#its impossible to organize anything and the straps are so short that it falls off my shoulder

[detentiontrack]

I hate to say this as a known lesbian.... But I don't think my mushroom canvas tote bag is very functional for me now.....

[whump-a-la-mode]

Continuation of defiant whumpee the dark light three month one please

This is a little short, but I hope it’s still okay! Continuation from here.

CW//Mentions of death, sleep deprivation torture, dehumanization, collaring

“Now, I’m sure we’re all very excited about the new white water rafting course coming to town, but before we get to that, there is something else we need to note.”

The grin upon the reporter’s face was painted, yet practiced, polished enough to appear, in the slightest way, genuine. In the screen’s corner, an image fizzled into existence: An exterior shot of a building’s entrance, adorned with columns and countless plaques.

There was no need to label the heroes HQ-- It would be like labeling the Empire State Building. Redundant at best, insulting at worst.

“It’s been quite the eventful autumn, but I’m sure you will have no trouble remembering the siege that occurred downtown.” Easing from warm water to cold, the reporter’s voice turned gradually somber. “Believe it or not, the siege occurred three months ago today. In honor of the three Heroes lost in the attack, we ask the nation to now take a moment of silence.

The Organization of Heroes has also requested that we inform you of the upcoming public memorial parade next Saturday.

Now, let us reflect on all that we lost on that fateful day.”

Folding their hands together, the reporter dipped their head, clicking their tongue to count down the seconds. Once a minute had passed, they lifted it, expressions changing like costumery.

“Now, about the exciting white water rafting course coming to downtown Metropolis!”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

“I have to admit, Scientist, I’m skeptical.” There was a certain apprehension to Leader’s voice, accompanied by the rhythmic clomping of shined shoes on equally polished white tiles.

“What’s there to be skeptical about?” The scientist replied, oversized lab coat practically dragging behind them as they moved down the cavernous hallway, its ceiling stretching far above their head. “I said no escapes, and no one’s escaped! You know how good I am.”

“Yes, yes.” They nodded. “I’m well aware. But certain things are simply impossible. I mean, pigs can’t fly.”

“I’m working on that one, actually.”

“I- Okay. First of all, we need to have a talk about your funding. Secondly... We’re talking about Villain, here. I know you aren’t exactly most avid watcher of, well, the outside world in general. But you know about the siege. You know what they destroyed, what we lost. What the city lost. All at their hands. And now...”

“And now you’re going to have a bodyguard.”

“What if they run? What if they turn on us?”

Scientist was practically skipping as they moved to the end of the hallway, a hummed tune playing on their lips. At last, the two emerged before a pair of double doors, emblazoned with a thousand warnings of medical, safety, and administrative nature.

“Leader, have you heard of risk and reward?”

The two stood there, before the door, a newfound nerve coming with their idleness.

“I’ve heard of the saying. High risk, high reward?”

“Yes. Well, that would be closer to the economic concept that you are likely familiar with. I’m speaking in a purely psychological sense.

It’s an automatic process, leftover from our base mammalian brains. You see, instinctively, we, as humans, make decisions based on how much risk, and how much reward, is associated with them.

In almost all cases, any option with a high risk will be decided against, regardless of the associated reward. You see, the human body is very good at keeping itself alive.

But, if the reward is high enough, if the reward is something we truly need, then any risk can be taken.”

“What are you saying, Scientist?”

“I’m saying that Villain will do anything, protecting you including, if we give them something they need.”

“Which is...”

“Sleep.”

With that, the two, the scientist and the director, entered the chamber. It was bright, painfully so, even to the naked eye. Though the walls were scattered with all manner of scientific paraphernalia, Leader’s gaze snapped quite immediately to something else.

A dentist’s chair, in the center of the room, with a very familiar occupant.

Yet, Villain did not wear a single restraint upon them. Even so, their movements were limited to squirming, shifting their head back and forth.

Upon arriving at the side of the chair, the reason for such movements was quite rapidly made obvious.

The object placed upon the Villain���s face could not quite be described as a visor, though a more appropriate term refused to come to Leader’s mind. It appeared, almost, as a welder’s mask, cut off just below the eyes. Instead of being form fitting, the metal emerged a few inches from their face.

To make room for the lights.

Within the visor, a pair of blazing LEDs shone, all targeted at Villain’s trembling eyelids. Their sockets had nearly been swallowed whole by the dark bags beneath them.

“Wouldn’t want them falling asleep.” There was a childish grin upon Scientist’s face, associated with the grim words. “Now, Villain? Open your eyes. Look at me.”

With agonizing slowness, the villain carried out the order. Though, the light tearing at their corneas seemed to pain them terribly.

“I’ve brought someone to speak to you, now. Listen, or I’ll turn up the brightness on that little headpiece, okay?”

They didn’t need to be told a second time.

With a shuddering breath, Leader took a step forth. It was an odd feeling, knowing that they were speaking to an audience that was only listening under threat. But, this whole situation was rather odd, anyways.

“Villain, you have terrorized this city, my city, for longer than some of our younger residents can remember. I cannot say I understand your goals. But, whatever you wanted, be it power, be it fame, is a goal that you will never achieve.

Darkness can never defeat the light.

But, you have been granted abilities so powerful that some of my best soldiers could not dream of them. Leaving them to waste is not something I am willing to do. Thus, I have a choice for you to make.

I am in need of a bodyguard. An assistant. A partner in the field. And you are the perfect candidate for this position. This is your choice.

Either you swear the rest of your natural life to my service, or I shall give Scientist full license to continue their sleep deprivation study upon you. It is your choice, though I hope one option is more appealing.

So, what do you say?”

For a few moments, Villain’s cracked lips quivered, before, at last, they managed to produce a sound. A pair of them, in fact.

“Yes. Please.”

“Great!” Leader clapped their hands together. “Now, let’s seal this, shall we?”

From a loop on their belt, they withdrew a strap of leather-- decorated with studs, and dangling with a pendant. The organization’s logo.

With a single, decisive pull, the collar was fastened around Villain’s neck.

“Now.” Scientist smiled. “For your cooperation, it is time for you to rest. I would say... Hm, how about an hour? That seems fair to me.”

With a click, they turned off the lights, and Villain’s head dropped.

[bluegarners]

Oooh for the bingo card can I pick survivors guilt with dick feeling guilty cause he ran away from home just like Jason but he lived while Jason died 😢

ahhh sorry this took awhile to get to!! i hope you enjoy this though~ requested for my Bad Things Happen Bingo ; it is also on ao3

Survivor's Guilt

The days bleed into one another to the point where it’s almost offensive, how indistinct and indiscriminate each sunrise and subsequent sunset is. A little boy died and the world carries on like nothing happened. Like his life was nothing less than the lawn being mowed or a tree being cut down. Is there an analogy Dick’s forgetting about, comparing dead children to nature? He’s not sure, he’s just tired, and the days continue to bleed into one another.

Monday is actually Thursday and Dick looks in the mirror and traces the bruise on his face. There’s a line in the fading purple blob that’s just the slightest bit darker. Knuckle indents. He saw it coming but he didn’t do anything. It was… just a punch. He applies some ointment and looks away. A little boy died and he’s still taking care of a tiny little injury, hardly an injury, it’s nothing, it’s nothing, because-

It’s four in the evening and Dick just woke up. It’s not a good habit to fall into, to sleep so late, do so little, think about dead little boys and missed funerals, but Dick can’t help it. Sometimes, he loses time within the bleeding days, just sits down for a moment and then an alarm goes off to remind him that it’s morning now and that he should be getting up to do… something. Go somewhere. Take care of things. But what? But what? Dick only just sat down, it doesn’t seem fair for the world to demand he be pulled this way and that when it already took a child, already took someone that never graduated tenth grade.

What do people learn in tenth grade? They’re just children, and Dick can’t remember much from his Gotham Academy days, so he really hopes they aren’t put under too much pressure. They’re all just so young, tenth graders, so young and youthful and there’s really no reason for them to be bogged down with work or stress from education. Life was infinitely more important than some late homework and Dick wonders if the school requires missing assignments from dead children. Wonders what they do with that extra, empty desk or the absent name on the roster. Wonders if they just shove another kid into their place, cross out the name for attendance, and carry on like the rest of the world seems to have.

What’s more, what do the friends of the dead child do? Do they mourn? Mourning seems so sad for the young, it's got no place in their view, and yet Dick remembers mourning, grieving when he was just nine but it was all so wrong. Dick hopes that the friends of the dead child are okay. Dead child. Dead little boy. Dead tenth grader.

He heard the funeral was nice. Heard that the school hosted a vigil. Of course, he wasn’t able to attend. Wasn’t extended the invitation to attend, but it’s not about him. It’s about the dead boy.

Dick has never been comfortable with children. Not in the sense that he finds them strange or annoying or that he can’t stand youth. He’s just not comfortable with the sheer light, with people who possess so much of it that it literally oozes out in all the things they do. Leaks out from their innocent smiles, their troubled and off-handed questions, their zest for adventure, yearning for dreams so much larger than themselves, their endless compassion for others, their infinite amount of crushes, their worry about deadlines and asking someone out on a date, their constant need to keep up with trends of the day; so many light things that Dick hasn’t touched in so long. So many things he feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to touch.

You were lucky.

Was he? Dick doesn’t think he was, but then again, he’s not a dead little boy with a specially made coffin to fit his small, under-developed, never got the chance to reach a growth-spurt, body. Being Batman’’s partner was terrifying. He remembers it being scary, not knowing if he was going to live through the night or if Batman was going to go off on another rampage because Dick screwed up. Not knowing if screwing up as Batman’s partner meant no longer being welcomed as Bruce’s ward.

How many times has it been now? Twice? Three times?

A key is gone from his chain now and its missing weight burns holes in all of Dick’s clothes. It’s a finality that feels just as permanent as the dead little boy’s gravestone.

A size six and a half pair of sandals sit on the edges of Dick’s tiny balcony. He has a no shoe policy in his apartment, hardly cleaner than the streets below, but it was the principle that counted right? No muddy boots, no dirty sneakers, no rain logged socks, none of that. So Dick keeps a pair of size six and a half sandals on his balcony in case a size six and a half wearer decides to waltz in.

Dick wears a size eleven.

He’ll have to get rid of them at some point. There’s no reason for them to stay there, collecting dust or peeling away whenever it rains. They weren’t even that good of a pair, just some knock off brand he found at a convenience store once, so keeping them for their worth isn’t that important. He spent the entirety of seven dollars on them, so really, he’s not strapped for cash and he can’t wear them himself and he’s sure that some homeless kid or anyone really would be happy to have them. He could just donate them, throw them in a box and leave it outside for the trash to pick up. He could. He could.

He can’t.

They aren’t his. They belonged to someone, someone very important, and he can’t just throw them away. You don’t throw away a dead little boy’s shoes just because they can’t wear them anymore. His parents always taught him to respect the dead, respect their belongings, and those sandals aren’t his so he’s got no say in what to do with them. It’s fine if the dead child’s shoes stay out on Dick’s balcony. It’s fine. He doesn’t go out there much anyway. The shoes are so tiny, only a size six and a half, and Dick can hardly get half of his foot in a size so small and they belong to a dead boy anyway so he shouldn’t touch them. Shouldn’t touch the dead child’s shoes.

He’s distancing himself on purpose. It’s a lot easier to say a dead little boy, a dead child, than it is to admit a name belongs to such a ghastly title. There are so many other words, so many other titles infinitely more fitting for a child than dead, and yet it’s the only one that describes him in this moment. Dead. Gone. Passed.

