had been trailing behind you. She turned to you with her eyebrow raised up. “Who’s this?”

“Ah, this is Wooyoung. My... um... b-boyfriend?” You blushed as you spluttered out the last word.

Her eyes lit up and she squealed. “Oh my god! I thought you’d be alone forever!”

“Excuse me!?” You looked at her, almost insulted at the statement.

“Well, you know. You’re always cooped up in your room. I was worried you’d die alone writing in your dark, messy room forever.”

“I-I didn’t ask to be attacked like this,” You grumbled.

She giggled and turned to Wooyoung. She held her hand out.

“Well, thank you for looking after Soohyun. And thank you for keeping my friend from forever being alone.”

“HEY!”

“It’s no problem.” Wooyoung shook her hand. “It was nice meeting you.”

Your friend nodded and turned to Soohyun. Soohyun automatically held on to her sleeve.

“Let’s go.”

Before the two disappeared out of you and Wooyoung’s line of sight, Soohyun turned around with a big smile and waved his hand.

“Bye, Woo!”

A nostalgic wave washed over Wooyoung at the nickname. He waved back with a bittersweet smile until the pair disappeared.

“Wooyoung?”

He turned back to meet your concerned gaze.

“Is something wrong? You looked kinda sad.”

“Oh, sorry.” Wooyoung placed in his hands in his pockets. “I had a little brother named Soohyun too. And this Soohyun reminded me a lot of him...”

“I wanted to say sorry. I probably shouldn’t have pried on personal info.”

“No, it’s alright.” Wooyoung shook his head and patted the top of your head. “You didn’t know. So, don’t blame yourself.”

Relief ran through you and you smiled. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you sometime again—“

“Actually, I was wondering if I could stay over for the night?”

At the question, your brain practically short circuited and fried as you sat there with an increasingly growing red face.

“Is- Is there a reason why?”

“Well, I remembered something bad earlier.” Wooyoung shifted back and forth. “And, I still feel kinda bad. But, whenever I’m around you, I feel better. So yeah... just wondering. You can say no.”

The sudden sorrow look that Wooyoung had a few minutes ago flashed in your head. You couldn’t really say no.

It wouldn’t hurt, right?

“Uh, well y-yeah sure!” You stammered. “I could sleep on the couch. I mean, sure my back’s going to hurt later, but you’re the guest and—“

“Or, we can just share the bed.”

At the suggestion, your face had somehow grown a darker shade of red than possible.

“O-Oh... Okay then,” You weakly squeaked out. “I guess we can share.”

Wooyoung smirked. “I’m not going to bite, you know. I mean, unless you want me to.”

You turned around to hide your burning face and unlocked the door. “Shut up. Shut up, before I change my mind.”

Thankfully, he stopped and the both of you stepped in.

“Sorry, I don’t really any clothes for you to sleep in.”

Wooyoung shook his head. “It’s fine.”

After changing into your pajamas in the bathroom, you slowly emerged from the door. Too shy to look at Wooyoung, you got into bed and turned to your side away from him. You felt the bed mattress shift and you stiffened, feeling on arm wrapped on your waist. Your heart was beating so loudly in your ears, you swore Wooyoung could definitely hear it.

“Is this okay?”

You gulped nervously and nodded. “I like it a lot,” you admitted quietly.

With a small hum, Wooyoung buried his head into the crook of your neck. It was nice being this close to you. An unknown feeling stirred in Wooyoung’s heart as he held you. You were so warm and comforting. His eyes eventually shut and he fell asleep.

But unexpectedly, he fell into a dream.

Or rather, a nightmare.

A nightmare he never wanted to remember. A nightmare he thought he had buried into the back of his mind.

[nomad-draws]

Short Story #1

Short Story written for the Communal OC Project. 

.

Word Count: 1658 CW: Blood, Murder

.

.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Blood dripped from the palm of Kane’s hand, down the curve of his pinky, then finally onto the metal table he rested his elbow on. The blood pooled the grooves, spreading out in an irregular pattern. 

He breathed out slowly, his breaths forming a cloud in the cool air of the courtyard.

“What have you done to yourself this time?” A voice sighed as the spot beside him was taken up. 

Kane smiled, knowing who it was before he ever looked up, “I didn’t do anything intentionally. I was trying to open a package and the knife slipped. I was merely taking the opportunity to observe the blood drop patterning on an irregular surface for my thesis.”

Calista sighed again, taking his hand and pulling it closer to her as she leaned forward to look over it. 

Kane’s breath caught in his throat, his attention equally torn between the blood now pooling in the palm of his hand and the feeling of the wind blowing her blonde hair against his wrist. The smell of her perfume pulled his attention more towards the later. 

“Did you hear?” She looked up at him as she pressed a wad of tissues carefully against the cut. 

“Did I hear what?” He almost didn’t respond, caught in the dark pools of her eyes. They were in such stark contrast of everything else she was. Fair hair, pale skin--even her clothes were shades of pastels and soft delicate neutrals. But her eyes… He was sure no light would ever escape them. 

“A freshman has been murdered.” 

He was sucked out of the capturing effect of her eyes, blinking, “What?”

“I thought you might have heard about it since you’re studying forensics,” She frowned, “The news hasn’t spread yet?”

“No, but I haven’t been down in the lab yet today…” Kane said slowly, “What have you heard?”

“Not much. I was entering my Psych class today and found the professor crying. Apparently she was close with the student,” Calista tilted her head to the side, “They say she was murdered.”

“How can they tell?”

“Stab wounds are usually pretty indicative of that.”

“Ah…” He paused for a moment, then finally pulled his hand back from her, “I’ll let you know if I hear anything, but I doubt they let much information get out. Most murders are committed by someone close to the victim. My guess lies on a boyfriend or an ex.”

“You’re probably right,” She said softly, looking around the courtyard as she pulled her hands into the arms of her sweater for a moment before she got up, gathering her bag before she bent back down, lips just barely brushing against Kane’s cheek. 

“Be careful.”

~*~*~*~

Three more weeks.

Three more victims.

Three more murders.

None of it seemed to make any sense. All three victims were stabbed, all the markers of a crime of passion there and yet all three murders were identical down to the number and location of the stab wound.

“It’s a serial killer, isn’t it?” Calista asked, her arms looped over Kane’s shoulders from behind as she watched him scribble away in his notebook. No one on campus was as absorbed with the murders as Kane. They consumed every waking moment to the point he was beginning to miss classes as he theorized and re-examined any evidence that had been released to the general public. 

“It’s brilliant,” He breathed out in amazement, “Too brilliant. They’ve left no evidence except the bodies, trying to frame them as crimes of passion but they’re so methodical.” He ran his fingers over a grainy photograph taken by the student who discovered the last body--A senior man named Charles. Not that it mattered.

There didn’t seem to be any connection between the students. Not age, gender, sexuality, majors… nothing. 

“You need to let this all go,” Calista nuzzled her nose into the side of his neck, breathing out softly. 

A shudder ran up Kane’s spine and he tucked the photo away into his notebook as he closed his eyes for a brief moment. Closer. He and Calista had gotten so much closer the past three weeks. 

He opened his eyes again and turned in his chair so he was facing her, taking both of her hands in his. Her skin--so porcelain white. He could see the veins in her wrist so clearly he was almost positive he could see the blood coursing through them. 

“They’ve asked the forensics department to help in any way we can,” He ran his thumbs over her wrist slowly. 

“Seriously? They’re having you guys help solve the murders of your own classmates? That seems a little morbid, don’t you think?” Calista rolled her eyes as she crouched down in front of him, looking up into his eyes--the opposite of hers, so light.

He laughed lightly, “No, what would be morbid is if they offered us extra credit for solving the murders.”

“Personally, I think that’s the least they could do since they’re taking so much time away from your studies,” Calista scoffed.

“They’ve reduced our workloads considerably overall. Surely you’ve noticed that?”

“You think psychology students get cut workloads? You’re funny,” She leaned up and kissed his forehead, banishing all thoughts of murder for the briefest of moments. “Just… be careful, okay?”

~*~*~*~

He was looking too deep into things. 

He was so consumed with these murders. 

He was a suspect now. 

Still, he sat back in his chair, elbows propped on the arms and hands crossed in front of his mouth as he stared at the wall in front of him. So many photographs, newspaper clipped, crime scene statistics, student statements… six murders. Six murders in six weeks. 

His professor, who had once called him a prodigy who saw murders the way Michaelangelo saw the blank canvas of the Sistine chapel, now eyed him leerily in the hallways of the college. 

Why couldn’t anyone understand that these murders were important? That if he devoted himself any less than the killer had to committing these murders, it was all pointless? Blood was dried under his nails from where he had pressed them too hard into the tops of his hands in concentration as he spent hours upon days staring at the evidence. 

“Are you still at it?” Calista’s tired voice finally pulled his attention away from the wall as he turned his chair towards the door. She was a vision in white, her sweater tucked into a pleated skirt and her hair braided in a flowing rope over her shoulder. 

“They think I did it,” He said with a smile that Calista didn’t return. “I have to prove them wrong, don’t I?”

She stepped over to him slowly, slowly sinking down onto his lap, facing him. His arms slipped around her back naturally to hold her in place as she took his face in her hands, “You’ll never let it go, will you?” Her voice was quiet.

But she didn’t wait for his response, pressing her lips to his. Every nerve ending in his body was set on fire despite the coolness of her lips, of her skin, and he leaned forward into her, his hands pressing more firmly into her back before one went up to tangle into the top of her braid. 

After a breathless moment, she pulled away from him, still pressing her forehead against her. Their breaths were nearly shared, her breathing out as he breathed in.

“I can’t let it go,” He breathed out as she breathed in. 

The dorm room was quiet for a moment, electrically charged between the two of them before she finally looked away, taking one of his hands as she slid off his lap, “Let’s take a walk.”

~*~*~*~

Down the stairs.

Down the street.

Down an alleyway. 

“Where are we going?” Kane finally spoke, his bare hand cold in her gloved one. Winter was rapidly approaching, but it had yet to snow. The bitter cold still drove most students to stay inside the dorms if they could.

His assumption had been that they would take a walk around the courtyard, perhaps even venture out to the garden which had long been deceased, ruthlessly killed by an early frost. The morbidity of nature fascinated Calista as much as it did him, though she was less apt to admit to it. 

She stopped, letting go of his hand as she motioned towards the dead end wall of the alley, “Go and see.” 

Curious, he began to take several steps forward when a sharp pain exploded in his lower back and he found himself falling to his knees, slowly guided there by a presence behind him. A blade was being pulled out of his back, only to be stabbed into him again, this time higher in his rib cage. 

He drew in a choked breath, trying to form words but unable to. 

Kane was in a world of pain and drowning breaths, he didn’t even realize he’d been moved until he found himself looking up into the face of Calista as she cradled him with one arm, a bloodied knife in her other hand. Her clothes--so white--already had the tell-tale blood splatter signs.

“I’m so sorry,” She whispered, “I… tried to get you to let it go.” She brought the knife down again into his stomach but he didn’t cry out this time. His gaze was fixed in rapture on her face. Her eyes were so dark, like pools of ink. 

Another stab.

The streetlight behind her created a halo with her blonde hair. She was an angel in every sense of the word. An angel of death. And his time had come. 

He didn’t feel the next several stabs, his eyes empty of life even as his blood continued to stain Calista’s clothes and tears streamed down her cheeks.

He didn’t see her sit there for an hour, still cradling his lifeless body.

“I told you to be careful.”

[secretshinigami]

Masterlist of Demegawa-chan’s Special Prompts

A compiled list of everyone’s prompts from the exchange – thank you for letting us post them, and we hope you guys enjoy them! Prompts are organized by their submitter, so be sure to give credit if you use one.

niatsuki

Near and Light kissing

Mikami and Light in the rain sharing an umbrella

Misa in a suit

Domestic Mikalight

Matsuda confronting Near on the theory he brings up at the end of the manga

Nate and Light having an obtuse argument, but with romantic undertones

toygowther

Light wearing a crop top, high waisted jeans and fishnets, and a choker. 

L having a nice day out in the park eating ice cream with Maki and Near 

Musical!Light smiling

Misa in a cute gothic dress doing a finger heart

L and Light wearing Misa Misa merch at one of her concerts.

AU in which Light is actually a woman. The fic would follow how Misa reacts to it and if she would still want to be her girlfriend.

Role swap au. Light as Misa and Misa as Light.

Light and Misa meeting a different way and actually forming a healthy relationship. 

spaceblue

L, Naomi & B shenanigans

Naomi, Wedy and Lidner as Charlie's angels (or L's angels?)

Wammy kids as Pokemon trainers

Matt gets the rest of the Wammy kids to play Smash with him

Naomi and L after the end of LABB, after he says his name is Rue Ryuzaki 

Drama!L and drama!Raye Penber bickering 

hazblogs

your take on A's gender and sexuality, bonus points if they're not a cis man and straight

Mello and sun imagery

Beyond Birthday and his eyes

Near with Hanahaki disease (pick who it's about if you want a specific ship)

Mello and witchcraft, if possible in the canon universe

Naomi interacting with Beyond (au or canon), if possible talking about L or the Wammy kids

L/Light being soulmates, in canon or in an AU

how Matt started smoking (I am comfortable with heavy drug themes)

polyphenols

L learning to garden, paint, cook, do taxes, care for an animal, or pay for a parking ticket for the first time

All the times L has cursed Right In Front Of The Task Force (poor Soichiro)

L alone, dressed for the cold, in a cathedral during midnight hours, gazing at the altar in silent contemplation

Aiber and Wedy at an evening gala on a mission

L and Alessandro Juliani warmly shaking hands

Young Naomi in a darkened room with red string and case clippings everywhere

What chain of events led to Quillsh Wammy deciding to adopt L and care for him?