There used to be a box shoved away in the back corners of his closet. A cramped and banged up cardboard box containing every memory he had from being Robin. There used to be a picture of his parents in there, a cracked glass frame and a stained photo all he had left from Haly’s; there was his old costume from the circus, the same one he wore on the night where the sawdust turned black and he learned what sounds a body makes when it hits the ground; there was a small photo album in there too, pictures Alfred took of Dick’s time at the Manor, of his time as Bruce’s ward. Sometimes he’ll flip through its pages and feel that sting in his eyes, feeling the ghostly fingers of longing cradle his head through each memory every pristine photo contained.

And, most importantly, in that old, worn out, and beat up cardboard box, was Robin. Red, green, and yellow. Shorts and a velcro cape. Boots he doesn’t know how he ever fit into. A vest that would be impossible to get around his shoulders now. The crest, the emblem. Robin.

It was supposed to stay in that box. Remain there for the rest of his days, leave behind a child soldier and trade it out for a freelancer looking for a new war to fight. A new landscape to reshape and hone as his own. But then another little boy, taller than when Dick started out, appears in the night and leaps and frolics and laughs by Batman’s side. Stands over Gotham and gloats and jeers and grasps Robin almost perfectly.

And for the first time, Dick understands the horror that plowed into every other superhero out there when he first debuted as Robin. Understands the numbing terror of the thought of a child, someone who probably didn’t know how to do calculus or read Shakespeare or tie their shoes correctly, out there fighting the dirtiest and darkest sides of the world. That someone with a shoe size of six and a half was out there punching rapists, getting up close with drug lords and traffickers, witnessing and investigating crime scenes and analyzing gore and blood spatters.

Just a child. Just a little boy.

It feels wrong. So, so wrong, to give his blessing to someone who’s just barely hit puberty. Who’s still struggling to perfect a Robin cackle or speak without his voice cracking and pitching wildly. It’d make him a hypocrite not to though. He was younger, so much younger, when he started out as Robin, so who is he to stop an almost teenager from being Robin?

Well, actually, Dick is an adult. His frontal lobe is completely developed, he can pay taxes, drink, vote, organize his own affairs, drive, buy cigarettes, make his own decisions. Help others make decisions. Jas- the dead boy was just that. A boy. He had no idea how to do any of those things, much less think about them for the next few years, so how can he just allow a child to decide if they want to traumatize themselves, bleed themselves dry, for a city that doesn’t love them and devote themselves to a man’s mission that hasn’t changed in over a decade?

But even if he hadn’t given his blessing, the boy would have been Robin anyway. Remember? Dick has no say in anything to do with Robin. Anything to do with Gotham. No, all that was taken away the moment he stepped out of line, stepped out of the conformity and obedience Batman demanded. The blessing�� it was just a formality for something Dick had never wanted to continue. Robin was supposed to disappear with him, die with him leaving Gotham, and yet…

Robin died anyhow.

There’s a dead little boy that used to be named Robin buried in a cemetery with a beautifully carved gravestone that just wanted the child to rest in peace, sleep well, and dream of a better life. And Dick gave his blessing for him to die as Robin.

The days still bleed into each other, melting and drifting over and mixing until the sunrises and sets in the same minute. Dick keeps losing time and people keep calling him but he just forgets to pick up the phone to answer. He can’t help but stare at his balcony, can’t help but stare at the empty space in the box, can’t help but listen to his own heartbeat and watch the way his chest expands as his lungs do.

He is alive. Alive when he probably shouldn’t be.

Robin was not meant to last. Dick has told himself that over and over again, the clear and simple fact that Robin was not meant to carry on. Born through the same circumstances as Batman, Robin was supposed to be nothing more than a temporary outlet but Dick got addicted and now he can’t stop. Now his thoughts loop around and around and all he can think about is a dead child wearing his Robin uniform and running out in the night with his blessing.

You were lucky.

Bruce was right. He was lucky. Lucky beyond belief that he survived being Robin. Lucky he stuck around long enough to learn what he needed to and then some under Batman’s tutelage, only to be fired and leave a gaping hole behind that was just calling for a replacement. Screaming for someone to fill the void, beckoning the ears of the young and naive to answer its call. Of course a child would answer. Of course someone eager and looking for love and praise and meaning would find their way there.

And perhaps Dick used up all the luck, all the magic, Robin gave. Used it all up and without a care in the world for who would be next to wear the cape, parade the emblem, because now there’s a dead little boy in the ground and his blood stains Dick’s hands.

Maybe if he had died as Robin instead, died in those early days where he was nine and filled with moxy undeserved, it would have served as warning enough to stay away from Batman. Stay away from Robin. Stay away from the beckon of being a child soldier. And, really, it wouldn’t have been all that bad if he had died so young. If he had died after Zucco was found because then he would have been with his parents, would have been reunited with his family again.

Dick isn’t sure he believes in the after life, if there are places like Heaven and Hell, but sometimes he hopes there is because there is a dead little boy in his arms and he is desperate for the hope that he has a good place to go to. To move on to.

But Dick’s not dead, still very much alive and breathing through working lungs with blood pumping through his veins, and now he’s not only outlived his time as Robin, but the next as well. He has outlived a child.

How do you outlive your own legacy?

He can’t call the dead child his brother. They’re not, legally, and Dick didn’t bond with him like brothers should. He tried, tried to after the initial shock and horror, bought size six and a half sandals, helped with homework, lent an ear to vent to, but it wasn’t enough.

Somehow, a dead little brother is so much worse than a child and Dick can’t give him another title to cling to. Can’t assign another name and still…

Jason is dead. Dick missed his funeral, missed it all, and his name is Jason Todd and he was only fifteen when he died and god, Dick wishes he had been a better brother. Wishes so badly he had never given his blessing, never lived through being Robin, because that would mean Jason would have never had to die and he would be in Dick’s place, simply breathing and alive and that’s… that’s all he can ask for.

The days continue to bleed into each other and the bruise slowly fades away into his skin.

The sandals remain on the balcony.

[brutal-nemesis]

Spiral Day 2021: Cycle(-stys) of Yikes

Waddup y’all out how’s spinning out going? Good, good, love to hear it. Hey does anyone want to watch me break Castys? It’ll be funny I swear ヽ(✿ﾟ▽ﾟ)ノ In reality it’s INCREDIBLY messed up so please heed the warnings shit gets dark But uh yeah for context this is when he’s stuck in the lab ✨

Castys Masterlist

Ingredients: lab whump, dehumanization, muzzle, organ harvesting and noncon surgery referenced, the boy goes nuts, starvation, dehydration, implied self-harm, implied autocannibalism 

Castys thought endless torment would be a little more exciting. 

Not that he’d expected it to be fun, but it was just...boring. Every damn day was the same. They’d drag him out of his cell to the same room, strap him to the same table, cut him open with the same knives and take out the same organs. Well, no, the organs they took varied by the day. But he only had so many different ones, so at some point he’d experienced it all before. The tests had a horrifically wide variety to them, but the common theme seemed to be Painful and Terrible and 0/10 Would Not Recommend. 

He’d fantasize about being back on his ship often to distract himself from everything. He’d imagine the sound of the waves, the feel of the spray in the wind, the smell of salt, his crew by his side...the thought of them made him happy and sad at the same time. He missed them all so much (except for Harris, he was a bitch), but the fact that he was here meant they were all safe and happy. Yeah, that was why he was stuck in this stupid place, those darned mortals and their tiny lifespans that he just had to get all sympathetic about and give himself up to these psychos so they didn’t spend the rest of their little lives in misery. Instead, he was going to spend the rest of his much longer life stuck in-no, he was going to get out...somehow.

But how? He didn’t have anything to pick the locks with. He was constantly restrained, either strapped to a table or chair in the lab or being manhandled from one room to the next by people who were ridiculously stronger than him. He’d tried to rush past the guards when they came to get him from his cell, but they’d caught him and chained his ankles together, making it nearly impossible for him to even walk. The short chain connecting his ankles and the muzzle they’d strapped to his face a couple weeks in were never taken off, just permanent additions to what it was like to be Castys. And if they took the muzzle off, it was just so they could mess with his mouth, and it went right back on afterwards, because why give food and water to someone who can’t stay dead?

So it went. Castys started to forget what it was like to walk normally, to speak with other people, what it felt like to eat, to be touched in a way that didn’t hurt, to be treated like a person. There was only the cycle of wake up, get dragged out, get sliced open, get poked and prodded and stabbed and studied, get dragged back, fall asleep and pray that tomorrow would be a little better, or even a little different. He could vaguely keep track of time by how blood-crusted his skin was, a way to tell how long it had been since the last time they’d hosed him down and chopped off his hair. The ship he dreamed of never went anywhere anymore, it was stuck, like him, because there was only here, wasn’t there? Everything else was just a delusion. The boy had always been in a cage, the ship had always been in a bottle. The square of the sky he could see out the window was there to trick him into thinking there was something else out there, but he knew there wasn’t. There was only here, and there was only the cycle.

The cycle, though, began to change, so slowly as to almost be imperceptible from one day to the next. Tests were a little shorter. Less organs were taken. They left him alone for a minute more. He hardly noticed it was happening until one day...they didn’t come for him at all. At first he was alright with it, he preferred the loneliness and the quiet to the table and the pain. But not dying at their hands every day meant the condition of his body wasn’t being reset constantly. Soon enough, hunger and thirst began to claw at him. Even if he had something to eat or drink, that muzzle was still stuck to his face, no matter how much he fiddled with it. Or maybe that was just a part of him, maybe he didn’t have a mouth, and this was just his face.

Every three days. Thirst. Weakness. Dizziness. Death. Was it three days? Is that how long you could last without water? He tried to count, but the numbers got lost in the haze all too easily. There was no way to mark the stone, to keep track outside of his head, the blood wasn’t being washed off him anymore. He had nothing, nothing at all, just here and himself and the unyielding stone. The square of sunlight would move across the cell, the only motion to break the constancy of everything else. It was the same day repeated over and over and over and over and over and it was the same just the same nothing ever changed, ever, ever, it was the same-

Something wasn’t the same. The leather muzzle that had kept him silent for so long had been slowly rotting, and it finally fell off. For a moment he simply stared at it lying there on the ground, broken, dying, fading away. He opened his mouth for the first time in decades. And he screamed, because that thing got to rot away and disappear and he wouldn’t, he would always be here, hungry and thirsty and alone and trapped and alive and it wasn’t fair, not at all, and he screamed because it had been so long since he was able, he cried because it was all he could do.

The tears, at least, moistened his dry tongue.

He drew lines. Some were faint, and some were vivid. The vivid ones were good, they were brilliantly red, they tasted so sweet, they pulsed and burned like stars. He drew so, so many, and every one was new and different and brilliant. Little cracks in the never ending cycle of monotonous agony. They let him feel for a moment like his thirst was quenched. The cracks widened, chunks broke off the sides, and then that constant feeling of hunger went away, too.

And so it went, drawing and sucking and biting and chewing in an attempt to satiate those cravings, but it was never enough, never enough, and he would wake up to unbroken skin, and the cycle could start all over again. Maybe he could have counted somehow, how many times it happened, but it didn’t matter, there wasn’t an end to count down to, there was just wake up and hurt and drink and scream just to hear something and wait for death so we can start again just wait just wait it’s coming the ship is sinking in the little bottle but it always comes back up please just let me rest just let me go I can’t do this again I can’t I can’t-

There was a new sound. A creak. Footsteps. They came back, old memories of something outside the cycle. There was someone-or was it something-standing on the other side of the bars. Its eyes were so white and empty, a color he hadn’t seen in so long that he couldn’t help but stare. It stared back, eyes narrowing and then widening.