Matsuda cant swim and he’s knocked into a body of water on a case, one of the task force has to go after him

The conversation that happened between L and Rem before he walked out onto that rooftop

L traveling somewhere exotic for a case, meets celebrity of your choice and becomes unlikely friends, takes down crime circle together 

Naomi and L interact side by side as partners during a seperate case  

paralllaxes

16 year old Gevanni (normal day or family banter)

Naomi in modern clothing

the SPK in one of those cheesy family pictures.

Naomi thinking about LABB while in Japan

SPK found family stuff / domesticity

Naomi being with the SPK (with or without Raye is the author's choice)

kiranatrix

Light and L in emo/goth clothes or in an emo band

Light in a crown on a throne

Ryuk doing something funny or playing a prank while invisible

L and Light on a road trip

Misa painting Rem’s looooong nails or giving her a makeover

Death Note characters as birds! 

Sayu gets a grumpy parrot and Light doesn’t realize it can talk until after he hears it repeat some Kira plan thing, so he has to adopt it to keep it from spilling on him

L and Light talk about something important that happened to them in their childhood

L has to deal with growing amount of Light’s products in their shared shower and tries some out of curiosity with disasterous results

Light accidentally eats the last piece of cake in Kira HQ and L can’t deal at 4am

Lawlight Apocalypse AU of any variety 

Beyond breaks out of prison after LABB, where does he go?

47gaslamps

The task force with portentous umbrellas

Halle, symbolically framed between Near and Mello

Naomi kicking Light's butt after he attempts to use force

Matsuda gives Yamamoto a welcome-aboard to the former Task Force / 

AU where the drawer IS forced open

Misa has to shield Light from the paparazzi

translightyagami

Light and L in a crowded apartment, obviously lived in, playing piano next to each other

Light sewing something like his father's suit jacket or a shirt Mikami tore

Indulgent ask for my cryptid AU L and Light sitting in a graveyard having a nice time

Light having a smoke before he has to go tell his parents he's moving in with Misa

Light and Sayu having a difficult conversation where they're both saying they're gay without out loud saying it

Near goes to a Lego building event and meets a nice boy who isn't a Wammy kid

almostsane-things

Wammy's kid(s) of your choice sitting on the roof, watching the sky

Beyond Birthday and Candy Guro

DN characters in a rock band, maybe the shinigami are their mascots

Draw a less appreciated character but try something new with your style/medium. (i.e. use different brushes, incorporate a traditional art/craft like painting or cross-stitch, make a collage piece, go abstract, etc)

L in prison

Misa and Sayu becoming friends/ hanging out

The legend of Kira, how has the story of Kira changed over time in universe? Do people believe it was something supernatural, a government conspiracy, a group of vigilantes, or perhaps it's faded to nothing but a cautionary tale for misbehaving kids

A DN character enjoys that thing you really like/ find interesting to learn about, and shares that interest with someone else. (i.e. Matt plays your favorite video game with someone, Linda teaches someone about gardening, etc)

weneedtotalkaboutdeathnote

A hot double date with BBxDemegawa and LxHiguchi

B meeting L (any context is fine).

Naomi and Raye getting coffee together, having a nice time.

L can see ghosts, but he chooses to ignore them. This becomes increasingly had to do when B’s spirit shows up during the Kira investigation.

An Au where L defeated Kira, grew older, and basically disappeared. Older Mello (mid 20sish, now a detective) follows a lead that takes him to the washed up L. 

Non serial killer, "Unprivate Detective" Beyond Birthday works on a case with Naomi Misora.

pensulliwen

Misa making Valentine’s Day chocolate, perhaps while daydreaming about a fantastically unlikely result of giving them to Light.

Rem holding Misa as they fly over the city.

Meme redraws featuring Misa, Light, and L. Just go crazy. Any ridiculous meme image, shove these dorks in there instead.

Misa convincing Rem to take her flying, the feelings they both experience in the air together.

Misa and Mogi on a shopping “date” in which the unlikely pair manage to work together surprisingly well.

Light considers eliminating Misa from the equation many times, but there’s always something that stops him. Explore how he views her and the dissonance between how he views her versus how he views himself, as well as the reasoning for keeping her around longer than intended. 

izaori

Demegawa in a hot tub but instead of water its money

Mello playing soccer with the other kids (like Matt for example). 

Matsuda playing cookie clicker, because he's obsessed.

Young Demegawa when he first got his job, maybe a few months into the job.

Sayu studying for her big exam coming up so she goes to big bro Light for help.

Ryuk discovers sour green apples rather than just the red ones. Maybe Sidoh discovers dark chocolate/white chocolate at the same time.

mikami

High school age Mikami in a high school uniform.

MikaLight out on a date

anything L/Higuchi

A Sakura TV Documentary about the Kiras. 

MikaLight office romance, non-Kira AU.

Write me a fic about Demegawa. Can definitely be comedy, but please take the character somewhat seriously.

ghostoftasslehoff

L and Light playing piano together.

L with a kitty

Sayu and ‘Ryuzaki’ meeting, and hitting it off 

Matsuda recieving a present or something from a ‘secret admirer’

A day in the life of Matsuda (away from the task force)

L and B’s first meeting (can be shippy or not, whichever my Shinigami prefers)

L tries to engage in punnery with the task force, but only one person engages (preference for Light, but surprise me!)

Sayu’s (or Sachiko’s) thoughts on Light’s new secretive actions as Kira becomes more and more active 

tzigi

(All canon-compliant)

L gets first suspicions about a string of heart attacks which may be a new murder case for him

Light’s first day at To-Oh after L’s death

Light’s first day of work at the NPA 

Near tries to pick up L’s investigation

Why did Near go back to L’s original font for the “L” logo between chapter 108 and the C-Kira oneshot? 

A non-Lawlight rendering of the first evening of Light being chained to L after everyone else has already gone to sleep (preferably in keeping with the One Day one-shot) 

Light begging Ryuk for his life

Light’s funeral

catfishmaster

The main characters (plus B) as DND characters

Older Near (like 25-30) with a bunch of cats he keeps for company

Roger bonding with Near after the Kira case.

Beyond Birthday faked his death in 2004 and now lives alone as a poor and pretty miserable theatre actor with a fake name. Oh, and also it's a Kira wins au.

Years after the Kira case has concluded, L takes on Near as an apprentice.

Matt takes Near on a tour of an afterlife-like world they both wound up in. It's more like a dreamscape than anything else but it serves as an afterlife.  

[seperis]

The Once and Future King

For Down to Agincourt fans, an early Christmas present.

Notes: consider this something like an apology.  To be fair, I didn’t see my mental health deciding to rapidly degrade over the summer and become a thing, but seriously, two chapters to edit, it’s gotta be frustrating, and I am so sorry for that.

So.  I offer repentance in fictional form.  Consider this a prequel to In the Hall of the Mountain King.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12931455

*****

The Pit argues every fucking hour of what passes for a day here and he's getting pretty goddamn tired of it.  Especially since it shouldn't be able to argue.

"Not yet," he grates out, ignoring the seared landscape and occasional corrupted soul at the very edge of the Pit's domain, borderlands made of the tortured dead too crazy even for Hell, and he's one of them.  He's been running forever, barely ahead of the shits sent to make him kneel for the fucker they call master.  Not happening: in a straight fight, he knows right now he could win, but not yet.

He just wishes he could remember why. Why he's running, why he's waiting, why he can't take it all.  Not yet. There's something else he's got to do first, and it would sure fucking help if he could remember what.

The Pit hides him.  At least, he thinks it does, grinding its displeasure like the sound of gravel in a blender, but it's doing something, that much is clear.  Not that he's risked it anywhere near the rack or where the fucker sits in state since he got away.  The Pit's resentment of the fucker's becoming a problem, or would be if he noticed: not too bright.  He could--not yet.

It's also not entirely happy about where he's going, but it's not fighting him, either, and that's enough.  Enough to keep control of himself: he's got plans, and he can't afford to indulge the rage and betrayal yet for making him wait, but--but that's for after.  After, he's gonna teach his recalcitrant buddy a lesson in loyalty, and he'll start by chopping it up and let it spend the next millennia with its pieces buried all over the goddamn Pit in solid--

Not yet

--stop.  Plan. First, get it, fix it (at least enough to do its goddamn job), and go from there.  The rest--it'll wait. He's patient.  Fuck knows he's learned that much.

Coming around the curve of a shaved cliff he doesn't recognize, he stops short, fighting down the desire to rip apart the figure slumped against bare, rust-red rock, stone of the same color spread out beneath him.  There's a long moment where he's not sure it noticed him yet, but the dark head turns, exhausted, red-rimmed blue eyes meeting his.  There's a dangerous moment where he thinks it just might run--and no way can he control himself if it does that, fuck--before it slumps back against the cliff.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says pleasantly; this is gonna be done with a pair of pliers, shredding, barely enough to even bury, he can already feel them in his hand and hear it screaming.  "Got lost?"

"Alistair," it says, and the Pit surges forward eagerly--no, not yet--though he can't remember why he's waiting, he knows he has to.  It stares at him for a long time before it frowns, blue eyes widening. "Dean?"

He staggers, grabbing for the cliff: Dean.  That'd be it. That's what he was waiting for.

Swallowing in a dry mouth, he feel the thrum spread through him and hopes the Pit's hiding him because no way would even that fucker could miss this.  Breathing through the shock, he pulls himself together again piece by piece before he loses it again, what they took: Dean.

"It worked," he breathes.  Dean: that's his name, and that's everything.

"Dean?" it--no, he says again, and Dean takes a deep breath and smiles at him, ignoring the flinch; it's fine, whatever, everything's back on track.

"Yeah," he agrees, looking Cas over: filthy and exhausted and hurt, his first impulse now is to track down everything that fucking touched him and introduce them to the once and future Master of the Pit.  It's gonna happen, soon; he'll let Cas watch.

Crossing over to him, Dean drops in a crouch, relieved that Cas doesn't flinch again when he reaches out to tilt his head up, fighting back rage: soon, he tells himself and feels the Pit hum in anticipation. On a guess, whoever's been after him is in a lot worse shape; he'll have to ask about that.

"What have you been doing to yourself?" he asks, turning Cas's head carefully, reading his condition by touch and liking nothing he's picking up.  Running on empty and even that's almost out: nowhere in Hell to hide and no one to protect him, with a price on his head the highest ever offered.  He remembers laughing on the rack when he heard about it, choking on his own shredded lungs and unable to stop: best joke he ever heard, catch Cas?  Tell the mountain to bow, shithead: tell the moon to fall and the sun to rise and end the universe with a big bang all your own, your chances are better doing all three.  The only time anyone catches Cas is when he wants to be caught.

"Dean?" Cas breathes in disbelief, then shakes his head, belatedly trying to pull away.  Dean tightens his grip but doesn't make the mistake of turning this into a competition. Cas may escape with a broken jaw, but he will escape, and he can't risk that, not now that he's here. "No. You're not--"

"I am," he says, testing it; pretty much, give or take, but that shit he didn't need anyway, not here.  "It worked, Cas.  I told you it would."

Cas shuts his eyes.  "I'm sorry--"

"I'm not."  Though he wouldn't say it was fun; he got someone who couldn't break a goddamn serial killer and it got assigned him?  Bullshit: they're gonna learn about standards and soon. He'll get Cas to teach 'em.  "Cas, look at me."

"Stop it!"

"You're being stupid," Dean says fondly; Cas doesn't get it, that's fine, he'll learn, they got time now.  All of it, come to think.  "Can't run forever, you know that. You came here, didn't you?"

He really wishes Cas would look at him.  "I didn't know where I was going."

"Funny," Dean says, mouth quirking.  "All of Hell, and you come to the one place in the Pit I'm hiding after I get off the rack."  Cas's mouth tightens, and letting him go, Dean shifts to sit beside him. "It's hiding me, anyway. What a coincidence, huh?"

Drawing up his legs, Cas drops his head onto his knees, and Dean waits, easy; he planned for this, after all.  Moving slowly--he doesn't pretend Cas can't do some serious damage to him even now--he reaches to tug up Cas's sleeve, hissing at the open sores, rings of bruises, scrapes marring all that skin; he's taking payment for all of it in full, soon.  Cas doesn't lift his head but doesn't fight him either, shivering when Dean traces the binding cut that survived even death; his own shivers in sympathy, relieved not to be stretched so far anymore.  That means something, and Cas knows it as well as he does.  

"I'm tired." Dean holds himself perfectly still.  "I felt you break.  I wasn't--I couldn't get to you in time.  Again."

Which might explain the incompetence of his particular torturer; everyone else was guarding the Pit and never coming back. Not an excuse, but he gives them credit for knowing how dangerous Cas was, at least.  "How many did you take out?"

The blue eyes flicker up, and Dean catches the cold blue rage, unhealed, unhealing: he likes it.  Can use it, too.  "Not enough."

"It's okay--"

"How?" Cas looks at him, eyes wet, tears drawing pale lines down filthy his cheeks, and Dean reaches out without thinking, wiping them away with his thumb.  "I don't understand, how can you be so much like Dean---"

"I am Dean," he interrupts; okay, he got this. "How long has it been?"

"One hundred and eight years, three months, one week, five days, sixteen hours, twenty-seven minutes, eighteen seconds." Cas's voice breaks.  "Five years, one month, six days, twenty-eight hours, two minutes and forty-one seconds since you broke."

Felt like longer, but when you have to do half the work for your goddamn torturer, time gets weird.  "It was supposed to be this way," he says, hushing Cas when he starts to protest. "It had to be, Cas."

"It's over," Cas says. "We failed."

Distantly, Dean feels his recruits circling closer and sends a warn-off with prejudice; from the agonized response, he thinks they got the 'not the fucking time'.  "No we haven't," he says.  "We haven't even started. We're gonna win, Cas.  Here."

Cas stiffens, but the instant rejection is absent; he's tired, yeah, and probably stopped thinking around the time Dean broke on the rack. Which is pretty much what he hoped for; he couldn't plan this part, but sometimes, things just work out.

"Hey."  Carefully, he draws a finger down Cas's arm, following the open wounds (can't wait to find out who did that and where to find them). "Gonna fix this up?"

Cas snorts softly.  "You know I can't."

He can, he just doesn't know it yet; Dean's got so much to teach him.  "I can."  Cas stiffens belatedly and Dean adds another check to his side--their side--of the board. He was never gonna do this without Cas, that was a given, whatever happened; he told Cas they were in this together and that's never changed. "Come on, let me help.  You wanna run, fine but at least let me fix you up so you can."

Cas turns his head against his knee, and the incredulous look almost makes Dean laugh; fuck, he missed him.  "You'll let me leave?"

"I'll never let you go," he answers honestly. "But it'll give you a fighting chance, at least."

The cracked lips part in a soft laugh: check. "You sound like him--"

"I am him," Dean interrupts.  "You can feel it, Cas, come on."  

Watching Cas carefully, he calls in the knife, blade sharp enough to cut air, and lets go of Cas's arm to draw a short cut near the elbow of his left forearm.  Cas's expression is a few novels, all contradictory--revulsion, rejection, horror, disgust, terror, and the only one that counts--hunger. Check.

"No," Cas says, but the blue eyes never leave that cut, blood welling suggestively.  There's power in blood given freely, but here, at least, there's just as much in accepting it; he wonders if Cas realizes that.  "I won't--"

"You want to run, you're gonna have to." Cas flickers a look at him, and he knows he won. "It's me, Cas. Come on, it doesn't have to be this hard."

He can make it easy, though; shifting closer, he holds out his arm and watches Cas bend closer as if drawn, waiting, and finally, the sweep of Cas's tongue against his skin before his lips part around the cut and he starts to suck.

He expected everything but the sheer rush; catching his breath, Dean just manages not to tumble over like an idiot, and he realizes he's got a hand in Cas's hair, holding him there with no memory of actually moving.

Fuck: here he thought Ruby was just getting off fucking up Sam.  He just didn't know.

"That's it," he breathes as Cas fastens a dirty hand around his wrist before doing what Dean almost did; he's ready for it, though, bracing himself when Cas collapses against him.  It takes a long moment to remember what else he's supposed to be doing, but check it out; he doesn't need to do anything but let it happen. Like it's supposed to: of course it is, what was he thinking, this is him and Cas, this is them.  "There we go.  Take all you want."

If he had the Pit behind him, this might be faster, but Alistair couldn't do this any more than Lucifer could or anyone else; the only one who can corrupt Castiel is Dean.  That's why he needed his name first; names are powerful, wrong one and you just might become them.  He may have to use Alistair's name, but he'll keep his own when he does.  

Already, he can feel it working into Cas; all those subtle cracks everyone has, widening them slowly and carefully, but those wouldn't be enough, not with Cas.  This is about him; him, working his way into Cas, lighting up all the places in Cas that are his, have been since this started. Infinite mind of an angel: might scare anyone else, but not Dean, never has, and he needs to know if he's right about how this is gonna work. No margin for error: this is Cas, and he's gotta get everything right the first try.

Then Cas jerks back--tries to jerk back, but he doesn't get any farther than leaning against Dean's chest, lips smeared red. That wasn't enough--not nearly enough--but Dean seals the cut for now; might be better this way, let it work in him, offer more.  Cas won't ask this time, or the next, but he will after that, and then he won't need to ask ever again. He'll figure it out.

"I'm so tired," Cas whispers, and Dean gathers him closer, resting his chin in the dark hair and feeling Cas's body shake. "When you broke, I thought--nothing I did mattered."

Dean nods, but he's got to know.  "What'd you do with the fucker's minions?  None ever came back."

"I put them to good use," Cas says in a different voice, and Dean pulls back to look down and sees a faint smile. "It took time to decide on the shape, however.  Their screaming was distracting, so I stopped it."

Now that he's thinking about it, it's quiet over here. The rest of Hell is a cacophony of noise, but here.... "Where are they?"

"Beneath and behind us."  Cas looks up, and bewildered, Dean follows his gaze to the cliff, then the stone floor.  "Ah, I forgot." Raising a hand, he snaps his fingers, and Dean gets a secondhand rush from Cas using his blood-borne power; they're doing that again like, yesterday.  "What do you think?"

Like turning up the volume on the radio, the screaming starts, and it takes Dean a second to work out where it's coming from: everywhere.  The cliff behind them, the rock beneath them--Dean presses a hand against the ground and the screaming intensifies; it's beautiful.  He can feel the Pit hum approval--not a surprise, this is fucking art--and from the way Cas stills, he feels it, too: perfect.  He's gonna be incredible when Dean's done with him; Cas'll be the best he's ever made, he know it.

"Amazing." He kisses Cas and tastes blood; with it comes the memories, a breathtaking flow of images of five years when nothing mattered: only Cas would create a monument to it.  Five years....  He jerks back, startled by the edge of something else.  "You were waiting for me.  Here."  

He waits for Cas to deny it, but he just looks back. "My death was not my own," he answers.  "Like my life, it belongs to you."

A monument to his once and future death at Dean's hand. Christ. "That was never gonna happen," he says fiercely; how could Cas think he'd ever--

"Maybe I hoped it would." Before Dean feel anything but horror, he shrugs.  "At least, I thought I did.  As it turns out, that's not what I wanted after all."

Dean realizes he's clutching Cas hard enough to break bone and with an effort loosens his grip. It never occurred to him that Cas might not--that he....  "Do you even know what you want?"

"The only thing I ever wanted." The blue eyes meeting his.  "You."

Dean breathes out, relief so strong it feels like pain.  "You have me, Cas.  Always."

There's a long moment of silence.  "Convince me."  

"What?"

"Convince me."  Turning his face against Dean's chest, he makes a broken sound, and it's all Dean can do not to claim the Pit now so he can take care of everything that made Cas sound like that.  "I don't care what it is, just convince me to do it."

That, he can do. "I have a plan."

Shifting them back so he can lean against the cliff, Dean gathers him closer and tells him everything.

*****

Just before they start, Cas says,  "Don't stop until it's done."

Dean nods.  It's not like he doesn't know the risks here; he just doesn't care.  Cas is worth anything.  "I know."

"If you can't break me--"

"I will," Dean says; he won't believe anything else.  "Don't worry about it."

"--I don't leave this room," he continues like Dean didn't say anything.  "Not ever."

"I can do this," he says, checking the restraints again; he designed this room a thousand times in his mind just for Cas, and it's everything he imagined.  Smooth volcanic rock that reflects as clearly as a mirror, so he can see Cas from any angle, and just as importantly, Cas can always see him.  He shaped the rack to Cas alone, everything in it everything that Dean knows about him, and Cas made the restraints himself, designed to bind an angel.  Not really required here, though; nothing and no one can hold Cas when he doesn't want to be.  It's gonna take both of them to do this; he doesn't doubt Cas at all and he can't, won't doubt himself.  They can do this.

"One more thing," Cas says, and Dean looks up and drowns in blue eyes.  "Promise me I won't hate you."

"You won't," he says, picking up the first knife.  The only way to break Cas is to make him want it, and the only person that can make him want it is Dean. He can do this.  Pressing the tip into the hollow of his throat, he kisses him one more time.  They have forever now.  "You'll love me.  I promise."

[abirdandabeast]

Unorthodox Sleeping Arrangements

“The best solutions are often simple, yet unexpected.”-Julian Casablancas

“Uh, Rae? I think we’re lost…” Beast Boy trailed off, glancing around them with wide eyes. Looming up all around them were massive redwood trees, with a canopy so thick, it blocked out the sun. Every direction looked the same, no matter which way he looked.

They were lost. He was certain of it.

“No. We aren’t,” Raven growled. She stomped onward, trampling the ferns in her wake. Beast Boy heaved a sigh. She’d said that an hour ago. And the hour before that.

And yet, there was still no sign of their teammates or their camp.

Beast Boy had to give her credit for her determination. She was the one that kept insisting they forged onward, after all. But as far as he could tell; her efforts were in vain.

The whole reason for the expedition was, of course, a hunt for a criminal. Apparently Seattle had a serial bank robber that had fled to the woods, and the cops had requested their assistance. Robin had decided it would be best for them to split into teams to better canvas the massive forest; a great idea, in theory.

Of course, no one had planned on Beast Boy dropping his communicator down a ravine, or Raven’s running out of battery.

It was a stupid mistake, really. The wooded area they were in was hilly, and he and Raven had hiked up a pretty steep hill. With a cliff. That had a good couple mile long drop.

All he’d wanted was to take a picture of the view. The next thing he knew, he was blinking at his empty hands and watching his communicator disappear among the trees below.

Now they were lost, with no way to contact their friends. And it was starting to get dark, fast.

“Rae, seriously. I think we should stop.”

She came to a halt, throwing him an exasperated look. “We need to find the others!” Her voice held an edge to it, and he could see the irritation dancing in her eyes. Beast Boy breathed a sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

“I know, but it’s getting dark. Last time I checked, you didn’t have night vision.” He paused, dropping his gaze to the earthy forest floor. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But romping around in the dark won’t do us any good.” Beast Boy raised his gaze, shooting her a pleading look. “Let’s just chill for the night. We can look for them again tomorrow, okay?”

Raven pursed her lip, her brow furrowing. He shrunk under her scrutiny, shuffling his feet. Beast Boy wished he wasn’t such an idiot; they wouldn’t have been in this situation had he not dropped the damn communicator.

“You’re right.”

He blinked, his mouth dropping open. “I...I am?”

Beast Boy could have sworn that a smile had flickered across her lips, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Raven sighed, looking anywhere but him. “Yes, you are. Happy?”

A grin quickly worked its way onto his lips. He didn’t speak though, choosing instead to bob his head. At this, her expression softened. She adjusted her hood, clearing her throat. “So. What now?”

Beast Boy shrugged. “Well, we need a place to sleep. So, I guess we set up camp.”

The two decided to settle down among the roots of a nearby tree. Beast Boy scrounged up some dry twigs and managed to start a fire, and Raven scraped away enough debris so they could be comfortable. Beast Boy pulled a meager blanket from his small pack, draping it over the cold ground. He risked a glance to her, and provided a lopsided grin.

“You uh, wanna share the blanket?”

Raven huddled by the fire, swaddled within the depths of her cloak. She shook her head. “No, I’m okay.”

He shrugged. “M’kay. Well, night.”  Beast Boy curled up in a ball, basking in the heat from the fire. A light sleep quickly caught ahold of him, and Beast Boy dozed peacefully among the trees. It was only the sounds of teeth clattering some time later that awakened him.

Beast Boy blinked, stifling a yawn. The fire had died down some, but was still crackling defiantly. He rolled over, his gaze catching sight of the pitiful shape of Raven. She was curled up, much like he, but he could see her shivering from across the fire. Beast Boy frowned.

For whatever reason or another, his body maintained a temperature quite a bit higher than most normal humans. Cyborg said it had something to do with his incredibly high metabolic rate, which made sense. Higher metabolic rates meant more energy turned into heat, which, gave him a higher body temperature. Regardless, Beast Boy often found himself relatively unaffected by the cold.

Raven, however, seemed to be freezing.

Without even thinking, Beast Boy clamoured to his feet and stumbled over to the empath. He scooped her up and carried her to the blanket, ignoring the surprised squeak she uttered.

“W-what are you doing?” she asked through chattering teeth. Beast Boy merely plopped her down onto the blanket beside him.

“You’re shivering,” he said.

“S-so?”

Beast Boy bit back a smirk. She wore an adorable expression as she tried to scowl through her trembling. It was endearing.

“So we’re gonna share this blanket, ‘cuz I’m not gonna let you freeze to death.”

She blinked, hugging her cloak tightly around herself. He could see the uncertainty dancing in her expression, and he bit back a sigh. “Look, I’ll stay on this side and you can have that side. Better?”

Raven nodded slowly. “Okay. T-thanks.”

Beast Boy nodded, stifling a yawn. “Welcome,” he murmured, curling up on the far side of the blanket. There was a moment of silence, before the distinct rustling of Raven’s cloak echoed in his ears. He felt her brush against his back as he laid down, and his breath caught in his throat.

Oh.

He tried scooting further away, to give her more room. But the blanket was too small. He remained as still as possible, trying his best to make this situation as un-awkward as possible. Unfortunately, the feel of her back against his was enough to dispel all sleepiness, leaving him wide awake.

Raven shifted, the movement making his heart stutter in his chest. There was a sigh, and Beast Boy felt his face burn as Raven snuggled up against him.

“You’re so...warm,” she murmured sleepily.

Beast Boy gulped. “Y-yeah, I know…”

Raven’s cold, slender arm suddenly draped itself around him, making him freeze. Raven was cuddling him. Raven was cuddling him.

The world no longer made sense. Beast Boy stared out into the dark forest, his mind turning to mush. The concept of Raven snuggling against him was so utterly baffling; he couldn’t even register it was happening.

Ever so gently, he turned to face her, letting her snuggle up against his chest. Beast Boy remained as still as possible, fearful any sudden moves would wake her and send her teleporting off to some deserted island somewhere.

He forced himself to close his eyes. And breathe. And not think about how perfectly Raven fit into his embrace.

Eventually, Beast Boy drifted off to sleep, with Raven cuddled happily in his arms...

BBRae week begins! :D I love this prompt. I love it so much. XD Can’t you tell?

-mod vixensheart

[mc-dude]

Central’s Finest 1/??

AKA that one au where they’re both just cops.

note: okay since I don’t have that much time to write i figured i might as well just plop out this chapter here and see if I can make it past chapter 2.. HERE YOU GO.. enjoy this if u wanna..

Chapter 1

It’s the smell that hits him first.