“Castys?” He cocked his head. That sound, that word, it meant something, right? It did, it did, he was sure it did, but...what was it? And what...who was that? The more he looked, the more he was sure that there was something familiar about that silhouette. It was...distinct. Unmistakable. Unique. He didn’t remember who it belonged to, just that he recognized it. It was a someone, yes, yes, not an it, not-an-it-or-I’ll-tear-your-throat-out. So when they opened the door to his cell, when they came in, when they smiled at him, fangs flashing in the dim light, he wasn’t afraid, even if he should have been.

“I finally found you.”

Castys Cult: @as-a-matter-of-whump​ @blackrosesandwhump​ @fanmanga1357-blog​​ @thehopelessopus​ @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi​ @hearse-song​ @muddy-swamp-bitch @whumpasaurus101

[lvnatiq]

Strip Poker w/ Nicky Valentino pt. 2

Warnings: Smut, very much nsfw.

a/n: Well... Hello my gorgeous readers ! Today I don’t have a lot to say other than hit me up with requests, let me know your opinions about my scriptio and don’t be afraid to message me to discuss/fangirl about TATW anytime you’d like.

(I couldn’t proofread :,( your foreign girl has no time on her hands because of the major exams ahead of her so...)

“Clothes.”

The mischievous smirk planted on your face explained everything. Your naughty intentions were well appreciated by Nicky, at least for now.

“Oh… toots are you sure about this ‘cause I mean it when I say that I got the gist of this game like no other.”

Seeing your smirk turning into a wide smile, he raised his eyebrows in a curious manner, still unable to comprehend your actions.

“Shall we ?” You say as you slowly inch your cards closer to your chest.

His face is flushed, he doesn’t know if it’s the whiskey or the thought of you in his bed that got his head spinning but he doesn’t mind. Not at all, when your hair is drooping over your shoulders where your dress reveals your neck all in its glory.

At first, he just thought that he could impress you with his skills by agreeing to play the game. Now, the sight of your face painted with a concentrated expression while your fingers move feverishly to organize your cards became his main cause of participation.

You look at your cards while having an inner monologue,

“Well what do we got here… Wait what! One card away from a STRAIGHT FLUSH !?!?”

Your original plan was to fail and lose in every single way possible but with this hand it was inevitably hard to follow up with it.

“The probability of getting a straight flush is about less than 0.02% , the only way Nicky could win this round is by having a royal flush which is nearly impossible.”

You eyed your cards in a shocked manner, not being able to keep your so-called “poker face”.

“I mean I could destroy my hand by trading two cards but still what if his hand is worse? I could also fold and move on… right ?”

Your thoughts were cut short by Nicky’s words.

“Don’t worry toots we’ll start slow. I won’t be too hard on you.”

His playful attitude filling the air as you pick up two cards laying them on the table face down and sliding them towards him with your fingertips. You raise your eyes to meet up with his, biting your lower lip.

“I think this will be the only time in your life that you’ll regret winning.”

Nicky raised two cards, holding them between his index and middle finger. Trying his best to look composed.

“We’ll see, my love.”

His eyes dark, his stare is as much if not more dangerous than the scenarios that are circling in his mind.

You take the cards placing them under the deck. Then you give both Nicky and yourself a new pair.

You take a deep breath as you pick up the cards facing them towards yourself.

“Yes! Two different court cards that have nothing to do with each other.”  

You manage to keep your expression blank. You look up to meet Nicky’s eyes.

“My boy, you seem so confident. I would hate to disappoint you.” You say, playfully messing with him, moments before your critical move. You raise your hand, fanning your cards, lightly letting your back lean against the plush cover of the couch behind you.

“Are you ready ?” You say excited to move on with your plan while desperately trying to convince yourself that you can lose.

“How can I not be? I don’t think that folding your hand in a game for two would be the right thing to do only for the sake of not losing” Nicky says as he gives you a faint smile.

“Taking risks is my deal and if that risk leads me to lose to you, then I’d be delighted to take that risk.”

Feeling the heat creeping up on your cheeks, you decide to take a big gulp of your booze.

“Then, it’s time for the showdown.”

You both stare into each other's eyes deeply before slamming the cards on the table. Your eyes scanning his cards while he is looking at yours.

“ I lost.”

“Well, I guess it was meant to be” He says, smiling coyly.

Nicky’s winner smile slowly disappears into thin air as the realization hits him square in the head. You can see his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he anxiously fidgets with the collar of his tie, loosening it.

“There goes nothing” You say as you rose to your feet.

He is completely flushed, a blushing mess from head to toe. His confidence fading away as he excitedly waits for what is about to come.

You glued your eyes on his, lowering your gaze towards him. The air around you feels thick, sexual tension dominating the aura surrounding both of you.

You slowly let the loose straps of your satin dress fall as you raise your arms slightly, allowing the dress to pool around your feet.

His breath hitch, his pupils dilate as his eyes wander on your skin. He looked and felt like a mess. You continued to look at him intently, eyeing the masterpiece you created.

His eyes find your nipples deliciously peeking through the silky material of your tiny undergarments. His, now, inevitably visible bulge catches your eye urging you to wet your lips with your tongue.

“This should be illegal (y/n). You have not even the slightest idea of what you are doing to me, my darling.”

You innocently smile at him as you walk towards him. His demeanor becomes even more cheerful as you lower yourself in front of him. Inching your body closer to his as if you were about to kiss him.

Then you unexpectedly grab his wrist pulling him to you. You lower your gaze as if you were eyeing him, but instead you look at his watch and then back at him.

“Oh my… It’s getting too late. It would be a disaster if we don’t get enough sleep, we have a long day ahead of us” you whisper as you plant a light kiss on his cheek.

He is so shocked that he can’t even manage to form a single word.

“Goodnight Nicholas.”

You get up and leave, quickening your steps as you hear the other footsteps accompanying yours. You try your best to get into the guest room as fast as possible.

The game of tag comes to an end as you reach for the door handle, Nicky’s hand finds it’s place on the small of your back pulling you against him. Then with a quick push of his hands you find yourself trapped between him and the wall. He doesn’t waste any time on sealing his lips with yours.

The kiss is gentle yet passionate. Nicky’s hands start traveling up and down on your body, at this point he has no control over himself whatsoever.

You moan into the kiss as he nibbles on your lower lip, lifting you and allowing you to wrap your legs around him. Your hands lost in his hair, pulling it just enough to make Nicky groan.

“You are in big trouble toots.”

"Mhmm... How big ?"

"You'll find out soon enough" he says as he pushes the door open with you in his arms.

You connect your lips once again as he walks over the bed laying you down onto it. He eyes your flushed figure arching against the bed.

"Teasing me like this... I can't believe how cruel you are.”

"Nicholas, you had me on the edge for the past 12 hours. I think that I went pretty easy on you."

"Oh you think so ?"

"Truly? Yes."

"Well then it's too bad that I'm not going easy on you tonight, my love. Don't you think?"

You feel the heat between your legs as it gets more and more unbearable thanks to his words.

"Is that so?"

He nods as he climbs on top of you lathering your chest with kisses, taking your nipple in his mouth as his hand slowly travels down to your hips.

"Nicky..."

"Yes, toots."

Your mind is hazy with pleasure. You can't concentrate on anything but Nicky's touch. His kisses trail down to your stomach nearing to your core.

You close your eyes, losing yourself at the way he feels.

"Open your eyes my love. You don't wanna miss the show" he says as he places himself between your legs.

The sight of him staring at you with his plush lips agape and his messy hair falling in front of his eyes is unreal.

He wastes no time pushing the silky material down as his tongue finds your folds. You moan pushing yourself against his wet tongue.

"Sweetest of the sweet..." he hums as he continues to devour you.

You feel yourself getting close, your legs are trembling. Nicky, aware of your condition, pushes his finger inside of you picking up the pace.

"Nicky I'm-- close."

"I know my love."

Just before you tip-off of the edge Nicky pulls his fingers out of you.

"Nicholas--"

He raises his hand, checking out his watch, looking at the time.

“Oh my… It’s getting too late. It would be a disaster if we don’t get enough sleep, we have a long day ahead of us” he whispers as he plants a light kiss on your cheek.

You shot up a glare as your lips part in shock.

"Goodnight, y/n." He sends a wink at your way as he gets up to leave. His million-dollar smile getting wider as he hears your rushed footsteps behind his.

"Nicholas you are not going anywhere !"

[jenniferroland]

[starter for @loverot​]

"If you can look at what's there and not eat yourself hollow with shame, you are not human anymore."

Transferring out of Mount Massive to play brain scrambler in the middle of the Arizona desert was hardly a step up. She’d put in a request for leave numerous times and been denied on the grounds that her research skills and capability as a pathologist made her “too valuable an asset” to allow her to be off the asylum campus for any extended period of time. But when a handful of her female coworkers began experiencing hysterical pregnancies from proximity to the Engine, she was suddenly a liability instead. Never mind that she experienced precisely no negative effects from it; if anything, her mind felt sharper when working on location than it ever did in remote labs, like popping a handful of Adderall. 

The segregation came without warning. Experiments and treatments went unfinished; communications went dark; theories withered and died without the proper environment in which to nurture them. Uprooted and shipped away to some toxic waste dump, Jennifer Roland never felt more useless. 

Day in and day out, she sat behind a monitor, watching religious fanatics of varying degrees of insanity fight and fuck and feast and absolutely slaughter one another. The scheduled bursts from the Towers would resound, the crew inside the lead-insulated concrete shelters would shield their eyes, and shortly thereafter, an all-out shitfest would ensue on the screens in front of them. Recovery teams were dispatched to covertly collect any bodies they could, which were promptly tossed onto the slab in the operating theatre or iced in the morgue. Occasionally, they’d get a few on the table who just refused to fucking die, and in more than one instance, Roland would return to her quarters with a black eye or finger-shaped bruises branded into her throat. 

“That’s why you get hazard pay,” she can recall Jeremy Blaire assuring her over drinks. “Relax, Jen. The building is radiation-proof. The radio waves can’t hurt you in there.”

Once rare, those desperately clinging to existence (it could hardly be called life by the time they’d arrived at the lab) were showing up in higher and higher numbers. Their presence always fucked with the medical equipment — due to the high levels of radiation they were exposed to, she was assured by Dr. Ewen Cameron — but more than that, it was affecting people: relief nurses, research assistants, those who had the least contact with them. It was Cameron himself who paged her into the telemetry lab to show her the increase in radio wave blips on the radar, seemingly organic hotspots of radiation cropping up out of nowhere. The “feedback loop,” he’d called it: such prolonged exposure to such vulnerable individuals mutated them from receivers to projectors. 

These unholy fucks were walking nuclear reactors, and they were bleeding it inside the lab.

Between autopsies of lunatics and treatment of her infected staff, Roland accumulated the most exposure to these residual waves, which is perhaps why she held out the longest. While others were rushing to the bathrooms to puke their guts out or sobbing into their workstations, Roland kept the Towers from collapsing under its own weight. Just like she had at Mount Massive, at least in her own mind. Such responsibility, of course, takes its pound of flesh, resulting in a sharp uptick of headaches and irritability in the doctor.

In fact, she kept an iron grip on the facility, even as employee numbers began to drop. Some transferred; some just dropped dead. All were required to vacate the operating sector by 22:00 hours so that it could be “defunked” for the next day. Roland, of course, oversaw this expedition, which usually consisted of hanging out in a hazmat suit and surfing what little internet they were allowed access to while the facility was cleansed. The longer she sat at the computer, the more severe her migraines would become, which she chalked up to blue light exposure. 

But when the urgent email alert – MOUNT MASSIVE ASYLUM STAFF EVACUATION – popped up in her notifications, the pain in her skull went from throbbing to blinding. The computer mouse flew from her hand and shattered on the floor as she dug the heels of her palms into her eye sockets, desperate to relieve the pressure behind them. Searing white heat tears at her retinas and she’s utterly convinced that her brain is hemorrhaging. 