He tugs his jacket tighter around his body. Six in the morning at the Missouri River in the middle of October is never a pleasant experience, even less so when there’s a dead body that’s been sitting in said river for the past two weeks washed up on shore.

It’s not a nice part of town– the railing is covered in rust and pigeon shit, he sees no less than five empty beer bottles scattered on the weed-covered bank, and the smell of garbage permeates the air. Delightful.

A gust of wind rushes over the edge of the railing and slides down the collar of his shirt. He subtly ducks his head further into his standard-issue CCPD coat. God, why did he come to a place where winter is an actual thing again?

John walks into his line of sight, mouth fixed in a grim line and looking way too awake for only getting 5 hours of sleep. Hal narrows his eyes. John’s the reason he’s in this frozen hellscape, not lounging on a sun-warmed beach in California. His partner catches his eye and walks over with– oh god, is that–

“Coffee! Give.”

Hal snatches it out of John’s hand and moans as the smell pushes some of the garbage-particles out of his nostrils. The cheap taste of Folgers instant coffee hits his tongue and he takes back every bad thought he’s ever had about John in his life. John is the best.

“Eloquent.”

“Shut up. It’s, like, four hours before I’m legally allowed to be awake.” He takes a sip of his coffee and shivers as the steam washes over his frozen nose. He bumps his shoulder against John’s with a smile. “I’m a cop, so you can take my word for it.”

John rolls his eyes, but Hal can see the corner of his mouth lift up at the edges as he takes a sip of his own drink. Success.

“Sooo–” he presses the hot cup against his cheek in an attempt to suck some of the warmth into his frozen skin “– all I remember about the text about,” he waves his arm in a vague motion, “all of this was ‘murder’ and ‘be there in 30 minutes or I’ll make sure you never see the sun again’.” He takes another sip of his coffee. “That about sum it up?”

John’s eyebrow quirks up. “Man, you have got to stop hitting on the captain. When you get on her shit list, I get on her shit list. You do remember we’re partners, right?” John downs the rest of his cup and crumples the styrofoam in one hand. “Where you go, or more importantly, when you go– I go.”

Hal purses his lips. “I can’t help it! You know how I get about a nice pair of–” Carol steps out of her vehicle in his peripheral vision “–um, of– hands.” He blinks. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

John snorts. He can tell because the air from his nose honest-to-god freezes in front of him. Hal shudders. Hellscape.

“You’re just going to have to accept that she’s just not into you.”

Hal finishes the rest of his coffee and crumples up his cup. One of his hands finds John’s shoulder and he adopts his most serious expression.

“John. Those words have literally never been true. About anyone. Ever.”

John shakes his head, opens his mouth to spout more utter nonsense–

“Alright everyone, listen up!”

Carol’s tone is all business. John nudges his shoulder as if to say don’t say a goddamn word. Hal puts on his best offended expression. He takes his sun-time seriously, okay. If he gets another round of night-shifts forced on him he might actually start to lose his tan, which is, frankly, unacceptable. He had to spend six hours on his day off on top of his apartment complex in a speedo to get this tan. Six hours. He follows John to where the other officers are congregating around Carol.

“This is the third body this month. Forensics is looking over it right now, but so far it looks like the same M.O.” Hal perks up.

“So we got a serial killer, Cap?”

Carol looks at him like he’s one of those empty beer bottles on the side of the river. Hal shifts against the pavement. The air suddenly feels ten degrees colder.

“Yes, Detective Jordan. Congratulations on finally learning how to count past two.” Hal narrows his eyes. He sees John smile in his peripheral vision. Traitor. “The investigation has been elevated. Catching this guy is now our number one priority.” Carol gives everyone a once-over. “Spread out, see if there’s any additional evidence. It’s probably clean like the other murders, but we need to be thorough. Meet back at the precinct by nine. Dismissed.”

Carol doesn’t even glance his way as she walks down the steps towards the river bank. Hal watches her navigate the cobblestone in four inch heels without even the slightest wobble.

Sometimes he thinks the Captain might be superhuman.

He turns to John who’s looking at him like he’s one of the guys they regularly arrest for public intoxication; sad and pathetic. Hal doesn’t want another lecture so he decides to change the subject.

“Who’s on forensics?”

John grabs his empty cup and turns towards the overflowing trash can at the edge of the walkway. “Who do you think?”

Hal swivels his head towards the river edge. The lightning is dim, but he’d know that blond head of hair anywhere. Suddenly, his morning seems almost bearable.

The rocks are slippery under his feet as he clamors over the guardrail and onto the algae-covered river bank. He makes no effort to conceal his approach, but still revels in the little jump Barry does when he drops down next to him with a quiet “– so, what brings you here on this fine October morning?”

He looks tired. Barry’s big blue eyes– seriously, so blue– are slightly bloodshot, surprised expression that normally Hal would enjoy marred by dark purple circles under his eyes. He watches as Barry blinks once– slowly, like he forgot how and is trying to remember how his eye muscles work.

“Hm?” He blinks again. “Sorry, what?”

Hal would feel offended by Barry’s blatant disregard for his six A.M. humor, but he knows that Barry was at the precinct even later than he was, running tests or mixing chemicals.. or whatever it was that lab nerds did in their spare time.. and thus got even less sleep than he did.

Also, it’s physically impossible to be offended by anything Barry does or says, because Barry is a saint. And the best guy he knows. Actually, now that he thinks about it.. there might be a correlation there. He nudges Barry’s shoulder and has to physically reach out to stop him from toppling over.

“Nevermind.” He pulls his hand back reluctantly, not missing the way Barry leans into the motion like it was the only thing holding him up. Hal frowns. Why didn’t someone bring him a coffee? He makes a mental note to himself: get Barry caffeine when back at the precinct to stop him from looking so tired and cold. He doesn’t know why, but it’s physically painful to see Barry looking anything other than at, bare-minimum, content. Maybe it’s because he’s the nicest guy in existence and therefore nothing bad should ever happen to him ever.

He reaches for the corner of the tarp covering the body, only to have Barry swat at his hand with a huff.

“Don’t touch that. You’re not wearing gloves.”

Hal scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. He makes sure to flex a little, for good measure. “What? I just want to look.”

Barry raises an eyebrow. “It’s a bloated body that’s been both a, drained of all its blood, and b, left sitting in the river for the last, at minimum, week.” Hal watches as Barry moves to scratch at the back of his neck only to realise that he has gloves on and awkwardly sort of shuffle his arm back to the tarp. He has to admit, it’s a little unnerving how Barry Allen, patron saint of Central City, possibly the universe, can talk about disgusting corpses like it’s the weather. Hal runs a hand through his hair and puts on his best charming smile.

“Well, I haven’t eaten yet this morning, so.”

Barry grins. “That didn’t stop you on the Channing case.”

“That was that one time.” Hal whines. “I had the flu, okay? I was sick, Barry.” It definitely wasn’t the way Mr. Channing’s body was splattered all over the alleyway like the can of Chef Boyardee sitting at the back of his pantry that he still can’t quite bring himself to eat.

Barry reaches for a sample kit from his case. “Uh huh.” He hesitates before reaching for the tarp corner. “Um, you might want to–” he sounds almost reluctant as he makes a shooing motion with his hands. Hal chooses to believe that it’s from his physical proximity rather than the disgusting body Barry has to chip away at. The tiny blush he spots on Barry’s cheeks while Hal shuffles backwards lends credit to his theory.

“Hold the recorder?”

He’s technically supposed to be searching for more evidence, but he also never acquired the ability to say no to Barry Allen, so he obediently grabs the device and hits the big red button in the middle.

“Alright, let’s see what we have here.” He watches as Barry grabs the corner of the tarp and– hesitates, a whole five seconds of staring at something far away, takes a deep breath in and out– and then flips it backward all at once.

Hal really tries not to react, but he’s only human. A dead body is never a pleasant sight. Or smell, christ. He shifts so that his jacket collar is firmly situated in front of his nose. Even Barry seems a little shaken, and Barry has seen some shit.

“Um, okay.” Another breath. “Subject is Caucasian female, between the ages of–” Barry leans forward, blue eyes flicking all around the bloated features lightning quick “– 20 and 35. Brunette. Small scar above left eyebrow..”

Hal tunes him out to engage in some quality Barry observation time. He always likes watching him do this. Barry is smart. Like, scary smart. He wouldn’t be surprised if over 80% of the cases they solve end up that way because Barry found some vital piece of evidence that no one else could have. He’s like some sort of super genius.

Barry’s tongue pokes out as he swabs the inside of the victim’s mouth for a DNA sample. Hal smiles against the fist propping his head up. A cute super genius.

Barry reaches to set the sample in his case before hesitating. “Huh. That’s interesting.”

Hal leans forward. “What?”

“See that?” Barry points to two identical cuts on the victim’s arm, about half-way between the shoulder and the elbow. “The incisions are consistent with some kind of needle.” Hal nods.

“Yeah, well we know the guy’s some kinda vampire.”

Barry throws him a look. Hal grins and wiggles his fingers as if to say spooky. Barry shakes his head, but Hal can see the corner of his mouth lift up.

“Yeah, he’s draining the victims, but the only incisions are on this arm–” he leans forward and flips the tarp the rest of the way off the victim’s upper body “– and another pair, on this side.” Hal nods, slower this time.

“And..?”

Barry reaches and gently turns the body’s arm over. “If he wanted to drain the victims, there’s about a thousand better ways to get the blood out. Like use an artery–” Barry points to the pale skin under the victim’s wrist “– or, I don’t know, slash their throats or something.” Hal watches as Barry winces as if imagining it. He leans over to bump against his shoulder with an encouraging smile.

“So he’s.. what? An idiot?” Barry shakes his head.

“No, these incisions are deliberate. He knew what he was doing.” Barry looks at him. The sun’s just coming up over the horizon and it makes the hue of his eyes a particularly dark shade of blue. “He didn’t want them to drain quickly. Where he poked holes in them, I mean it would take–” Barry pauses. Hal can practically see him doing the mental calculations in his head. “Maybe two days. Three, if the punctures weren’t made all at once.”

Hal blinks. “So after he captures them, he keeps them alive. For a while, at least.”

Barry nods. He looks how Hal feels– disgusted with an edge of completely horrified. Something dark is creeping up over Barry’s expression. Uh uh. Nope. that simply will not do.

“Hey–” Hal reaches with his free hand to squeeze Barry’s arm. He waits until Barry catches his gaze and plants what he hopes is an encouraging smile on his face. “We’ll get him.”

Barry’s eyes flick between his own. The pink-tinged sky reflects off his pale skin in a way that’s very distracting. Whatever dark thought Barry had gets smoothed away by upturned lips. Barry leans ever-so-slightly into Hal’s grip. His eyes close for a moment as he makes a quiet humming noise.

“Yeah, I know.”

A feeling settles in his chest that he can’t quite put into words– something heavy and warm– as he watches Barry go back to collecting samples with renewed determination. His hand drops back to his thigh from Barry’s arm. He flexes his fingers against the sudden cold feeling and clears his throat.

“Yep, all it’s gonna take is a few late-night stake-outs.”

Barry glances at him. Hal raises his eyebrows up and down. He’s rewarded with one of Barry’s exasperated snorts.

“I’ll be sure to mention ‘severe aversion to garlic’ when I profile him for everyone.”

Hal slaps a hand on his back with a grin. This is why Barry is his favorite.

“Please. Can you imagine the look on Carol’s face? It would be worth every nightshift she gives me for the next month.”

Barry snaps his sample case closed with a quiet laugh. Blue gloves get peeled back from steady fingers and Hal jumps to his feet, eager to head back to civilization, a.k.a. places with coffee. He offers Barry a hand, his smile only growing wider as Barry immediately loops his fingers around his wrist and tugs himself up.

“I’m pretty sure you’re already on the nightshift for the next month.” Barry swats at a fleck of dirt on his coat and makes for the stairs on the edge of the riverbank. Hal falls into step beside him, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He bumps against Barry’s shoulder.

“All part of my master plan to catch the vampire.”

That warm feeling settles back in his chest as Barry muffles his laugh behind the lapel of his coat.

Okay, maybe Missouri isn’t all that bad.

[sodone-withlife]

many faces

here’s something that has been in the works for a few weeks that I finally got myself to finish today. I was watching some edits on YouTube (as one does) and since Aaron Hotchner lives in my head rent-free, a line about death really just hit me, so here you go: almost 4k words about Hotch and Death

All credit to the writers of GoT for the quotes (even though they seriously fucked up season 8), and the last few lines in the blurb are very inspired by Arya Stark’s storyline in GoT seasons 5 and 6. Hope you all enjoy!

warning: canonical character death

word count: 3.7k words

There is only one god, and his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: not today.

- Syrio Forel (Game of Thrones s1e6)

He entered the world in the dead of night towards the start of winter, after the mother spent over twenty hours in labor. The father, passed out after too many drinks, was woken in time to hear the ear-splitting cry of the newborn. Faced with the dark eyes and dark hair that was so like his own, he could only turn away, hating the newborn’s innocence with a burning passion.

When the father gave closing statements only hours later that day, exhaustion overtook him. And so, the mother locked herself and the newborn in the nursery in fear of the vengeful phantom that alcohol made of the man who vowed to love and to cherish the woman.

Thus the next years were spent like this, the mother locking the door to the toddler’s room, reading story after story and waiting out the phantom. The innocence of youth was the only barrier protecting the toddler, one which dissipated the moment he turned four.

Their first dance was when he was eight and had collapsed in class after having spent hours struggling to breathe through the cracked ribs and move through the concussion that had been gifted to him by his father. When he woke up in the hospital, it was to the sight of both of his parents watching over him worriedly, but one’s expression was too vacant, and the other was hiding a familiar rage.

That wasn’t the last time his father put him in the hospital. It was easy to write off—who wouldn’t believe the only lawyer in town, who had done so much for his community?

Those that didn’t believe kept their mouth shut for fear of their reputation being sullied.