Through that glaring light appear misty shadows of men in lab coats, blurred as if through a foggy camera lens: men with clipboards and scalpels and blue latex gloves. A scrawny lad in his early twenties wriggles futilely on the table, strapped to the gurney by too-tight leather restraints around his limbs and forehead. He’s fully conscious but barely cognizant of anything but fear. She can hear the low timbre of male voices floating around her, murmuring words she cannot or perhaps will not comprehend. Her focus is on the young man before her and the muffled syllables he attempts to utter from beneath his oxygen mask. Cutting through the underwater noise is the sound of her own name, sharp and deliberate, and her gaze falls to the laryngoscope clutched tightly in her left hand. 

Shifting behind the boy on the table, she adjusts her grip on the tool and removes the oxygen mask from his face. He’s drooling quite profusely. With the sleeve of her right arm, she gently mops up his mess before prying his mouth open with her fingers. At this moment, his eyes snap up to hers, pupils blown wide with terror, and though his movement is highly restricted, it’s evident he’s trying to shake his head. The raspy frantic whisper of “no, no, no” does nothing to phase her colleagues. She attempts to quiet him with a soft shushing (to absolutely no avail) and inserts the curved blade into his throat. Tears, mucus, and saliva flow together as he struggles to breathe; his eyes plead for mercy, the lightless gaze of a soul all but relinquishing itself to the higher power of Death. As she preps the endotracheal tube for insertion, Jenny tries to swallow her nerves but they catch in her throat, dry and brittle. Guilt won’t save them now. 

“Oh, God, please—”

Roland’s torn out of the vision by the inescapable urge to vomit and she rolls onto her side to wretch away the venom in her memories. With no recollection of how exactly she ended up on the floor ten feet away from the monitors, she pushes herself up and wipes away the acid from her lips. Just like she had in her memory. 

And she feels sick all over again, but not just for the fate of that patient: for all the rampant fuckery shoveled upon her by Murkoff. Psychological manipulation, radiation poisoning, blatant sexism. She enlisted in this army to study genetics, not to torture the cognitively vulnerable to the brink of insanity. 

Fuck Jeremy Blaire. Fuck Murkoff. Fuck this Project Bluebird bullshit. 

On the way out the door, she flicks a half-smoked cigarette into the server room trashcan to trigger the emergency sprinkler system. Whoops.

                                                     * * * * * * * * *

She never liked the company cars, anyway.

As the frame of the Mercedes rolls into the lake behind her (and with it all traces of her identity), Jennifer Roland makes her way through the Mount Massive Wilderness Reverse to the runoff reservoir. Armed with only an industrial flashlight-stun gun and her unlisted phone, she’s well aware that this mission will more than likely be her last. But when you’ve got nothing to lose and an insatiable hunger for vengeance, death doesn’t seem so bad.

Tucking her hair up under her cap and securing her phone in the zippered pocket of her plastic splash suit, she hoists herself up into the drainage pipe that pours into the lagoon from the sewers. The hospital isn’t even visible from this side of the mountain; according to her map, it’s about ten miles through a sea of blood, shit, and god knows what else to Mount Massive Asylum. If she’d ever wondered how Andy Dufresne felt escaping Shawshank, this is about as close as it gets.

Rats and snakes are her only company for the first several miles but in the last stretch of three, the scent of fresh death hits her like a brick wall. Mutilated corpses litter the pathways, slipping into the murky sewage and compounding the horrific stench. The closer she comes to her destination, the more pungent the odor becomes until she’s stumbling upon half-dead patients and doctors alike, as lifeless and miserable as the Temple Gate victims. The feeling of another impending migraine strikes her but she presses onward. She’s not sure what’s more unsettling: the gut-wrenching screams coming from above her head or the periodic gaps of silence between.

Drenched in blackwater, Jenny navigates her way up into the hospital block, only to be met with the gory sight of her colleagues and former patients strewed about the ward like discarded toys. She stands gravely still listening for anything — a scream, a whisper, a breath — but no sound breaks the stony silence. The only living presence in the block appears to be a few very persistent bees buzzing around her head. The doctor carefully peels away her suit and the clothes underneath, tucking them away in an air vent and replacing them with the least fluid-drench patient uniform she can find. Thank you for your sacrifice, 937. 

Jenny’s exceedingly careful not to cause too much commotion with the beam of her flashlight as she stalks into the hospital security station and logs in under one of her former colleague’s ID. The security footage tapes appear to be highly corrupted, with some of the cameras shorting out completely, but through the hazy grey static, she can just make out a man’s shadow: impossibly tall, grainy, almost translucent, as though it were comprised solely of smoke. Shredding through its victims like razors through tissue paper. Clearly, this storm of fuck is just beginning.

“Ain’t a perdy sight, is it?” 

Hot, humid breath hits the back of her neck before she can react and a spindly hand clamps down on her wrist. 

“Not as perdy as them nails, brudder.”

“Don’t talk ‘im t’death. Get the goat and go.”

“Awful s-sorry ‘bout this, boy, but I gotsta.”

Jenny’s not keen to stick around to find out what exactly it is this dissociative man “gotsta” do. Firing up the switch on the stun gun, she jabs the pointed prongs into his throat and digs in. His grip on her tightens before it releases, the perp collapsing to the ground and clutching his bleeding neck with a frankly overdramatic gurgle. 

Roland flees through a labyrinth of plastic wrap and broken gurneys, but the heavy slap of bare feet limping on the floor behind her soon catches up. And just as she looks over her shoulder to catch sight of him, her ankle snags against a tripwire, knocking her face-first into the bloodied tile. That fall triggers the release of two sheets of barbed wire that rattle towards her, coiling around her legs and torso; clearly, this trap was meant for a bigger monster than her. The barbs easily rip through the uniform fabric to sink into her thighs, calves, stomach. The more she wriggles, the deeper they sink, and the shards of shattered glass on the floor only amplify the pain.

Her only chance to protect herself is the flashlight that launched no more than a foot away during the fall. If she can just tear her arm free-

The arch of a dirty foot secures its grip on the flashlight handle.

“Just like a coward t’run. That won’t do at-tall, Dennis.”

“You shouldn’ta run, boy. Now you’ll be all bloody fer the weddin’.”

He picks up the flashlight and turns it over in his hand, checking the weight and feel of it; he decides he likes it. 

He likes it even more when it cracks like a Louisville slugger against her temple.

                                                     * * * * * * * * *

Her muscles are stiff and achy when she regains consciousness, somehow sore and numb at the same time. The swelling beside her left eye blurs her vision slightly, but she knows she’s in some sort of chop shop, upright in a DIY-patient restraint system that would make even Hannibal Lecter shudder. Her instinct is to attempt another escape, to writhe her way out of these straps if she has to chew her shoulder off to do it. There’s no telling how much time she has before someone-

...Whistling.

[marvelswinterfrost]

Bringing back old times

Summary:  Bucky breaks into the museum where his old uniform is exhibited and gets it back. But that isn't the only thing that's going to change...

Warnings: none Genre: fluff, nostalgia (idk) Words:1.283 A/N:  I changed the museum thing a bit (with the uniform) so it's not like in the movies!

Anyway, Happy Valentine's day to those who celebrate!

...

On silent feet, Bucky made his way through the dark museum halls, his face hidden underneath an old blue cap. The museum had been empty for hours with only the security making their rounds from time to time, making sure everything was on its right place.

Finally he found what he’d been looking for: the room where his and Steve’s uniforms were kept. Standing in front of them brought back memories he’d long thought lost. His old one, he’d used during his time in the military, before he was being held captive by Nazis and the blue one, he'd worn when he fell. The sleeve’s still ripped off with the other part no where in sight. He’d given it to the museum a few years ago since it has been in Hydra’s hand until then; but when the organization fell, he finally got it back. He’d found it in a dirty room somewhere in the least used part of the underground lab; they weren’t even getting rid of it.

Bucky gazed over to the brown uniform and watched it with a smile. It remembered him of times when Steve would get beat up by some other soldier somewhere in a small alley just because the tiny boy couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

He went to get the old textile but stopped as his fingers touched the old jacket. He gulped. Bucky had forgotten how hard and rough it was, compared to his clothes now.

“Looks like I’m bringing you home.” He whispered as he took it off the mannequin. First the hat he’d loved so much back then. It surely gave him the special something when flirting with women in the 40s, might as well work on Loki.

Since Loki would always complain about him not dressing properly and sometimes even compared him to Thor, Bucky was sure that he’d be proud of him. Second was the jacket, the pins still in place. The ones he’d gotten after being rescued by Steve for courage and everything a country during wartimes could honour you with. He folded the jacket and put it into his backpack, carefully to not crumple it. It made him happy that even the tie was still there. Whoever was keeping his uniform made sure that it was being taken care of. ‘It was probably Peggy.’ Bucky thought.

His pants came in last. Again, folded neatly to not wrinkle it. He closed his backpack, put it on his back and closed the straps that held the thing on his back in place.

…

Bucky returned to a dark home, every light switched off and everything where he’d left it before he left. ‘Hm’, he thought, ‘that means Loki isn’t home yet. That means I’ve still got enough time.’

He threw the keys on the table standing in the small hallway and made his way to their living room. Bucky put the bag on the couch and took off his cap. Turning around he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Seeing the long strands of hair falling in his face and the thick beard hiding his jawline, he frowned.

Bucky straightened his back, his eyes still looking at his ragged face. ‘Maybe Loki was right? I should let the bad past behind me. Start over.’

Nodding to himself, he went to the bathroom, harshly opening the drawers until he found what he’d been looking for: an electric razor. Bucky looked in the bathroom mirror one last time, examined the greasy hair that lay flat on his head and shook his head. ‘No more.’ He whispered and turned on the electric device.

It took almost half an hour to get rid of his long hair but as he admired the results, he felt a sudden warmth. For a moment he finally felt free.

Bucky grabbed his chin lightly and stroked over the soft skin that was finally exposed again. He put his hand down and sighted, grinning from ear to ear.

“Loki’s going to like it.” He laughed and put the razor away.

After cleaning the bathroom and leaving it hair-free he looked at the clock. Almost midnight. Loki’d be here soon. Bucky got his old uniform from his backpack, one last glance at the door to make sure that it was locked to give him more time and alert him of his boyfriend’s arrival, and put it on.

Almost 20 minutes later the sound of keys could be heard from the other side of the door. Taking it as the last chance to perfect his look, Bucky threw himself onto the couch and put his hat on; slightly crooked to give him an innocent look. Now everything he had to do was wait.

Finally, the door opened, and an exhausted looking Loki made his way in. Bucky could hear a long sight as the door was being closed again. ‘Poor doll, the day probably stressed him out.’ He thought but put on a smirk again as Loki entered the living room.

“Hey.” Bucky said softly as he put one hand under his head.

For the first time Loki looked at him, noticing that something was different. He had to smile. This really made his day better.

“Hey.” Came an answer as soft as Bucky had spoken.

Loki approached the man sitting relaxed on the couch and crouched down, as far as he could with the tiny space, he had between the small table and the sofa. The god used his right hand to softly stroke over the exposed jaw, grinning and pulling Bucky into a small kiss, moaning softly. When they pulled apart, Loki took off Bucky’s hat, put it aside and softly stroked the short hair.

The soldier leaned into the welcoming touch and let two warm lips kiss the top of his head.

“Why the sudden change, James?” Loki asked and stood back up again.

“I just felt like it. I felt like bringing the old times back, maybe?” he chuckled, watching his boyfriend get out of his coat.

“Well, I must admit that it looks incredibly beautiful.” Loki laughed and leaned over the armrest of the couch to steal another kiss from his boyfriend. “Or should I say: very inviting.”