The little brother, young as he was, had no idea the power that he possessed. Ever since his birth, the mother’s skin remained unblemished and free from the bruising that was often there before, when she only had one child.

It was easy to play to the reputation the town had given the eldest. Silent and cold, stealing the joy out of everyone near him just as the dark of the Winter steals the light of the Summer, just as the father stole pieces of his being with every blow and every hospital visit.

He had already danced with Death many times before in his short life thus far, but now they were here to take his father away. He stood at the gravestone a few days later with a bottle of vodka he knew his father had hidden amongst his desk drawers. Now the eldest male in the household, the responsibility fell on his back and dragged him down into the depths of vodka and glass shards.

His Spring found him lying there, passed out with cuts on his arms as his mind was elsewhere, dancing with Death. She was relieved to see that they weren’t deep, and so she called her sister to help her bring him back to their house.

When he woke up with a pounding headache and throbbing arms, he saw the relief of his Spring. As she spent time with him in the days after Death took his father and reminded him of the light in the world with each dark secret he confessed, he fell in love all over again, just as the Spring coaxes the Winter into the light.

Later, he would think of the mottled red that had stained his father’s face and the unpleasantly warm, alcohol-tainted breath that washed over him as he stood in front of the wild, untamed man and took the abuse that was sent towards him as he was blamed for the man’s failures. He would think of the wide-eyed joy that his little brother explored the world with and his mother’s skin that had remained unblemished since his little brother came into the world.

He wouldn’t be touching vodka ever again.

He spent more time at her house, no matter how out of place he always felt amidst a family that was so close and open to each other, and slowly, his Spring taught him about the light of life.

They were lessons he strove to keep in the forefront of his mind in college and law school, even as he stared cheap alcohol and razor blades in the face with shaking hands. He went dancing with Death once, early in college, but he remembered her fear and worry despite the throbbing pain he felt.

He was dumping the alcohol down the drain as soon as he could and making it a habit to put his razors out of sight. He made sure she never found out about that one.

It was freeing to be in college and law school—Death did not reach him there. But soon he was graduating with a Juris Doctor degree and throwing himself into prosecuting crimes with a vengeance.

His father had once walked the same halls he was walking, and that was something he was reminded of each time he was addressed by his—his father’s—last name. Death walked in with each case, a silent spectator as he worked long hours to get offenders put away, to get justice for the victims who were sent into Death’s waiting arms far too early in life.

But it wasn’t always that easy. He knew that going in, but it didn’t take away that terrible feeling as he watched a jury buy into the misogynistic song and dance the defense put up in a rape case. As the defense uncovered some shady investigation on the police’s part and managed to get the whole case thrown out. As he watched a young man get sentenced for killing his abusive parents. As he watched an older brother get sentenced for assaulting a police officer that had assaulted his younger sister while that same police officer walked free with only his badge stripped and a year of house arrest.

Death walked the halls with him, with each case that he tried and with each new victim whose name and face he kept in the forefront of his mind. Young as he was, he was already one of the more jaded prosecutors in the office, His work ethic earned him numerous nicknames, and talk flew around about him potentially becoming the youngest district attorney in the county.

But the children…

The final straw came and went. Eight months after a serial pedophile walked free, with four years of prosecution under his belt and talk about him becoming DA, the youngest in county history—he threw it away and started over at the Academy.

A fresh start. He loved Virginia, but he fell in more love with the Pacific Northwest. The cool weather, the beauty of the temperate rainforests, and the scenic coastline were so different compared to the ghosts that haunted him back east. His and Haley’s first anniversary was a memory he would cherish forever; the picture never left his wallet

Two years of trying to solve cases before they got as bad as they were when they came across his desk in the prosecutor’s office and being part-time in the local field office SWAT unit hadn’t snuffed out the strange love he had for the region. Though he was more often calling Death to him to sweep the offenders he was hunting away, he did come close to dancing with Death a few more times—he was quite good at close quarters, but his true specialty was distance.

It was oddly comforting, though, to know that even as changes continued to happen, some things remained the same.

Only a week after his superior gave him a heads up about potential recruitment to the tactical team out in Quantico, he met David Rossi in San Francisco on a five-year-old cold case. He didn’t miss the look of surprise that appeared on the older agent’s face in reaction to his theory about the killer.

He had heard of the BAU and had listened to some of their lectures at the Academy about profiling—the confusion he felt at hearing about the years of training members of the team went through was reignited when Rossi started waxing poetic about an instinctual ability weeks later when they were at a bar after the case was declared cold.

That theory he had presented when he first met Rossi didn’t feel like an instinctual gift, and he said as much to the other agent.  Nevertheless, he and Haley were back in Virginia just months later—she was teaching at a local high school and he was the newest member of the BAU.

And so he danced, and he learned of the many faces Death had. He danced as Gideon started grooming him for leadership weeks after Rossi retired. He danced as Morgan brought his unending stubbornness and heart of gold. He danced as JJ and Garcia brought reminders of the light that was still in the world. He danced as Reid brought his own brand of uniqueness and painful reminders of his young age.

He danced with Death, who he could see peeking out from the eyes of the unsubs he and the team ended up facing off with. He danced more than he ever had, but his Spring kept him from falling into Death’s waiting arms. His Spring and the prospect of binging a child into the world together kept him going as Adrian Bale took out six agents with one bomb, sent him to the hospital for shrapnel wounds, and sent Gideon into a post-traumatic tailspin.

It was fine in the beginning; the expectation the Gideon would be returning made the long hours bearable. Six months passed, and he came back, but he didn’t return to leadership. Whispers that trickled down from up high made it clear that this designation was permanent.

They both thought they could make it work. Their child came into the world just days after he wove his web around Death and stared them down through a sniper rifle. He took a month off, and came back to face Death once more—only they were wearing the face of a man who killed multiple families.

He came close to another dance when Death wore a face that was nearly identical to his own—all that was different was their walks of life. He opened up more directly to Vincent Perotta than to anyone else that was currently on the team; Gideon could only profile, and he only explicitly told Rossi and his Spring about what his home life had been like.

Life went on, though with how often he danced with Death, it couldn’t really be considered living.

He danced, and he watched.

He watched as Elle danced with Death for the first time and was permanently changed because of his inaction.

He watched as Reid danced with Death for the first time and nearly fell into their arms because of his inaction.

He watched as Death taunted Gideon again and again until the man finally left to search for the fire that had been stolen from within him.

He watched, and he danced

He watched as his Winter darkness slowly crept towards Spring and their child, as his darkness became so oppressive that Haley finally left when he couldn’t stop himself from running to dance with Death. And when the light of Spring (not his, not anymore, she never was—) left, his darkness took over.

He watched as Death claimed Kate in an explosion of fire and debris and whirling him along in the quickest of dances, and he couldn’t help but envision his Spring in her position. He wasn’t blind, he knew how similar the two women looked, he knew what the team whispered behind his back, but it didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was the phone call he was going to have to make to Haley, who had gotten along so well with Kate but now had to face the reality of her death.

Colorado was a new hell for him, as he felt Death’s oppressive presence all over the compound that trapped two of his agents inside. When the buildings were engulfed in flames and debris, he could only sigh in relief that Death didn’t see fit to take his agents today.

When he met Death once more, they were speaking through Megan Kane. Hearing the confidence the young woman had in him, feeling the exhausted resignation she felt at her impending death…

The press got the tip just days after the SIM card was examined by the lab.

Death waits for nobody, however, and his ten-year-old demon woke up to shove onto him more responsibility and more guilt as ten people were found shot to death on the bus in Boston.

He had gotten the profile so right but still so wrong, and Death laughed in his face.

Death laughed as he was stabbed nine times and was in their clutches for thirty minutes before the doctors managed to shake him loose from their arms. They danced and they danced, and Death laughed as he found the bloody picture of Spring and the child.

And he found that he couldn’t wait to see the face Death chose to wear one more time if only to show him just how angry he was, how deeply he felt despite the mask that he put up. His team had no idea how close he was to the edge, and he didn’t let them see the depths of madness he had fallen into.

Even over twenty years out of college and he was still compulsively hiding his razors, but now he couldn’t be more glad but also more hateful for the habit.

But Death gives no respite, and nine months to the day Spring went into hiding with the child, he found himself unraveling quicker than he ever had as he was forced to listen as Spring was stolen from the world.

When the team finally got to the old house, they watched as the tenuous control he held over himself was ripped straight out of his grasp in a bloodthirsty, grief-stricken rage. His hands didn’t feel like his own, and he couldn’t place Jack into JJ’s care fast enough for fear that the hands of a killer would destroy the last precious light in his darkness.

Those same hands felt the unnatural cold that was already setting in on Spring, and his mind froze.

Should he have stopped dancing?

Could he have stopped dancing?

Would it have done anything?

Would it have saved her?

He lived only to make sure Spring lived on in their son. He couldn’t give up chasing Death, but he made sure to keep his son at the forefront of his mind, and if that meant staying behind and coordinating and the precinct, that was fine. It was a change that would have been asked of him when JJ was plucked from the team by the Pentagon, but with the whispered he’s been hearing in meetings, he couldn’t help but feel like she was walking straight into Death’s waiting arms.

There wasn’t any time to worry, however, nor was there time to marvel at the fact that he had made it this far after Spring was ripped from his weak grasp, as he soon had to send Emily away and pretend that she had been claimed by the being he was so familiar with. Barely over a year, and three women who had changed his life so drastically were all ripped from his desperate grip, and his team was barely keeping it together.

It was no longer a dance, but a chase. He chased Death, almost as if his efforts would somehow bring them back and fix everything. He closed himself off and kept chasing because otherwise he would crash and burn and take everything around him down with him.

He kept chasing, all the way to Pakistan and all the way back to face the wall of anger and betrayal that he knew was justified. He kept on going, as Beth came into his life and as Emily left to find her own equilibrium. He didn’t stop, not even when Maeve Donovan was murdered in a manner eerily similar to his own unraveling years ago, not even when he spoke to Sean for the first time in years only to lose him to the criminal justice system, but just weeks later he was given the option once more: he could fight the futile fight, or he could stop and protect his team from afar, standing guard just as he’s done for so many years now.

There was a brief moment that he wondered if he should have taken the section chief job, but just minutes later he was feeling the world tilt as his legs gave out from under him and he collapsed on the floor of the conference room, the pain in his abdomen that had been slowly burning for the past few days turning into a roaring fire that threatened to consume him from the inside out.

And how could he describe the tumultuous feelings of utter joy and desolate grief he felt when he saw Haley sitting in that dress she had worn on their first anniversary in the Pacific Northwest, the dress she wore in the picture that remained in his wallet for nearly twenty years? How could he describe the utter terror he felt when Foyet crashed their time together and shot her once again, or the renewed grief when he realized this would be the last vivid memory he would have of the Spring who had taught his Winter about the light?

But he woke up with the lingering feel of Haley’s lips on his own to see Garcia and her always brightly-colored clothing that matched her ever-optimistic outlook on life that was often a blessed reprieve from the evil that consumed their jobs, and he remembered why he stayed.

Not only to chase Death, but for the family he realized he had found along the way.

But just as life must go on, Death must as well.

Soon he was calling in favors while learning about the horror JJ had gone through during her stint with Pentagon. Soon his paranoia was reignited as he and the team tried to figure out just how deep the corruption went in that police force all the while Reid was hospitalized with a neck wound. Even as he was reminded of the dangers of the chase when he drove to his old mentor’s cabin in the middle of the night, he kept chasing, because, for all that he knew he had a family in the team, he knew it wouldn’t last.

It couldn’t last.

It was a truth he was all too intimately familiar with.

So he chased, and he chased, and he chased.

And Death laughed and taunted him, throwing him into a mental tailspin through Peter Lewis.

Perhaps that was the moment when he finally lost himself: sitting against the desk, paralyzed as his family was murdered in front of him.

Or maybe it was when he forced himself to play along to Lewis’s sick fantasy and pretend that he was going to shoot at his team.

Was it pretend, though?

Nothing felt real after that—one moment he was grounded in reality and the next he was hearing that awful growling noise right behind him and seeing that terrible Glasgow smile as the hairs on his neck stood up. But, as always, he never let the team know just how far he’s fallen, and he kept going and protecting and chasing with the whole of his being.

He threw himself into work with a vengeance when Garcia was being targeted by the darknet hit group and when Morgan and Savannah were being threatened by the vindictive Montolo Sr, knowing all too well what was at stake.

When Morgan told him about his intent to leave the bureau, he could only feel relief that Morgan wouldn’t fall down the path he himself chose to go down all those years ago, when he first realized he could never stop dancing with Death. He told him as such in that hospital room, and the two exchanged a look, one that was borne from years of respect and kinship that had formed between the two as a result of an understanding only two profoundly hurt yet fiercely protective beings could have.

But life goes on, the moment broke, and he went back to chasing, only to be stopped right in his tracks by Death once again when Metro SWAT stormed his apartment and arrested him at gunpoint right in front of his son. Now, Death wore the faces of all of those who swore revenge against him and tried to break his will.

They very early succeeded, too—it was the closest he felt to unraveling since that terrible day seven years ago, but he knew he couldn’t without taking the whole team down with him. He couldn’t let the seams burst open.

Not yet.

Not until he found out Peter Lewis escaped.

Not until he found out Peter Lewis was baiting his team while working to fulfill a vendetta against him.

Not until he found out the Peter Lewis had watched Jack at one of his soccer games, and not until he found out that Peter Lewis had stalked Jack to his school.

So he planned, he made calls, and he wrote letters to the team and his family.

One night, Aaron Hotchner left those letters on his office desk alongside his resignation letter and credentials, the one thing that truly defined him for nearly twenty years.

Without it, he was no one.

One night, after tucking his son into bed, no one slipped out of his apartment with both of his service weapons and a sparsely packed bag and disappeared into the night, one goal in mind.

Hunt.

I know death. He’s got many faces. I look forward to seeing this one.

- Arya Stark (Game of Thrones s8e2)

[carriejonesbooks]

So one day I was driving Em to school and Bob and Sheri, this talk show, was on the radio and they were having callers talk about what was a huge turn-off. You know, what is it that happens when you are on a date that makes a great big red light flash in your head and you go: WHOA! THIS DUDE/DUDETTE IS NOT FOR ME!

I’ve had a lot of these moments. *Cough. Cough* However, I’ve decided to make a top five list. Yes, I am limiting myself to five.

TOP FIVE THINGS POTENTIAL LOVE INTERESTS HAVE DONE OR SAID TO ME THAT MADE ME GO ICK! *Note: All of these have actually happened to me before. 1. A CRIMINALLY Abusive Past

Finding a restraining order under the front seat of his car on your first date when he is out of the car pumping gas. Actually, my dog found this and I had to take it out of his doggy mouth. Let’s just say protection orders are never good to find under the seat on a first date.

He ended up stalking me for awhile.

2. General Freakyness

He has an apartment with absolutely no pictures on the walls, no knick knacks, no litter, no nothing. Nothing says serial killer like this. Honestly, I was looking for big, blue tarps and duct tape.

3. MESSY And/or Loud Eating

They possess the inability to get food in their mouth and instead gets it in their hair, my hair, their chin, the table, the floor, etc…. It’s just gross. Plus, it’s a waste of food.

4.Putting on the Passive-Aggressive compliments.

Telling me I look like a bag lady. Not charming. Even if you add in ‘cute,” as in…. Hey, you look like a bag lady if bag ladies were cute.

To be fair, though, I was wearing a lot of clothes. Seriously. Maine is cold in winter. Sometimes you have to layer. A lot.

5. Being A Horrible Human Being

Telling me that I look like a good breeder because even though I don’t have hips, I’m pale and I have blue eyes? Sorry. Racists and guys who think of women as ‘breeders’ are not a turn on. Ever. Also, you don’t know what lurks in my DNA.

Hint: I’m not as white as I present, but man? Do I present as really white? I truly do. Is that my race? Yes, it is. Unless, you’re a eugenist and then… no.

So what about you? Have you ever been on a date where you were like: Nope. Nuh-uh. Never again.

ICK!

And as I was thinking about this, I realized that there are ways books do this to me, too. Everyone’s turn-offs are different, but here are my current top five.

The love interest is abusive and it’s supposed to be a romance. 

Yeah. No. Enough said.

Everyone is white and straight and rich and able bodied. 

Because… well, I like books that are creepy.

Really, really bad grammar AND SPELLING.

Stuff like:

‘Your a villain’, he sayid.

‘No freakin’g, way, in a million years” ! she said,

Characters that don’t sound like people.

You know what I mean, right? There’s a super famous, multi-million dollar book that became a movie that’s a first person narrative and I swear the main character sounds like a pretentious 50-year-old man who wears a lot of tweed and only drinks craft scotch while rowing. To be fair, I think I’m the only person who feels this way because all my friends adore this book.

Or the books without contractions and everyone sounds like a computer-generated scam call. I’m totally not into that unless it’s on purpose for a specific character and they get called out on it.

Incest

Yeah. No. Again. It’s not something I can handle.

GIRLS WHO LOOK IN THE MIRROR RIGHT AWAY

I don’t care about what the character looks like enough to read a paragraph about her looking in the mirror and talking about what she looks like AS IF SHE HAS NEVER SEEN HERSELF BEFORE!

I can about what the character does, thinks, says, feels, but her looks? His looks? Not so much.

Marsie only cares about whether or not people will feed her. And also if they pet her. Not how they look.

How about you? What are you biggest people turn-offs? Your biggest book turn-offs? Teach us all what not to do! And how does this have to do with my Monday Motivation theme? Knowing what we don’t like? It helps us to go after and experience what we love.

If you enjoyed this post, I’d be so super grateful if you’d help it spread by emailing it to a friend, or sharing it on Twitter or Facebook or Pinterest. Thank you! I know it’s a super small thing, but it means so much to me.

WRITING NEWS AND STUFF

Okay. I hope you don’t mind me sharing this, but I earned out my picture book biography of Sara Emma Edmonds!!!!

This is such a huge thing for me that I can’t begin to tell you how cool it feels especially since it’s with this picture book. Sara was this cool woman who dressed like a man so she could fight in the U.S. Civil War, but then her superiors asked her to dress like a woman and spy on the other side. So, she was a woman dressed like a man dressed like a woman and taking names the entire time. So amazing. Thank you so much to everyone who bought it!

  THE CLASS AT THE WRITING BARN

The awesome 6-month-long Writing Barn classthat they’ve let me be in charge of!? It’s happening again in July. Write! Submit! Support!is a pretty awesome class. It’s a bit like a mini MFA but way more supportive and way less money.

PRAISE FOR CARRIE JONES AND WRITE. SUBMIT. SUPPORT:

“Carrie has the fantastic gift as a mentor to give you honest feedback on what needs work in your manuscript without making you question your ability as a writer. She goes through the strengths and weaknesses of your submissions with thought, care and encouragement.”

I swear, I did not pay anyone to say that. I didn’t even ask them to say it. The Writing Barn just told me that the feedback had intensely kind things like that.

FLYING AND ENHANCED – THE YOUNG ADULT SCIENCE FICTION SERIES

These books are out there in the world thanks to Tor.

What books? Well, cross Buffy with Men in Black and you get… you get a friends-powered action adventure based in the real world, but with a science fiction twist. More about it is here. But these are fun, fast books that are about identity, being a hero, and saying to heck with being defined by other people’s expectations.

This quick, lighthearted romp is a perfect choice for readers who like their romance served with a side of alien butt-kicking action–School Library Journal

TIME STOPPERS THE MIDDLE GRADE SERIES OF AWESOME

Time Stoppers’s third book comes out this summer. It’s been called a cross between Harry Potter and Percy Jackson, but with heart. It takes place in Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine. I need to think of awesome ways to promote it because this little book series is the book series of my own middle grade heart. Plus, I wrote it for the Emster. Plus, it is fun.

Time Stoppers Front and Back Covers – US versions

Five Things That Make Me Go “Ick” – My Biggest Book Turnoffs and People Turnoffs So one day I was driving Em to school and Bob and Sheri, this talk show, was on the radio and they were having callers talk about what was a huge turn-off.

[5axismachiningchina]

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That Was the Year That Was – 1978

Image by brizzle born and bred 1978 Following on from the oil crisis Japanese car Imports account for half the US import market. The first first ever Cellular Mobile Phone History of Mobile Phones is introduced in Illinois and Space Invaders appears in arcades Launching a Craze for Computer Video Games.

Sweden is the first country in the world to recognize the effect of aerosol sprays on the Ozone Layer and bans the sale. The Serial killer David Berkowitz, "Son of Sam," is convicted of murder after terrorizing New York for 12 months. 1978 is also a great year for movies with Grease summer opening on June 16th, Saturday Night Fever and Close Encounters of the Third Kind all showing in Movie Theatres around the world.

‘Britain was the Sick Man of Europe’. The unions and inflation were out of control. Our inefficient nationalised industries were an expensive disaster. The Labour governments of 1974-79 were complete flops.

The winter of discontent began in private industry before spreading to the public sector. The strikes seriously disrupted everyday life, causing problems including food shortages and widespread and frequent power cuts.

Prices

Average house price: £13,820

Milk (1 pint): 11p

Bread (800g loaf): 28p

Cigarettes (20): 58p

1978 – the year of over abundance of polyester flares and bouffant hair, Grease and Superman at the cinema and the invention of the Sony Walkman. Worldwide unemployment rises after several decades of near full employment.

The US Dollar plunges to record low against many European currencies. The US stops production of the Neutron Bomb. India faces it’s longest and worst monsoon season in modern times leaving two million homeless. Due to poor Cold War Relations United States bans sale of latest computer technology to Soviet Union.

The first online forum goes online forum – the CBBS – goes online in Chicago. One user at a time can post a message.

Argentina captain Daniel Passarella raises the World Cup Trophy as he is carried shoulder high by fans after Argentina had beaten Holland 3-1 in the 1978 World Cup Final. The Vatican has three popes: Pope Paul VI dies at age of 80, Pope John Paul I becomes Pope from August 26th and dies just 33 days later on September 28. Cardinal Karol Wojtyla then became Pope John Paul I shortly after.

Sweden became the first nation to ban aerosol sprays that are thought to damage earth’s protective ozone layer. Sony built its first prototype Walkman. Grease became the biggest grossing film and ‘You’re the One that I Want’ was number one for nine weeks. The Garfield cartoon strip was published for the first time.

In a year with more than its share of notable deaths there was also one very notable birth. A little before midnight on 25 July, Louise Brown, the world’s first IVF baby, was born.

The 5lb 12oz (2.61 kg) girl ushered in a fertility revolution that continues to this day.

The former Italian prime minister Aldo Moro was kidnapped and murdered by the Red Brigades; Pope John Paul, head of the Roman Catholic church for just over a month died, and Carl Bridgewater, a 13-year-old paper boy, was shot dead after disturbing a burglary in Staffordshire.

Georgi Markov, a Bulgarian dissident, was murdered in London with an umbrella that carried a poison pellet. In Jones town, Guyana, 918 people died in a mass suicide.

The musical world said goodbye to Keith Moon, Jacques Brel, and – most notoriously of all – Nancy Spungen, who was stabbed to death in the Chelsea hotel in New York by Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols.

The Bee Gees continued to dominate the charts thanks to their soundtrack to the previous year’s Saturday Night Fever, although Boney M (Rivers of Babylon), Paul McCartney (Mull of Kintyre), and Kate Bush (Wuthering Heights) also found chart success. The Sex Pistols played their last gig together and Rod Stewart asked: Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?

Audiences headed to the cinema to watch Danny Zuko pursue Sandy Olsson in Grease, a goofy reporter from the planet Krypton pursue Lois Lane in Superman, and Turkish justice pursue an American drug smuggler in Midnight Express.

Those huddled around smaller screens saw Roman Polanksi flee to the UK and then France to escape the pursuit of US justice after admitting unlawful sexual intercourse with a 13-year-old girl. They also witnessed the TV debuts of, among other shows, Grange Hill and Dallas.

Ipswich Town beat Arsenal 1-0 to win the FA Cup.

Democratic government returned officially to Spain after a referendum approved a new constitution and the Nobel prize for literature was won by the Polish-born American writer Isaac Bashevis Singer.

Keith Moon of the Who Dies

On Sept. 7, 1978, the world lost one of its most unique children when Keith Moon left us, far too soon. Much more than simply ‘the drummer for the Who,’ Moon defiined the term “one of a kind” not only in his ability and style behind the drum kit, but in his utter irreverence and over the top way of life.

Moon was born on August 23, 1946. By the time he was in his teens, was already turning heads as a drummer. His joining the Who was nothing short of perfect. He added a much needed component to their equation, acting as the comic foil to the often very serious Pete Townshend. Moon’s drumming style seemed to border on pure chaos, but in reality he was always firmly in control behind the wheel.

And what a ride! Unlike the subtle, yet effective, approach of contemporaries like Charlie Watts or the rock solid Ringo Starr, Moon took an entirely different sensibility to the drum kit, inspiring countless future musicians along the way. Add in bassist extraordinaire John Entwistle, and the Who had themselves a rhythm section with the range of an orchestra.

Moon’s short, sweet life came to and end after a night of partying — and to be fair, a lifetime of testing his own limits. Ironically, his death was caused from an overdose of pills that were intended to combat his ongoing alcoholism. The medication was primarily a sedative, only a handful of which would have caused death. Police reports indicate that he took nearly a third of his 100 pill prescription. “It was a silly mistake,” said Pete Townshend in the 2007 documentary ‘Amazing Journey.’ “He just always took pills in handfuls, it was just a habit that he had.” Heminevrin, the prescribed drug in question, disabled his esophagus, which prevented him from vomiting, thus suffocating him. While Moon was no stranger to chemical intake, he never hit on hard drugs, prefering alcohol and pills to be his demon.

“He was never going to grow old gracefully,” said manager Bill Curbishley, “I don’t think he was destined to make old bones. I suppose he was designed in such a way to be remembered as he was.” Sadly, the band had just begun a new chapter in their career with the release of the ‘Who Are You’ album just weeks prior to Moon’s death. At the time, fans cryptically noted that on the cover, Moon is sitting on a chair that has the words ‘Not To Be Taken Away’ stenciled on it. A madman behind, and away from the drum kit, he didn’t earn the nickname ‘Moon The Loon’ for nothing. The tales of his crazed behavior is the stuff of legend, but 32 is far too young for him to have checked out.

Botham sets all-rounder record

Ian Botham’s test cricketing career was sprinkled with many records, some of which still stand: he five times bagged five wickets in an innings and scored a century in the same match (the next best is twice); he was the first test player ever to score a century and take 10 wickets in a match; and he is still the leading English test wicket taker, his total of 383 likely to have been far higher had his speed not been hampered in the latter part of his career with a back injury that eventually forced his retirement.

Ian Botham came to the game as a life force, his verve in stark contrast to many of those who batted with him – Boycott , Tavaré and Brearley for example. Having burst on the test scene aged 21, taking a more than creditable 5 – 74, and scoring 25 in his one knock, he was soon a fixture in the side.

In his second international season Botham showed himself as a true all rounder, in the Trent Bridge Test against Pakistan setting a record still not bettered in world cricket : he scored a dashing 108 (though it should be remembered that while immensely powerful Botham was also a very ‘correct’ batsman), and then devastated the visiting side with swing bowling that most found totally unplayable, taking 8 – 34.

Mike Brearley, his captain, called him a colossus; Wasim Bari the opposition captain described him as a magnificent cricketer, and so he certainly was.