“Feel free to feel invited, doll.” Bucky chuckled, getting up to hug Loki from behind. “Y’know what would make my day?” he asked innocently, kissing Loki’s neck, his words sounding a bit slurred.

“Don’t hesitate to tell me, Bucky.” Loki laughed.

“You cutting your hair as well.” Bucky laughed at how stiff Loki suddenly got. But there was no way to escape since Bucky held him in such a tight grip around his middle that a getaway was almost impossible.

“Oh no, but thanks for the offer.” Loki laughed, nervousness hanging in his words.

“Mmhhh, that wasn’t an offer.” Bucky nuzzled Loki’s neck, planting small kisses from it to the god’s shoulder. His voice dangerously calm. “Your hair is getting greasy as well, you know?”

“I can wash it, Bucky. There’s no need to cut it.” He chuckled.

“No? But it makes you look a lot like Thor, you know?” Bucky whispered in Loki’s ear, smirking mischievously.

“Excuse me?”

“The greasy, long hair, Loki. So filthy.” He mocked Loki and knew for a fact that it worked.

“Alright, alright.” The god sighted as he turned in Bucky’s arms, facing him and gripping his soft cheeks roughly. “But the moment you try anything I wouldn’t approve of, I won’t hesitate to kill you.” He smirked.

“Fine with me.” Bucky laughed and pushed Loki backwards to the bathroom. “Thor showed me a picture of you with your short hair, you know?”

“So, bringing back the old times then?”

“Oh yeah.”

[ericsonclan]

The Cold Grasp of Steel

Summary: Clementine is kidnapped by Harbinger and forced to undergo a spiderlike transformation.

Word Count: 3115

Read on A03: 

Clementine hurried down the sidewalk, her breath coming in short gasps as she jogged toward the nearest subway entrance. Her phone bounced slightly in her hand as she went, making it difficult to see the directions on it. It had been less than two weeks since Lee’s job had led to them moving to a different neighborhood and she was still getting her bearings. Checking the clock in the upper right-hand corner, Clem saw she had enough time to stop for a second and actually figure out what trains she’d need to take to get home.

Scrolling down, Clementine nodded to herself, making sure she’d committed the list to memory before resuming her jog. She wanted to make it back home before dinner so she’d have time to watch Disco Broccoli with A.J. like he’d begged for. Ever since that attack at the Thanksgiving parade a few months ago, Lee had been really strict about knowing where she was at all times. Clementine couldn’t blame him. She and A.J. had been in real danger that day. She didn’t want to give Lee more reason to worry.

Suddenly the ground seemed to give out from under her as Clementine’s legs buckled. Her head hit the pavement hard before she was suddenly pulled backwards, all this happening too quickly for Clementine to even muster a scream. Before she could get her bearings, something cold covered her mouth and a low, familiar voice whispered in her ear.

“At last, a worthy test subject. We’ll put that fighting spirit to use won’t we, Clementine?”

It was the voice of that terrorist who bombed the parade. What was she doing here now? How did she know Clementine’s name? Clementine bit down on the obstruction in front of her only to immediately realize that it must be Harbinger’s cyborg hand covered her mouth. She wriggled and kicked with all her might, but just as before she was helpless to break out of the woman’s grasp.

“No use resisting,” Harbinger stated simply, pulling Clementine further into the alleyway they stood in. “This should make you more obedient,” Clementine felt something sting her neck and then all was darkness.

She awoke to find herself in a cold, dark room, strapped to some sort of table. It felt as though no time at all had passed since Clementine had been knocked out, but that couldn’t be the case. Her heart was pounding frantically inside her as she struggled against her restraints. This was playing out like every crime episode on a serial killer ever did. She had to get out of here before-

“Up so soon? You are a tough one,” Harbinger’s voice echoed through the room before she emerged from the shadows, a menacing smile on her face.

“What do you want from me?” Clementine hissed, her jaw clenched.

“It’s simple really. I’m looking for a test subject for my new serum and ever since our scuffle a few months ago, you’ve been my prime candidate,”

“Why me?” Clementine asked, trying to buy herself time as her eyes scanned the room. There was nothing in here she could see besides the table she was on and a medical tray where a large syringe lay. That must be the serum this psycho mentioned.

Harbinger chuckled. “You fought back while all others ran. If you’re to be my soldier, I need to know you have the guts for the task,”

“I’ll never obey you,”

“You won’t have a choice. With one injection, you’ll be hooked,” Harbinger sauntered over to the tray, picking up the needle. “This serum is only the first dose. Once it enters your bloodstream, you’ll be completely dependent on further doses for your continued transformation. Or else you’ll die,”

“Transformation?” Clementine leaned her head forward, biting at the thick leather restraints. There was no way she was getting through these.

Harbinger hummed in approval. “Not fazed by the threat of death. Impressive. But when you’re lying on your bedroom floor feeling your organs rot within you, you’ll be begging for the next dose,” With that she strode forward with the syringe. Gripping Clementine’s throat and forcing her head down, she placed the needle at the crook of her neck right in front of her collarbone and began to inject the serum.

It burned. The needle was huge and felt like a knife stabbing deep within Clementine’s shoulder. And the substance itself … that was a pain Clementine had never experienced before. It felt like her body was being torn apart, every cell within her screaming in agony as the fluid coursed through her veins. Clementine was screaming too. She could feel how raw her throat was, sense her limbs pulling frantically against the restraints. But she couldn’t hear anything. All her ears picked up was the rush of blood pumping through them, her heart beating so fast and hard Clementine wondered if it could hold out. Would she die here and now? The pain overtook her and she slipped into unconsciousness once more before she knew that answer.

Clementine woke up with a start, looking around her wildly. She was on the subway. How the hell…? It was the right train, the one she needed to get home. Her phone and wallet were within her purse. Nothing was missing. Checking the time, Clementine saw that while she wouldn’t make it back in time for Disco Broccoli, she wouldn’t be late for dinner either. How had she gotten here? Had Harbinger dragged her unconscious onto the train and no one had stopped her?

Or had it all been a dream? Clementine’s fingers traced the point where she remembered Harbinger had punctured her neck. There was nothing there. Not a bruise or a mark, not even an injection point. But it had been so real… and Clementine had never fallen asleep on the train before. Clementine looked around her warily, keeping her eyes and ears open for any danger. The whole ride home she was a raw bundle of nerves, but nothing jumped out at her. Nothing even seemed out of the ordinary. Exiting the train and leaving the station, Clementine truly wondered to herself if she had made the whole thing up. There seemed to be no other explanation.

---

The next few days did little to ease Clementine’s suspicions. If anything, they only heightened them. Everything felt off. Noises like the coffee grinder or vacuum were louder than Clementine expected and she often found herself shying away from bright lights, preferring to sit in darkness whenever possible. Simple tasks like going to the store or completing her winter reading felt near impossible when all of her senses left her feeling like one giant raw nerve: exposed, fragile, liable to snap at the smallest things.

The evening of the third day brought the crux of the problem to full light. Clementine was walking through the living room with a cup of hot tea and a plate of cookies to give herself a snack break before attempting to finish her winter paper. Suddenly a motorcycle zoomed by on the street outside their apartment.

What normally would have been an annoying disturbance had a catastrophic effect upon Clementine’s instincts. Her hand instinctively swung out, smashing her mug to bits against the corner of the wall. The hot tea that scalded her skin sent her other arm jerking back, the cookies flying through the air and the plate falling toward the floor. Before Clementine could even think of what to do her hand shot back out, grasping the plate and catching each and every cookie before it hit the ground.

“Wow, Clem, that was awesome!” A.J. exclaimed, running over and snagging one of the cookies. “How did you do that?”

“Are you alright, sweetpea?” Lee asked, looking concerned as he stepped toward her.

“Y-yeah. Not sure what happened there. Guess I freaked out,” Clementine looked to her mug, shattered to smithereens on the floor.

“You go lie down and rest. I’ll get that cleaned up,”

“Thanks. I guess I will,” Clementine stepped away without another word. Locking the door behind her, she set the plate down on her desk shakily, bringing her hand up close to her face. She thought she’d felt something on there and she wasn’t wrong. A thin film of something white and sticky covered the surface of her hand. It was easily brushed away and rolled into a ball. Clementine squished it between her fingers. It reminded her of the glue sticks in school, how they could form miniature webs if you covered your fingers in glue and then pulled them apart. Webs. That had to be what this substance was. But that meant…

Clementine rushed over to her laptop. Throwing it open, she began to open multiple search tabs, looking for evidence that her fears may be true. Pictures of Wolf and Recluse covered her screen: action shots of them soaring between buildings, in the midst of fights with villains and Wolf posing for the occasional photo opp while Recluse looked away in disinterest. Other known spiderpeople popped up as well: Wanderer in Chicago, Funnel in Louisiana, a spider duo over in San Francisco. There were more than Clementine expected, but still only a handful. And it looked as though she had joined their ranks. The sticky white webs within all the photos matched the substance that had spurted from her hand.

So this is what Harbinger meant by a soldier, Clementine thought, a sick feeling of dread twisting her stomach. She wants someone she can use to fight whatever delusional war she has planned: a spiderperson all her own. It was all real after all. Picking up her phone, Clementine started a thorough search of its contents, looking for any sort of clue Harbinger might have left upon it. She’d said Clementine would need another dose of the serum or that she would die. Though Clementine was loath to give that threat credence, it must mean that her kidnapper had left some means of contact for Clementine to find, some way to communicate orders to her new lackey. Like I’ll ever let myself become that. Clementine’s eyes hardened. If Harbinger thought she would just roll over and take this, she had another thing coming.

It took several minutes of scrolling through her email, photos, texts and contacts, but finally Clementine found what she had been searching for: a contact she had never added to her phone. Where the name should be there was simply a series of numbers that were meaningless to Clementine. This must have been the bread crumb Harbinger had left: a means by which to declare surrender, to reach out in hopes of receiving the next dose of the serum. Clementine wouldn’t give her captor that satisfaction. She would find a way to beat this thing before it came to that.

The next several days were a flurry of frantic research. Clementine spent every spare moment she had looking into spiderpeople, discovering the details of each of their powers and the theories behind their origins. Most were vague at best. No one knew how spiderpeople were made, some theorizing that they were transformed by mutations caused by spider bites occurring randomly in nature while others believed the whole thing was a conspiracy and that the spiderpeople had been created by the government in secret underground labs. No spiderpeople had ever been particularly forthcoming about their origins, not in this generation or the former when the first spiderpeople started to appear about twenty years ago.

When Clementine wasn’t trying to find herself a cure, she was preparing for the next semester at a new school. With their move to a new neighborhood, it also meant a new public school. That meant new teachers, new supply lists, new assignments and new students. Clementine found herself pulled away from her research more often than not to go shopping for school supplies with A.J. or fill our school registration forms with Lee. Such mundane tasks felt like a waste of time when Clementine’s very life was falling apart just beneath the surface.

She was only sure of two things regarding her newfound powers: she was getting stronger and she was getting sicker. Every day more intricate and sturdy webs emerged from Clementine’s fingertips, sometimes of her own volition, more often than not on instinct. She worked hard to temper her reactions, controlling her web spurts and learning to zone out the many new distractions that had emerged thanks to her amplified senses. Her aim, agility and awareness were all improving with enough subtlety that mixed with Clementine’s foresight and good sense she was able to hide her arachnid progress from Lee and A.J.

However, each day had Clementine feeling shakier and more nauseated. She’d already thrown up a handful of times by the time day eight rolled around. On day nine a fainting spell in the kitchen had Lee worried and insistent upon calling a doctor. Clementine was barely able to talk him out of it. She didn’t want to risk turning into some sort of captive science experiment if blood tests revealed exactly what the serum had done to her. At Lee’s insistence she went on bed rest. A.J. delivered her water, Tylenol, chicken noodle soup and all manner of books with which to entire herself. Clementine was touched by the gesture but felt too sick to do much of anything as she lay in bed.

The next day found Clementine bedridden as well, too woozy to get out of bed except for the simplest tasks. Her head was pounding and she couldn’t hold anything down, even barfing up the water and pills she tried to take. Lee sat worriedly by her side, insisting that if this continued they would have to go to emergent care. Clementine tried to protest only to be overcome by another bout of nausea. She spent most of the day sleeping but didn’t get any better.

By the eleventh day, Clementine’s suppressed fears began to rise uncontrollably within her. Harbinger had said she would die without another dose of the serum. Had she been telling the truth? Did she have reason to lie? Clementine lay shivering uncontrollably beneath her covers, her eyes swollen and puffy, barely opening as she coughed harshly. She couldn’t let this continue. She wouldn’t do that to Lee or A.J.

Whatever Harbinger had planned for her, was it worth death to avoid it? She needed more time to find a way to resist and break free of her methods. That was what Clementine told herself, but a deeper part of her knew her true reasoning: she didn’t want to die. This was the sickest she had ever been. If she didn’t act soon, she might not even have the strength to reach out and receive the serum. She couldn’t risk waiting until it was too late. With shaking hands, Clementine pulled up the mysterious contact and sent a simple message. Help.

Within a half hour, a buzzing outside Clementine’s window drew her attention. Collapsing from her bed and crawling across the floor, she pulled herself up by the legs of her chair till she stood shakily on her feet. There was a drone at her window, a miniature version of the ones Harbinger had used during her attack at the parade. Mustering all her strength, Clementine opened her window a few inches. Zooming into the room, the drone deposited something upon her desk then flew out without further action.

Clementine’s eyes locked upon what had been left: a syringe. Inside was the same murky solution that had been forcibly injected into her before. The serum. Clementine didn’t hesitate. Grasping the syringe as firmly as she could, she placed the needle to the crook of her neck, preparing for the burn as she injected the drug.

But this time it didn’t come. There was pain at the point of injection, but no overwhelming agony as Clementine remembered from the first dose. After completely injecting the needle, Clementine collapsed to the floor, shaking with exhaustion and cold. She was too weak to return to her bed. Lee had run out with A.J. to pick up some last-minute materials from his teacher. There was no one here to help her and no reason to hide the syringe that still jutted prominently from her shoulder. Clementine lay sprawled upon the floor in a cold sweat, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Please work. Don’t let it be too late.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the serum took effect. The shaking subsided, Clementine’s breathing no longer halting and raspy but smooth and controlled. The dull, heavy throbbing of her head eased up, her thoughts clearing, and Clementine was no longer cold. Crawling across the floor, Clementine found the process much easier than it had been on her way to the window. Pulling herself up onto the bed, she checked the clock on her phone. It had been only 52 minutes since her text had been sent. That meant the drug had taken effect in under twenty minutes. In that span of time, she’d gone from feeling as though she was on the brink of death to showing the symptoms of a slight cold. How was that even possible?

The syringe was still embedded within Clementine’s neck. Pulling it out slowly with a pained hiss, Clementine examined the vessel. It was completely empty. In her desperation she had used every last drop of the serum. Perhaps there was still a residue on the inside of the canister… but how could she test it? Tucking the needle under some papers within her bedside drawer, Clementine collapsed back against her bed, her eyes searching the ceiling. She could think clearly again. The drive to fight this was back, but she knew in another two weeks’ time or less she’d be just as desperate for another dose of the serum. How long would she be dependent on this – for the rest of her life? I’ll find a way to beat this. I’m not giving up. Clementine’s determination was absolute.

But another truth emerged in her mind as well. This wasn’t going to be easy. It would take time and everything she had to figure out to break free. By then if it wasn’t already true, the changes in her body would likely be permanent. She was a spiderperson. Clementine looked at her hand, letting a thin string of spider silk softly flow out. She would need help figuring out how to control this. For that, she had to turn to the very people Harbinger wanted her to destroy. She needed to find Recluse and Wolf.

[edogawatranslations]

999: Alterna (1) - Part 2, Chapters 1-2

Table of Contents | Previous: Part 1, Chapters 7-9

Part Two - Rules of the Game

Chapter 1 

The static noise and coarse voice flowed continuously out of the speakers.

I could never forget the haunting voice: there was no doubt in my mind that it belonged to the figure in the gas mask who attacked me.

“Let me begin by explaining the rules of the game,” the cold, robotic voice continued.

With anxious expressions, everyone focused their attention on Zero’s words.

“The rules are very simple. Listen carefully, for I will only mention them once.”

Nobody had the will to object.

“There are a number of doors scattered throughout this ship, each with a single digit painted on it. For the sake of convenience, I shall henceforth refer to them as ‘numbered doors.’ You may notice that, at this very moment, two of these very doors stand before you.”

I turned to face the [5] door.

“In order to open a numbered door, you must use your bracelet numbers.”

“Bracelet numbers?” Dancer tilted her head in confusion.

“As you all know, a bracelet has been strapped to each of your left wrists. The digit displayed on it is your bracelet number. These bracelets are the keys to opening the numbered doors.”

All of us simultaneously looked down at our own bracelet. Peeking over, I saw that Akane’s displayed a [6].

“You may confirm this yourselves later, but each of you possesses a unique bracelet number. Not a single one of these numbers is repeated.”

Glancing around, I noticed that Lion’s bracelet showed a [1] while Prince’s had a [2].

“The sum of your bracelet numbers... Only when the digital root of that sum matches the number on the door may you progress.”

I bit my lip. A digital root? Math was never my strong point. Although I didn’t fully comprehend, I kept quiet and continued to listen.

“However, there is a limit on the number of people who may pass through a door at a time. Only three to five people may open a numbered door. Naturally, only the same number of people may proceed through the door.”

Heavy breathing erupted from beside me. Looking over, I saw that Akane’s face glowed bright red. She appeared to be in agony, her shoulders rising and falling with every breath.

“Hey, are you okay?”

I felt her arm and started panicking. She was burning up. I didn’t sense anything before, but for some reason, she now had a terrible fever.

“It could be Angel Fever,” Pink Hair said, peering at Akane’s face. “I had it a long time ago and had similar symptoms.”

“The goal of this game is obvious.” With complete disregard for Akane’s current condition, Zero resumed his explanation of the rules. “To survive and escape from this ship.”

After helping Akane sit down, I glared at the ceiling and started shouting.

“Wait just a moment! We have someone who’s sick here! Can’t you keep her out-”

“The exit is hidden somewhere on this ship. Seek a door. Seek a door that carries a [9],” Zero continued, unresponsive to my plea.

“Hey!”

“There’s no point in trying,” Prince said. “Zero likely will not say anything beyond what is necessary.”

“That can’t be...” I said resignedly, biting my lower lip.

“Jumpy, don’t worry about me... I’m fine...” Akane said feebly.

There was no way she was fine. It might have been due to the fever, but her eyes grew blank and had trouble focusing.

“Finally, allow me to announce the time limit for this game,” Zero’s explanation continued, coldly ignoring us. “This ship is currently sinking.”

Everyone stiffened.

“On April 14, 1912, the legendary ocean liner Titanic struck an iceberg. Two hours and 40 minutes later, it sank to the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean.”

“What’s that gotta do with anything?” Mountain spat.

“I will grant you all a little more time. Nine hours - that will be your time limit to escape.”

As Zero spoke those words, a chime rang out from the central staircase. The grandfather clock was signaling the time.

Seven... Eight... Nine...

The clock fell silent.

“Nine o’clock,” someone murmured.

It was probably nine in the evening. When I gazed out the window from the room I was trapped in, it was pitch black on the other side. It had to be nighttime.

That meant we had until six in the morning to escape.

“It is time. Let the game begin. I wish you all good fortune.”

With those words, the speaker fell silent.

Chapter 2

For a while, everybody remained frozen.

A cold silence weaved throughout the room.

Just what the hell is going on here?

There was no way I could accept it so easily. The idea that some secret organization had kidnapped me and was shipping me overseas sounded much more convincing.

Nonary Game? Why must I be involved in such a thing? The same goes for everyone else too. Why were they selected? More importantly, why is Zero even holding this stupid game in this first place?

Akane’s violent coughing brought me back to my senses.

“Are you doing alright?” I asked.

I crouched down and gently placed my hand on her forehead. Strangely enough, her fever had completely subsided and color had returned to her face.

“Sorry for making you worry... I’m okay.” Akane started lightly tapping at her chest to stifle her cough.

“Do you have some sort of condition?”

I hadn’t heard of any diseases that caused sudden fluctuations in body temperature, but I had to ask.

“Really... It’s nothing.” Akane smiled.

As oblivious as I usually was, even I could sense that she was straining herself. But there was no point in pressing the matter further. After all, there likely wasn’t any adequate medical facility nearby to treat her. The best hope was to escape from this ship and get her to a doctor immediately.

“Anybody got any idea what the hell a digital root is?” Mountain asked, scratching his head. “The guy on the speaker said somethin’ ‘bout a digital root, right?”

I had been wondering the same thing.

“Add up all of the digits of a number, and repeat until only one digit remains,” Prince explained. “That process leads you to a digital root.”

His explanation sounded concise and complete, but I still didn’t get it. Mountain looked just as puzzled.

“Can you put that more simply?” Mountain asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

“As an example, take my bracelet number [2], your [7], and her -” Prince paused for a second to tilt his head towards Akane. “- [6]. What do you get when you add all of them together?”

“Even I can do simple math like that. [2] plus [7] plus [6] is 14.”

“You mean 15, you imbecile,” Dancer interjected.

Prince continued his explanation. “The number 15 has 1 in its tens’ place, and 5 in its ones’ place. Add these digits together, and you get the digital root. In this case, the digital root would be 1 plus 5, or [6].”

I finally understood. So if it were me, Akane, and Mountain, the sum of our bracelet numbers would be [5] plus [6] plus [7], or 18. The digital root would then be 1 plus 8: [9].

“...At any rate,” Lion spoke. “We aren’t going to get anywhere standing around like this. Let’s get moving.”

“Get moving?” Clover raised her voice. “Does that mean you plan on opening the numbered doors?”

“W-wait a minute!” Dancer chimed in. “Do you really plan on following Zero’s orders?”

“No,” Lion replied, shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean. I’m saying that we should search for a different path. There are places here we have yet to investigate.”

“That’s right, I completely forgot!” I spoke up. “There was a door back on C-Deck.”

“I see. We should head there immediately.”

“Then let’s get going!”

Lion and I started walking off.

“Wait. I shall accompany you,” Prince said.

“But you...” Lion started.

“Please do not consider me a burden. My sense of hearing is second to none. I can easily tell if the other side of a door is flooded just by knocking.”

“Really? That would be very helpful then.”

“Wait for me,” Mountain added, pounding his chest. “Don’t you need someone to get the door open?”

“Jumpy. I’m coming too.”

Akane started standing up, but I stopped her.

“No, you should stay. C-Deck could start flooding at any time. It’s safer here.”

Akane flashed a look of concern, but she replied resignedly with a slight nod.

“Okay.”

Separating from everyone else, Lion, Mountain, Prince, and I made our way down the central staircase. The water level had stopped just short of the bottom of C-Deck. D-Deck - the floor where we all had woken up - was completely submerged. It would be impossible to go back there.

For some reason, the water level showed no signs of rising. Without a single ripple, the water’s surface appeared smooth and glossy like a mirror, signaling to us that the flooding had stopped.

“Perhaps Zero possesses a device that allows him to remotely close off sections of this ship,” Prince surmised, kneeling down and lightly stroking the water’s surface.