Cambridge Sink In Boat Race

It began in 1829 (when on June 10 the Oxford boat won), and became an annual thing in 1856. Since then the varsity boat race has been part of our sporting calendar, though given (as has frequently been pointed out) the same two teams always get to the final, and that results that go against form are infrequent, it rarely offers fingernail biting tension.

But on six occasions in its history the boat race has managed to spring the surprise of a sinking, the first time in 1859, and the most recent in 1984. In 1912 both boats sank, forcing a re-rowing on the following Monday. For some reason the sinking that most stays in the memory was that in 1978. Choppy waters from a more than brisk sou’wester made life difficult for both crews. Past Chiswick Steps Oxford had a lead, but at about a boat length it was nowhere near as much as experts had expected, giving the Cambridge crew hope of a comeback over the last stages. But it was not to be.

Through Barnes Bridge and to observers the end for the Cambridge boat was all but inevitable. Their stroke realised first, or at least allowed himself to believe what he was seeing. He waved his arms above his head to signal the bitter end. For some reason while Oxford had sensibly fitted splash-boards to their boat, Cambridge had gambled that they could do without them.

They were wrong. Water from the rough surface of the Thames splashed over their boat and filled it.

TV crews had a field day. For the first time since 1951 we were being treated to the sight not just of muscular and brilliant young men – Hugh Laurie one of them in 1980 for example, and the ill-fated mountaineer Sandy Irvine in 1922 and 1923 – in a test of character, endurance and skill, but of those same chaps ignominiously sinking. Let’s face it, this was at least half the result most of us wanted.

Was it unsporting of Oxford to refuse a re-match? Not really, they were leading even with the extra weight of the splash-boards. And the Thames that March weekend was a pretty blustery spot. There were no drownings by the way.

First Episode of Grange Hill

In 1975 Phil Redmond failed to persuade ITV that his idea had legs; but the BBC was less short-sighted, and in early 1978 the first episode of a commissioned nine was broadcast. In the end the series ran for 30 years.

Kids’ TV at this time was rather cosy – nothing wrong with Blue Peter of course, but variety is the spice etc. Grange Hill was something that senior school pupils could identify with far better than variations on The Famous Five.

The programme eased its way in at first, but eventually storylines included rape, bullying including some of a very heavy face-slashing sort, and famously heroin addiction. The tough stuff was often balanced by comedic elements, though not always perhaps intentional – Rowland – that provided real dramatic contrast.

The show was a proving ground for acting and production talent over the years, with Todd Carty and Susan Tully both graduating to Eastenders and beyond; Anthony Minghella working as a script editor on it early in his career; even TV presenter and DJ Reggie Yates acting in it. Most significantly it launched the career of Redmond, who later developed Brookside and Hollyoaks, and helped rescue Emmerdale from oblivion with a controversial storyline, a technique not unknown in Grange Hill.

First Test Tube Baby Born

IVF – in vitro fertilisation – is now regarded as almost commonplace, though with many ethical issues still hotly debated. But when Louise Joy Brown was born, a healthy baby weighing 5lb 12oz, it was world news. She was the first so-called ‘test tube baby’.

Patrick Steptoe, a consultant gynaecologist, and Robert Edwards, a research physiologist, had been developing their techniques in the field of in vitro (in glass) fertilisation since the mid-1960s. They had found a successful way of fertilising eggs outside the womb, but once the egg had been returned to the mother the pregnancy would last a matter of weeks at best.

The medical team in this specific case decided to return the egg to the mother’s womb much earlier than previously, after two and a half days rather than twice that time, as they had done previously.

Lesley Brown, the 29-year-old mother-to-be, had been unable to conceive because her fallopian tubes were blocked. She and husband John, 10 years her senior, had agreed to the experimental procedure, desperate to have a child. The egg successfully embedded on Lesley’s uterus wall, as many had in other women undergoing the procedure before. But this time the egg stayed in place, grew, and the pregnancy continued with little or no concern until nine days before the expected due date, when Lesley Brown developed high blood pressure and it was decided to deliver the baby by caesarean section.

So at 11.47pm on July 15 1978 Louise Joy Brown came into the world, a gift for headline writers at the time, and a greater gift for her parents, who later had a second child, Natalie, by the same method.

Hitch Hikers Guide First Broadcast

In a 1970s radio comedy world of gentle topical sketch shows and long established panel games The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams was finally something new: different, witty and very quirky indeed. This was perhaps surprising as like so many of those employed by the BBC then and now main actors Simon Jones (Arthur); Geoffrey McGivern (Ford), and Mark Wing-Davy (Zaphod); producers Simon Brett and Geoffrey Perkins; and of course writer Adams all had the seemingly obligatory Oxbridge background. This dominance was leavened in Hitch Hiker’s Guide by the calm suavity of the great Peter Jones as The Book and RSC actor Stephen Moore as Marvin the Paranoid Android.

The creators fought the BBC to allow their series to be different: dubbing it drama to get permission to record in stereo; and lobbying to avoid the usual BBC radio comedy studio audience requirement. The first episode was broadcast on March 8 1978, less than a week after the production was finally completed.

The logical lunacy of the plot was compellingly unreal; and some of the lines like “Time is an illusion; lunchtime doubly so,” (as in the olden days pubs used to close after lunch) became instant classics. Word of mouth quickly saw to it that the programme gained a big following, and eventually cult status.

Murder of Carl Bridgewater

It was a case that shocked the nation. On September 19 1978 13-year-old Carl Bridgewater was nearing the end of his afternoon paper round when he delivered a newspaper at Yew Tree Farm near Stourbridge in Staffordshire. As the occupants were disabled he, as previously, opened the back door to drop the paper on the kitchen table. On this occasion the elderly couple who lived in the farmhouse were absent. It appears he disturbed a burglary. Dragged to the sitting room he was murdered, shot in the head at point-blank range.

The cold-blooded nature of the execution-style killing horrified all who heard about it. The police were under great public and political pressure to find the killer or killers. But that pressure led to wrongdoing by at least one police officer involved in the investigation, and a gross miscarriage of justice.

Following another similar burglary in the area Staffordshire Police rounded up four men, and after lengthy and allegedly violent interrogation one of them, petty crook Patrick Molloy, having been shown a confession by another of the gang, confessed himself, though he retracted his confession as soon as he was given access to a solicitor; nevertheless it was central to the conviction of Molloy and his three associates.

Scientific investigation of that first confession years later showed conclusively it had been fabricated, something one officer involved in the interrogations, the late DC John Perkins, was found in his subsequent career to have done on at least three other occasions. After various failed appeals, the surviving three members of the so-called Bridgewater Four were released in February 1997 pending a further appeal, their convictions quashed in July of that year.

Who really killed Carl Bridgewater is not yet known. Incredibly and tragically fingerprint evidence pointing to the presence of someone other than the Bridgewater Four at the crime scene – prints found on Carl’s bike which was hidden out of sight at the farm – was ignored at the time.

Naomi James Globe Circling First

The 1970s was a decade when women in Britain not only secured greater rights, but also demonstrated by example the idiocy of sex discrimination. Most notably of course Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister in 1979 ; but the year before Naomi James set a sporting record that made it harder for chauvinists to play the weaker sex card.

James, New Zealander by birth but a resident of Devon when she set her record, was in her mid-twenties when she learned to sail, but before she was 30 she had become the first woman to circumnavigate the globe solo (discounting the effort of a Pole who used the Panama Canal and sailed to and from the Canaries contrary to the accepted rules for the feat). She used a yacht borrowed from Chay Blyth , originally The Spirit of Cutty Sark but because of the sponsorship and support she received from The Daily Express renamed Express Crusader.

When she reached Dartmouth harbour just after 9am on June 8 1978 Mrs James – soon made Dame Naomi for her achievement – shaved two days off the record set by Sir Francis Chichester. Following the so-called clipper route she had been at sea for 272 days; had capsized; rounded Cape Horn; and lost her kitten overboard.

As a footnote, the techniques and technology of sailing changed rapidly over the next three decades: on February 7 2005 Ellen Macarthur took the record after a voyage of 71.5 days.

Sid Vicious Arrested for Murder

Sid Vicious epitomised the extreme wing of punk music. The Sex Pistols bass player who couldn’t play bass but became famous anyway for his antagonistic attitude; his self-harm; his nihilism; and most destructively of all his drug addiction.

By the autumn of 1978 Vicious had left the Sex Pistols . He and his girlfriend of well over a year Nancy Spungen, who some say introduced him to heroin, were living in New York, staying at the bohemian Chelsea Hotel. On the morning of October 12 1978 Vicious found his girlfriend in the bathroom; she had one stab wound to her abdomen, and had bled to death. Both had taken heroin the previous night; the knife that killed her was one bought by Sid.

The police who came to the hotel arrested the punk rock star. At various points he supposedly admitted knifing Nancy, but not having intended to kill her; and that somewhat improbably she had fallen on the blade. Others have put forward theories that a drug dealer delivering supplies had tried to rob the couple with Vicious out cold, and been disturbed by Nancy; or that another addict killed her.

In February 1979 Vicious died of a heroin overdose while on bail awaiting trial for the murder.

Accident, suicide, or even according to some murder, as his mother allegedly later confessed to the deliberate administration of the fatal dose? As with the murder of Nancy Spungen, his death remains a mystery, a sordid yet still tragic mystery. Nancy was 20 when she died; Vicious 21.

The Umbrella Murder

Georgi Markov was a man with many achievements to his name: he had been a successful novelist and short-story writer in his homeland of Bulgaria; after his defection in the 1970s several of his plays were staged in Britain; and he became a broadcaster with the BBC and Radio Free Europe among others. But it is for his mysterious death that he is best remembered.

On September 7 1978 Markov was waiting at a bus stop near Waterloo Bridge, en route to his job at the BBC, when he felt something sting his right thigh. Behind him a man was picking up an umbrella, apologising to Markov who thought little of the incident. The stranger hurried across the road to a taxi which whisked him away.

Later in the day Markov told a colleague or colleagues at the BBC what had happened. The pain in his leg had not gone away, and that evening a fever gripped him to such an extent that he was immediately hospitalised. Four days later he died.

An autopsy revealed a tiny – 1.5mm diameter – platinum and iridium sphere in his leg. The hollow object pierced by two holes had contained ricin, a poison with no known antidote. The ricin was kept in place by a coating over the holes, that coating designed to melt at body temperature. Markov had been assassinated, and in a very sophisticated manner.

It was probably no coincidence that September 7, the day of the attack on the writer, was the birthday of Bulgarian leader Todor Zhivkov. Markov in his broadcasts had attacked Zhivkov’s nepotistic activities and inauguration of a system of privileges for his cronies and supporters, the living example of Orwell’s Animal Farm phrase ‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.’ Tyrants and dictators are not good with criticism.

The crime now referred to as ‘the umbrella murder’ had not been solved at the time of writing, or at least nobody had been brought to justice for it: The Times among others has identified a claimed perpetrator. It is not even clear that an umbrella gun was used – in a subsequent attack on another defector in Paris no umbrella was carried by the putative assassin.

But until the full facts are known, Georgi Markov’s death will always be associated in the public consciousness with a deadly umbrella.

1978 The Yorkshire Ripper Murders

31 January – 18-year-old prostitute Helen Rytka is murdered in Huddersfield; she is believed to be the eighth victim of the Yorkshire Ripper.

It didn’t take a police dog very long to locate Helen Rytka’s body after Rita finally confessed to working as a prostitute and relayed the events of the night to the police. Ten minutes after the search of the timber yard in Great Northern Street began at 3:00 pm on Friday, February 3rd, her body had been located in a narrow space behind a pile of timber and a disused garage. She had been covered with a sheet of asbestos. Her clothes had been scattered over a wide area, one of her shoes was found twenty yards away. Her bra and black polo-neck jumper had been pushed up above her breasts, but other than her socks, all other clothing had been removed. There were three stab wounds to the chest, including indications of multiple stabs through the same wounds, and scratch marks on her chest.

26 March – The body of 21-year-old prostitute and mother-of-two Yvonne Pearson, who was last seen alive on 21 January, is found in Leeds. The Yorkshire Ripper is believed to have been responsible.

The police were left with several puzzles. To begin with, they found it inconceivable that her body would not have been discovered earlier by someone with her arm sticking out so obviously, unless it had been moved by a dog. As well a copy of the Daily Mirror, dated February 21st, exactly one month after the murder, was found under one of her arms, looking, apparently, deliberately placed. Peter Sutcliffe would later deny that he had returned to the body, continuing the mystery.

The second, and more important puzzle, was whether or not it was a Yorkshire Ripper killing. There were the massive head wounds, but Professor David Gee’s examination led him to believe they had been caused by a boulder, and not a hammer. There weren’t any stab wounds, but her clothing had been arranged in typical Ripper fashion, her bra and sweater above the breast, her other clothing dragged down. At first, the police discounted it as a Ripper killing, but later it was included in his catalogue of murders and attacks.

16 May – 40-year-old prostitute Vera Millward is found stabbed to death in the grounds of the Manchester Royal Infirmary Hospital; she is believed to have been the tenth woman to die at the hands of the Yorkshire Ripper. Both of the victims killed outside Yorkshire have been killed in Manchester.

The tire tracks, with their common denominators of India Autoway cross-ply tires with a track width of 4′ 2", were consistent with those found at the Richardson murder scene and at the Moore attack scene. This, coupled with the injuries the victim received, was convincing evidence that the Yorkshire Ripper had crossed the Pennines again and killed in Manchester for the second time.

Vera Millward was the last known attack of Peter Sutcliffe’s in 1978 and was also the last murder or attack on a prostitute. The known attacks would not resume until April 1979. When they did, they took on an even more sinister pattern (and similar to his earliest attacks). Other than in Sutcliffe’s mind, the victims would not be prostitutes, or even women who were in or near red-light areas. He would not try to pick them up in his car, nor, other than the first in the new series, would he engage them in conversation. No woman, no matter where in West Yorkshire, was safe from his trawling for a victim.