That was probably the case. Zero said that our time limit was nine hours. In other words, that meant that for at least the next nine hours, the ship would remain afloat.

“Are you an acquaintance of that girl?” Lion asked me while we were walking down one of C-Deck’s halls.

“Yeah. We were in the same class in element-”

“Stop right there,” Prince interrupted. “It would be best if you refrained from saying too much about yourself.”

“Huh? Why?”

“There’s a high probability that Zero is listening in on our conversations. What if he heard you say something personal?”

“Would that be... bad?”

“Zero doesn’t necessarily know us. If he targeted us at random, then it is dangerous for us to even be talking about ourselves. He could easily threaten our families, or take them as hostages to force us to bend to his will.”

He was right. I hadn’t thought about things like that before. That must be why...

I gazed at Prince. That must be why he ignored Pink Hair when she called him brother. The two of them didn’t resemble each other, but now that I thought about it, they could actually be siblings.

“However, I admit that it would be difficult to communicate unless we knew each other’s names...”

“You’re right,” Mountain said, turning around to face us. “Then call me Seven.”

He stuck out his bracelet, which displayed a [7]. It was simple, but effective.

“Since your bracelet number is [2], we’ll call you Two, and old man, is One good with you?” he continued.

“That is regrettably a little too simple for me,” Prince replied. “I will go by Snake.”

“Snake?” I asked.

“If you roll a 2 with two dice, you get snake eyes.”[1]

“Very well. I will name myself Ace,” Lion said.[2]

I thought a moment for an appropriate nickname for myself. “Then I-”

“You don’t need one, do you?” Seven grinned wryly. “We know your name. You’re Junpei.”

“Huh? How...?”

“That sick young lady called you by that name.”[3]

We laughed in unison.

It seemed strange. Despite being on the brink of death, we were here laughing and introducing ourselves with nicknames. Almost as if we had taken the idea of Zero’s “game” literally.

That was exactly it. Everything that was happening felt so unreal. That’s precisely why we were able to stay relaxed, give ourselves nicknames, and so on, in this ideal, dream-like world.

Please take this more seriously!

A voice yelled out from behind me.

Otherwise, you really will die.

Who was it?

I quickly turned around.

But all that was there was the surface of the water.

[1] “That is regrettably a little too simple for me,” Prince replied. “I will go by Niels. It is the first name of a physicist I admire.” (TN: Two in Japanese is pronounced ni, hence Ni-els.)

[2] “Very well. I will name myself Ichimiya,” Lion said. (TN: Ichimiya in Japanese is 一宮, which contains 一, the character for “one.”)

[3] (TN: In Japanese, Akane calls Junpei “Junpei-kun,” which makes it so that the others immediately know his name instead of having to infer from “Jumpy.” Similarly, Junpei refers to Akane in Japanese simply as “Akane,” but for this translation, I have decided to go with “Kanny” for any spoken references and “Akane” everywhere else.)

Next: Part 2, Chapters 3-4

[cuthian]

*waves shyly* Hi! I've been a huge fan for years, and I've been reading Stucky fanfics for... God, I don't even know how long, but I never took the leap to write one myself. I was always a little afraid I wouldn't do my boys justice. This idea, however, would not leave me alone, and with some encouragement of my dearest Juulna, I was able to get it written down.

It's entirely written and just awaits editing and posting. Thank you to my darling Juulna, for giving me the courage to actually post this.

I hope you enjoy!

Love, Annaelle

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter One

—————

The story of Captain America has been shrouded in myth and urban legends from the moment he became a prominent player upon the battlefield during one of mankind’s bloodiest and cruelest wars in recorded history. There seems to be no single conclusive source that will confirm or deny any of the impossible feats that have been attributed to the man, nor anyone alive that can attest to witnessing said feats.

…the only thing that is, possibly, more mysterious than the figure of Captain America is the man behind the shield—a man whose full name is said will be released to the public in a few short weeks, on the fiftieth anniversary of our heroic Captain’s ultimate sacrifice, so that we may honor his memory as we should have been able to do for the past five decades.

—Sofia Johnson, ‘The Man Behind the Shield: Captain America, an exposé”, People Magazine, 1995

——————

S.H.I.E.L.D. Recovery room, New York City, New York, United States of America

June 2011Steve

There was music playing, somewhere in the distance, a jingling tune that Steve couldn’t identify for the life of him. He felt odd, ill at ease in his own body in a way he had not been since the first few days after he’d been given the serum.

His body felt simultaneously too big and too small, like it had in those excruciating few heartbeats in the chamber when he had been radiated with vita-rays. Like it had in the moment when his body was suspended between expanding and shrinking, falling apart at the seams while being knitted together again. His skin felt like it didn’t fit his body anymore, and he couldn’t figure out what had happened to make him feel like that again.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realise his eyes were already open, and that he was blinking up at a stark white ceiling with some sort of fan that spun in lazy circles.

He felt unfocused and tired, and though he tried to look around the small, brightly lit room he had somehow found himself in, his entire body felt stiff and unused, and his muscles seemed to protest even the smallest movement.

Something felt wrong about the room—it looked much like one of those recovery rooms in the SSR headquarters, but not quite. The details didn’t add up, and the sounds that filtered through felt too loud—like a cacophony of superfluous sounds from New York that had been dialed up until it was all he could hear.

He blinked when he noticed an open window, sunlight filtering through the thin, gauzy curtain and falling onto the bed where he lay—

But he couldn’t feel its warmth.

He couldn’t smell anything¸ and that, more than anything, unnerved him. Before the serum, he’d been sick constantly and had suffered from a near-permanent stuffed nose, but after he’d received it, he’d been able to smell everything—even miles away.

It had been hell at times, especially when he and the Commandos were sent on stealth missions that went on for weeks without much room for bathing and cleanliness.

Knowing that he couldn’t smell anything but the dull, stale scent of old bandages and recently unearthed sheets unnerved him more than he could put into words, because he could hear the city, even as off as it sounded, and he could hear murmured conversations that blended into one another until he couldn’t tell one word from another anymore.

It was… wrong.

He sat up slowly, biting back a groan at the ache in his joints and the strain in his muscles as he did.

Before he had the chance to move, the door opened and a woman stepped in, a pleasant but bland smile on her lips, and Steve figured she was supposed to be some sort of nurse.

He noticed immediately though, that her hair was not done up in the traditional curled bun he had seen his mother don hundreds of times, instead hanging loose over her shoulders in odd, wavy curls unlike any hairstyle he had seen women in professional settings wear before.

“Good morning,” she offered with a kind smile, though there was a note of humor in her voice. She glanced at the watch on her wrist—too large, too shabby to be a woman’s—and added, “Or should I say afternoon?” Steve watched, a feeling of unease curling in the pit of his stomach, as she stepped closer to the foot of the bed he was still seated on.

As she stepped did, his eyes were drawn to her attire, and it struck him just how ill-fitting her clothes were. Her blouse was bunched awkwardly into her skirt and her tie was broad, like a man’s tie should be and, though his cheeks flushed and embarrassment burned through his veins when he noticed, her brassiere did not look like any he had ever seen Peggy or any of the showgirls wear.

Something was wrong.

For some reason, he was being held in an odd facsimile of a recovery room, with a woman who was—poorly—pretending to be a nurse. It seemed like too much of an effort for Hydra to organize something on this scale, and Steve was fairly certain that after Schmidt had… disintegrated, for a lack of a better word, Hydra had far bigger things to concern themselves with than keeping Captain America in a recovery room of all places.

If Hydra had found him, they’d have tossed him in a dark, damp cell.

And yet…

“Where am I?” he demanded, slowly pushing himself up from the bed—with a mattress that was softer and smoother than anything he had ever felt before—as he assessed the room, a little disgruntled to find the only secure point of exit was the door the woman had entered through.

“You’re in a recovery room in New York City,” she replied immediately, her voice pleasant and smooth, but Steve had been part of show business long enough to recognize when someone recited lines from a script. There was enough intonation in her voice to pass of her words as genuine, but the way her expression did not change whatsoever and the way she replied almost before he had finished asking the question in the first place raised his hackles.

He might not know what was going on, but he was not going to take it lying down.

“Where am I, really?” he insisted, stepping directly towards her, not above using the sheer size of his body to intimidate this strange woman into telling him the truth.

Before she could respond again—undoubtedly with more well-rehearsed lies—the door behind her flew open and another woman stepped in. Steve gaped at her, because he had never seen a woman dressed as boldly as she was, nor had he ever seen a woman wear this many weapons—and he didn’t doubt that she carried more that he hadn’t yet clocked.

She wore tight black trousers that made him blush even as he tore his eyes away from the way they accentuated her shapely, muscled legs, only to have his gaze linger on her torso, likewise clad in tight black fabric that accentuated her figure in ways even Peggy had not been bold enough to try. She wore several firearms and had a knife strapped to her thigh, and Steve had no idea what was going on anymore.

“We tried your way, Van Zandt,” the woman said, shoving at the oddly dressed nurse. “Told you he wouldn’t fall for it. Go brief Fury. I’ll take it from here.”

Van Zandt—assuming that was her name—seemed to consider the other woman, opening her mouth in protest, Steve supposed, before she snapped it shut at the glare the other woman shot her way. She squared her shoulders and tilted her chin as she stared the redhead down, and Steve was struck by the sudden flare of pain from the throbbing ache that had lodged itself beneath his breastbone the moment Bucky had fallen.

The way the dark-haired woman moved was eerily similar to the way Bucky had, when he’d been trying to intimidate bullies into backing down, or when he’d squared off against Howard when the older man tried to imply that Bucky or Steve weren’t smart because they’d not been able to afford college.

He watched with interest as the redheaded woman eventually withered beneath the other woman’s glare—it had worked miracles when Bucky had done it too, his mind supplied unhelpfully—drooping out of the room with the distinct air of a kicked puppy.

“Captain,” the new woman spoke again as she turned back towards him, a genuine smile on her lips, though he could see something akin to wonder lingering just beneath the surface of her expression as well. “I apologize for the poor show-and-tell.” She waved her hand at the room in general, and Steve wondered if he was supposed to say something about that—

She continued before he could, though, gesturing towards the bed while she pulled out a chair for herself. “Please, sit. I will try to explain what is happening, but I need you to tell me what the last thing you remember is first.”

“I—” Steve stuttered, plopping back down on the bed ungracefully as he stared at her. “The Valkyrie. Schmidt… disintegrated and I… I didn’t have time to land the plane, so I—”

Cold. So, so cold. Pain. He can’t breathe—

“Captain?”

The woman’s voice abruptly drew him back from the memory, and he swallowed thickly, shame curdling in the pit of his belly for showing such weakness. He did not want to give the woman any indication he might be suffering from battle fatigue—it was a weakness he could not afford to show.

“I put her down in the water,” he concluded quietly, casting his gaze down to his own hands to avoid seeing the look on the woman’s face.

“No loss of memory, then,” she deduced gently, offering him a kind smile when he dared look up again. “A few weeks ago, a recovery team in the Arctic Circle came across a large object in the ice that sent their radars haywire. Upon further investigation, they realized it was a warplane, and when they entered, they found your body.”

Steve flinched, but shook his head when she paused in her explanation. “No,” he insisted. “Tell me.”

He met her gaze head-on—and was oddly struck by the icy blue color of her eyes, a shade that was all too similar to the color of Bucky’s—until she nodded and offered him a quick grin.

“It took some maneuvering, but they determined that your heart was still beating. We’re still not entirely sure what happened, but the generally accepted theory is that the serum kept you alive, and the ice preserved you until we could find you.”

“Who are you?” he blurted, twisting his fingers together in a nervous gesture he usually tried to suppress. “Where am I really?”