1978 Timeline

11 January – A North Sea storm surge ruins four piers in the UK: Herne Bay, Margate, Hunstanton and Skegness.

16 January – The firefighters strike ends after three months when fire crews accept an offer of a 10% pay rise and reduced working hours.

18 January – The European Court of Human Rights finds the United Kingdom government guilty of mistreating prisoners in Northern Ireland, but not guilty of torture.

30 January – Opposition leader Margaret Thatcher says that many Britons fear being "swamped by people with a different culture".

31 January – 18-year-old prostitute Helen Rytka is murdered in Huddersfield; she is believed to be the eighth victim of the Yorkshire Ripper.

9 February – Gordon McQueen, 25-year-old Scotland central defender, becomes Britain’s first £500,000 footballer in a transfer from Leeds United to Manchester United.

13 February – Anna Ford becomes the first female newsreader on ITN.

17 February – Inflation has fallen to 9.9% – the first time since 1973 that it has been in single figures.

18 February – Twenty suspects arrested in connection with the Provisional Irish Republican Army La Mon restaurant bombing in County Down which had killed 12 people and injured 30.

20 February – Severe blizzards hit the south west of England.

8 March – The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy first broadcast by BBC Radio 4.

26 March – The body of 21-year-old prostitute and mother-of-two Yvonne Pearson, who was last seen alive on 21 January, is found in Leeds. The Yorkshire Ripper is believed to have been responsible.

30 March – Conservative Party recruit advertising agency Saatchi & Saatchi to revamp their image.

April – First official naturist beach opens at Fairlight Glen in Covehurst Bay near Hastings.

3 April – Permanent radio broadcasts of proceedings in the House of Commons begin.

6 April – State Earnings-Related Pension Scheme introduced.

23 April – Nottingham Forest win the Football League First Division title for the first time in their history. Their manager Brian Clough, who guided their East Midlands rivals Derby County to the title six years ago, is only the second manager in history to lead two different clubs to top division title glory; the other was the late Herbert Chapman with Huddersfield Town and Arsenal during the interwar years.

1 May – May Day becomes a bank holiday for the first time.

6 May – Ipswich Town win the FA Cup for the first time by beating Arsenal 1–0 in the Wembley final.

10 May – Liverpool F.C. retain the European Cup with a 1–0 win over Club Brugge K.V., the Belgian champions, at Wembley Stadium.

16 May – 40-year-old prostitute Vera Millward is found stabbed to death in the grounds of the Manchester Royal Infirmary Hospital; she is believed to have been the tenth woman to die at the hands of the Yorkshire Ripper. Both of the victims killed outside Yorkshire have been killed in Manchester.

25 May – Liberal Party leader David Steel announces that the Lib-Lab pact will be dissolved at the end of the current Parliamentary session by mutual consent, leaving Britain with a minority Labour government.

31 May – Labour wins the Hamilton by-election, retaining it in the face of a strong challenge from the Scottish National Party in that seat.

1 June – William Stern is declared bankrupt with debts of £118 million, the largest bankruptcy in British history at the time.

3 June – Freddie Laker is knighted.

8 June – Naomi James becomes the first woman to sail around the world single-handedly.

17 June – Media reports suggest that a general election will be held this autumn as the minority government led by James Callaghan and Labour appears to be nearing the end of its duration. Callaghan’s chances of an election win are now looking brighter than they were four months ago, as the 11-point Conservative lead has evaporated.

19 June – Cricketer Ian Botham becomes the first man in the history of the game to score a century and take eight wickets in one innings of a Test match.

21 June – An outbreak of shooting between Provisional IRA members and the British Army leaves one civilian and three IRA men dead.

The Andrew Lloyd Webber musical Evita opens at the Prince Edward Theatre in London.

6 July – Taunton train fire: eleven people killed in worst rail accident since Hither Green rail crash in 1967.

7 July – The Solomon Islands become independent from the United Kingdom.

25 July – Louise Brown becomes the world’s first human born from in vitro fertilisation, in Oldham.

Motability, a charity which provides cars to disabled people, founded.

20 August – Gunmen open fire on an Israeli El Al airline bus in London.

25 August – U.S. Army Sergeant Walter Robinson "walks" across the English Channel in 11 hours 30 minutes, using home-made water shoes.

7 September – Prime Minister James Callaghan announces that he will not call a general election for this autumn, and faces accusations from Tory leader Margaret Thatcher and Liberal leader David Steel of "running scared", in spite of many opinion polls showing that Labour (currently a minority government) could win an election now with a majority. Callaghan also announces that the Lib-Lab pact, formed 18 months ago when the government lost its majority, has reached its end.

Bulgarian dissident Georgi Markov is stabbed with a poison-tipped umbrella as he walks across Waterloo Bridge, London, probably on orders of Bulgarian intelligence; he dies 4 days later.

15 September – German terrorist Astrid Proll arrested in London.

19 September – British Police launch a massive murder hunt, following the discovery of the dead body of newspaper boy Carl Bridgewater (13) at a farmhouse near Kingswinford in the West Midlands. Carl is believed to have been shot dead after disturbing a burglary at the property.

26 September – 23 Ford car plants are closed across Britain due to strikes.

17 October – A cull of Grey seals in the Orkney and Western Islands reduced after a public outcry.

23 October – The government announces plans for a new single exam to replace O Levels and CSEs.

25 October – A ceremony marks the completion of Liverpool Cathedral, for which the foundation stone was laid in 1904.

27 October – Four people die and four others are wounded in a shooting spree which began in a residential street in West Bromwich and ends at a petrol station some 20 miles away in Nuneaton.

28 October – Barry Williams, aged 36, is arrested in Derbyshire and charged with yesterday’s shootings following a high-speed police chase.

3 November – Dominica gains its independence from the United Kingdom.

4 November – Many British bakeries impose bread rationing after a baker’s strike led to panic buying of bread.

5 November – Rioters sack the British Embassy in Tehran.

10 November – Panic buying of bread stops as most bakers go back to work.

18 November – The British leg of the 1978 Kangaroo tour concludes with Australia winning the Ashes series by defeating Great Britain in the third and deciding Test match in Leeds.

20 November – Buckingham Palace announces that The Prince Andrew is to join the Royal Navy.

23 November – Pollyanna’s nightclub in Birmingham is forced to lift its ban on black and Chinese revellers, after a one-year investigation by the Commission for Racial Equality concludes that the nightclub’s entry policy was racist.

29 November – Viv Anderson, the 22-year-old Nottingham Forest defender, becomes England’s first black international footballer when he appears in 1–0 friendly win over Czechoslovakia at Wembley Stadium – six months after he became the first black player to feature in an English league championship winning team and was also on the winning side in the final of the Football League Cup.

30 November – An industrial dispute closes down The Times newspaper (until 12 November 1979).

10 December – Peter D. Mitchell wins the Nobel Prize in Chemistry "for his contribution to the understanding of biological energy transfer through the formulation of the chemiosmotic theory".

14 December – The Labour minority government survives a vote of confidence. Inflation reaches a six-year low of 8.3%, although unemployment is at a postwar high of 1,500,000.

West Midlands motorcycle manufacturer Norton Villiers Triumph is liquidated.

Concrete Cows first erected in Milton Keynes.

Financially troubled car-maker Chrysler sells its European operations, including the former Rootes Group factories in Britain, to French carmaker Peugeot.

Anna Ford became the first female newsreader on ITN.

First official UK naturist beach opened at Fairlight Glen in Covehurst Bay near Hastings.

1978 in British music

14 January – The Sex Pistols play their final show (until a reunion in 1996).

24 January – Wings’ "Mull of Kintyre" makes No.1 for its ninth (and final) week – becoming the biggest-selling single in UK history to this point.

25 January – Electric Light Orchestra kick off their Out of the Blue world tour in Honolulu, Hawaii.

11 March – Kate Bush becomes the first female solo artist to reach number one in the UK charts with a self-written song ("Wuthering Heights").

25 May – The Who play their last show with Keith Moon.

30 July – Thin Lizzy officially announces that Gary Moore has replaced Brian Robertson on guitar.

18 August – The Who release their eighth studio Who Are You. It is The Who’s last album with Keith Moon as the drummer; Moon died twenty days after the release of this album.

27 November – Def Leppard’s permanent drummer Rick Allen joins the band at the age of 15.

The Bee Gees’ Saturday Night Fever becomes the biggest-selling album of all time (until overtaken in 1983).

Operatic contralto Helen Watts is awarded the CBE.

Multitone Records is founded by Pranil Gohil and specializing in bhangra style music.

Number one singles

"Mull of Kintyre" / "Girls’ School" – Wings "Uptown Top Ranking" – Althea & Donna "Figaro" – Brotherhood of Man "Take a Chance on Me" – ABBA "Wuthering Heights" – Kate Bush "Matchstalk Men and Matchstalk Cats and Dogs" – Brian and Michael "Night Fever" – Bee Gees "Rivers of Babylon" – Boney M "You’re the One That I Want" – John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John "Three Times a Lady" – The Commodores "Dreadlock Holiday" – 10cc "Summer Nights" – John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John "Rat Trap" – The Boomtown Rats "Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?" – Rod Stewart "Mary’s Boy Child – Oh My Lord" – Boney M

Television and Film

Anna Ford became the first female newsreader on ITN.

The Good Life, The Sweeny and Opportunity Knocks come to an end.

Grange Hill, Dallas and Battlestar Galactica begin.

20 January – The first of ITV’s occasional An Audience With programmes is aired. The first presenter is Jasper Carrott.

27 January – In an interview for Granada Television’s World in Action programme, Leader of the Opposition Margaret Thatcher remarks, "people are really rather afraid that this country might be rather swamped by people with a different culture". Critics regard the comment as a veiled reference to people of colour, thus pandering to xenophobia and reactionary sentiment.

However, Thatcher receives 10,000 letters thanking her for raising the subject and the Conservatives gain a lead against Labour in the opinion polls.

22 February – The Police appear in a television commercial for Wrigley’s chewing gum.

24 February – 7 April – The BBC airs Going Straight. The sitcom is a direct spin-off from Porridge, starring Ronnie Barker as Norman Stanley Fletcher, newly released from the fictional Slade Prison where Porridge had been set. The programme airs for one series.

7 March – 11 April – Dennis Potter’s ground-breaking drama serial Pennies From Heaven airs on BBC1.

24 May – The iconic skateboarding duck item first airs on BBC TV’s Nationwide.

13 July – The original series of Top Gear begins airing on BBC2 having started as a locally produced programme at BBC Pebble Mill the previous year.

10 September – Return of the Saint. The Saint returns with a new voice actor named Ian Ogilvy and introducing the Jaguar XJ-S to take over the Volvo P1800 from the Saint 1962 TV series. The first episode is The Judas Game.

17 October – James Burke’s history of science series Connections first airs on BBC.

6 November – ITV airs the first episode of Edward & Mrs.Simpson, a seven-part British television series that dramatises the events leading to the 1936 abdication of King Edward VIII of the United Kingdom, who gave up his throne to marry the twice-divorced American Wallis Simpson.

23 November – 15th anniversary of the first episode of science fiction series Doctor Who.

BBC1

2 January – Blake’s 7 (1978–1981) 8 January – All Creatures Great and Small (1978–1990) 8 February – Grange Hill (1978–2008) 10 April – Cheggers Plays Pop (1978–1986)

BBC2

11 March – Something Else (1978–1982) 10 November – Butterflies (1978–1983, 2000)

ITV

14 January – The South Bank Show (1978–2010, 2012-present) 5 June – Strangers (1978–1982) 8 July – Saturday Banana (1978) 29 July – 3-2-1 (1978–1988) 10 September – Return of the Saint (1978–1979)

Image from page 289 of “An American engineer in China” (1900)

Image by Internet Archive Book Images Identifier: cu31924023226081 Title: An American engineer in China Year: 1900 (1900s) Authors: Parsons, William Barclay, 1859-1932 Subjects: Parsons, William Barclay, 1859-1932 Railroads Publisher: New York, McClure, Phillips & co. Contributing Library: Cornell University Library Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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Text Appearing Before Image: ngle-track lines, exceptthe division between Tien-tsin and Peking. Thetrack is of the American type ; the locomotivesare partly American and partly English; and thecars, both passenger and freight, are an adapta-tion of both the American and English patterns,made to conform with local conditions, and intheir construction to come within the facilities oflocal shops, for all the rolling stock, except theengines, is home-made. As a field for the future, China stands pre-eminent on account of its size, its population, andits well-known but undeveloped mineral wealth,and offers chances and opportunities that are tobe found nowhere else in the Orient. The Japanese, in his essentials, does not differradically from other Eastern Asiatic races. Start-ing from a point much inferior in the way of com-mercial development to that attained by the Chi-nese, he has built up, the greater part by his ownindividual and unassisted efforts, a railway systemthat can take rank with the railways of any other

Text Appearing After Image: J3 o s- ^ V B. Chapter IX: Railways 285 country. What he has done the Chinese can do,and will do, especiall} seeing that the conditionsfor success on the mainland, with possibilities lorthrough traffic and vast mineral deposits await-ing rail transportation outward, exceed those ofinsular Japan. Chapter X The Yellow Peril THERE are two questions in regard toChina that are frequently raised, whichmerit attention on account of their beingsupported by a belief that appears to be quitewide-spread. One is whether it is not dangerouscommercially to supply the Chinese with facto-ries, mills, railways and other modern means ofconstructing, by means of which, operated bytheir cheap labor, they will be able to flood theworld with articles at a price lower than theycan be manufactured elsewhere, and thus closeour own factories, or compel our laborers towork for less pay. The other question is whetherit is not dangerous politically to teach the Chi-nese modern methods, lest they will devote their

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