The woman offered him a wry smile and leaned back in the seat and seemed to take a moment to think about her words before she replied. “You’re in New York City,” she began, holding up her hand to stall him when he opened his mouth to protest again. “You’re in a specially built recovery room inside S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, which is an intelligence agency that developed out of the SSR after the war. You’re here because the higher ups wanted to break the news to you gently. S.H.I.E.L.D. stands for Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement Logistics Division.”

Steve couldn’t help the snort that fell from his lips as she explained the acronym, shaking his head a little as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger across the bridge of his nose. “Someone really wanted that to spell S.H.I.E.L.D., didn’t they?” he said wryly, smiling a little at the entirely undignified snort that fell from the woman’s lips.

“Yeah,” she chuckled, lips curled up into a broad grin. “From what I hear, they really did.”

They were silent for a moment while Steve let her words sink in, before he swallowed thickly and asked, “You said, ‘after the war’… Does that mean—is it—did we?”

He couldn’t quite get the words past his lips, terrified of what the answer might be, but it seemed she knew what he was trying to ask anyway. “We won, Captain, in no small amount thanks to the sacrifices you and your men made during ’44 and ’45.”

The words comfort him for a long, blissful heartbeat before the way she worded her sentence finally hit him. Bucky had been the one reading any science-fiction book he could get his hands on, had been the one devouring Brave New World until the copy his mother had gotten him had been frayed at the edges, but Steve had listened, every now and then, when Bucky talked about it.

There was usually only one reason people named years the way she did.

God, please. Please, no.

“What year is it?” he asked slowly, voice hoarse and trembling. He’d been afraid to hear about the outcome of the war, but that fear paled in comparison to the outright terror he experienced while waiting for her reply.

Her smile turned strained and a little sympathetic before she replied, “2011.”

The words felt like a blow to the chest, leaving him breathless in a way he hadn’t been since the serum cured his asthma, and his head felt like it was spinning as he tried to comprehend the magnitude of what she’d told him—2011.

That would be—sixty-six years—Peggy—Dum Dum—Gabe—all of his friends—everyone—

Bucky.

“Captain? Steve?”

He snapped his head up at the sound of his given name, and he suddenly realized his breath was wheezing in his lungs and his breathing was far too fast and he was slightly lightheaded. He hadn’t realized he was falling headfirst into an anxiety attack, and while it wasn’t the first he’d had, it was the first time he had to deal with one without his mother, Bucky, or even Peggy to talk him down.

“Steve, it’s okay. I’m going to help you calm down, alright? Just listen to my voice. I’m gonna count, and I want you to try to match your breathing to it, okay?” He barely had time to nod before the bed sagged a little beside him and her hands were suddenly curled around his, her voice soothing and calm in his ear. “One… Two… Three…”

His breath slowed more easily than he had thought it would, and before long, the world had stopped spinning and he felt less like he was going to choke on thin air. He didn’t know how long they sat there, her thumb rubbing over his knuckles in a soothing gesture wholly like Bucky had done hundreds of times over the course of their lives together.

“What do I do now?” he whispered, the words slipping from him before he could stop them, before he could censor himself, before he could slip back into the Captain America mindset and make the woman forget the embarrassing display of weakness she had witnessed.

She didn’t reply for a moment, clearly deep in thought as well, before she offered him a smile and said, “Well, if you’re up for a field trip, I’m pretty sure I know someone who’ll be thrilled to see you.”

He eyed her speculatively for a moment, briefly trying to think of anyone he knew that would even be alive anymore, once again struck by how much she reminded him of Bucky—no matter how hard he tried not to think about him, because he would fall apart if he thought about him again—before he nodded.

Anything was more appealing than sitting in this room, alone with his thoughts.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he blurted when he stood, following the young woman—who was some kind of agent, he was sure, with this S.H.I.E.L.D.—to the door. “I appreciate it, Miss…” He faltered, quite suddenly realizing he had no idea what her name actually was.

She turned at the sound of his hesitation, and for the first time, he saw a crack in the confident façade she had portrayed so far. “…Barnes,” she finally said, and his heart jumped to his throat while the bottom of his stomach fell away.

“Rebecca Barnes.”

Notes:

Thank you for reading! Leave a comment/kudos <3

Until next week!

[ashswritingplace]

Homecoming

This is a short story based on a world-building exercise I did back in 2016, heavily reworked. You find yourself being shown around the afterlife, and it is nothing you have imagined.

“Homecoming”

You had imagined the afterlife looking much more majestic than this. As your golden train snakes through the clouds, you inch closer to the window to get a better look at the island floating in the sky. Trees shroud it in a dense brush, and you struggle to make out anything more through the leaves than the yellow-brown grasses filling spaces between dirt patches. You can barely see the building through the overgrowth from up here, and for a moment, you wonder if you are in the right place.

The train skids to a halt, and the thunderous screech of the wheels echoes in your ears. You take a final glance around the empty vehicle before approaching the exit and stepping onto the mysterious island in the sky.

You stand on a rotting wood platform, and beside you, a faded sign tells you where you are in a script you cannot read. The forest isn’t any easier to see through from here. A dirt path leads to the entrance of the building, so you follow it.

You had imagined something regal, something mighty and extravagant akin to the pyramids of the Taj Mahal or the Sistine Chapel, but this building was an embarrassing comparison. The pale concrete walls had given way to time, and chunks of them lay scattered on the floor, broken and half-buried in the dirt. Some of the windows are shattered, and illegible graffiti decorates one of the walls. This place reminds you of your high school, and with a bemused chuckle, you wonder if you have arrived in Hell after all.

You turn around, wondering if the train that brought you here can return you home, but the celestial vehicle is nowhere to be seen. It has gone without a sound, as if by magic, and for a moment you wonder if you had imagined the whole thing. You turn back to the front doors of the run-down building and, drawing in a breath, you pull them open and step inside.

They open to a grand hall, somehow bigger than the entire building had looked from the outside. The floors are pristinely polished, and you can see your reflection between the suns and stars painted onto the tiles. The walls showcase windows of stained glass and paintings all depicting people, animals, nature, battlefields. In the center of the room, a crystal chandelier hangs above a fountain depicting some kind of warrior. The figure holds an axe in one hand and an unlit three-tipped candelabrum in the other, and though it is faceless, it reminds you of your father, or your aunt, or perhaps yourself. Behind the fountain, a wide marble staircase extends to the second floor to a glass door that appears to lead outside. Either rail of the staircase is laced with flowering vines and flowers. There is another staircase on either side of the room, golden and curving up to the second floor.

For several moments you remain still, staring in awe at the breathtaking room. You cannot understand how something so magnificent could be contained by such an ugly exterior. So lost in admiration, you do not notice people begin to stream into the room from the doors between the stairs.

They, too, are beautiful. Each person seems to give off their own light, as if their very skin glows. They are dressed in leather armor, some decorated with straps, belts, weapons, patterns, all a vibrant emerald green. Their arms are outfitted in gold and pearl braces that chime as they move. Most magnificent are their wings; each person has a pair of white, feathery appendages extending from their shoulder blades, and no two people seem to have the same length. Some jut out awkwardly and seem too short to keep anyone airborne, while others reach down their legs.

The angels bustle about, too preoccupied to notice you staring. One angel nearly bumps into you, and she steps away with an apologetic bow. “Oh!” Her voice is like silk, comforting, and the melody of it blankets you. She wears a graceful smile, and you are comforted by the warmth in her eyes. She speaks in a language you do not understand, and after a minute she slaps her palm to her forehead and corrects herself in your tongue: “Are you the new dischol?”

You begin to tell her you do not know what that means, but before you can finish your sentence, a much larger angel notices the two of you. She saunters over to you, eyebrows furrowed, expression unreadable. She looks you over, and you swear you see her scoff. Already you can feel this angel commands an air of authority, and you do not want to get on her bad side. She speaks in that strange language from before to the other angel, who nods and, with a small wave, leaves the two of you alone.

The larger angel clears her throat, and she demands your name. You give it to her, but as it falls from your mouth, you think it belongs to someone else, a relic of who you used to be.

She does not acknowledge your answer. Instead, she moves around the fountain and begins climbing the marble stairs, motioning for you to follow.

When she turns, you notice her wings. They are longer than anyone else’s here; they drag on the floor, shimmering under the chandelier’s light. She clears her throat again, pulling you from your daze. “Adainmelhye is not present currently,” she tells you, “but He will return soon. For now, I will explain your new role.”

You do not know who Adainmelhye is, but you get the impression the angel would not appreciate any questions now. You keep your mouth shut and follow her upstairs.

The two of you ascend to the second floor and go through the glass doors to a platform outside. The stairs continue out here, stretching far beyond a canopy of clouds. You squint, but you cannot see where they end.

The journey is made no easier by the silence you travel in. As you climb, you look over your shoulder at all the angels getting smaller and smaller through the glass doors. You climb beyond the clouds, beyond the curve in the stairs, and soon you realize the stairs are now wrapping around a building. They hug the walls, and you can see the countless arches and doors leading into the round, Colosseum-like building. How had you not seen this when you first arrived? You wonder where each door leads, wonder if you will have the chance to explore them all. You continue up, up, impossibly up, until finally, when you are sure you are about ready to collapse, you reach the top.

The stairs end on a platform with a door. Your guide pulls it open for you, and you step into a greenhouse. Sunlight pours through the cloud roof to kiss your skin. The air is so crisp, you feel as if you are breathing for the first time in your life. The aroma of fresh flowers and mosses welcomes you, drawing you into a garden. A walkway of lapis lazuli cobblestone slithers through rows and rows of bushes and trees in bloom. You start down the path, stopping frequently to feel the leaves and the flowers and the fruits in your fingers. Life bursts all around you, and you are certain it is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

The path takes you through the greenhouse and to its edge, though it takes you a moment to remove your attention from the vibrant flowers to see what is in front of you. A gigantic ash tree rests here; its powerful roots have cracked the floor and spill into the clouds outside. It stretches beyond the roof of the greenhouse, beyond what you can see. Its trunk is sturdy but carved with words you cannot read, and its leaves sparkle like rubies from its abundant branches. Golden fruit hangs from its limbs, plump and shining, perfectly ripe.

You gasp, so in awe of this tree, but your eye catches on something behind it. You climb onto its roots, steady yourself against its trunk, and peer through the cracked glass wall. The clouds are endless here, but through one you can see far, far below, miles away from where the tree’s roots reach, a landscape of black sprinkled with white specs. Little marbles dot the starlit backdrop, and you notice one before the others. It is blue and brown and green and covered by stretches of clouds. From there, everything had seemed impossibly large, but now, as you look down at the planet you had called home, you are humbled by its small space in the universe.

Already forgotten is the image of the building from outside, or even the gorgeous hall it opens to. Heaven or Valhalla or Samsara or Elysium; whatever you had once called this place, you were certain now that it was paradise.

Your guide clears her throat, reminding you that you are not here alone. You hop off the tree’s roots as she begins to explain where you are. “This is Ciyemangan,” she says, motioning towards the ash. “Adainmelhye planted it many eons ago so His many children would never hunger. Now, it is your turn to eat of its fruits.”

She holds out her hand to it, expectant, and like magic, a golden fruit falls into her palm. She offers it to you.

You take it. It is smooth beneath your fingers, and as you bite into it, you savor its taste. It is sweet and spicy, juicy and tangy, and so in love with the flavor, you do not notice someone new approach the two of you.

They speak with your guide, who begins to look irritated. She then turns back to you. “I loathe to do this,” she admits, “but Adainmelhye is arriving sooner than expected. I must organize the homecoming banquet. Ptarsamiel will take over from here.” She calls the strange name, voice vibrating like crashes of thunder echoing through the clouds. In only a couple minutes, a new angel appears, hand raised to his superior and goofy grin on his lips. Your guide speaks with him in their shared tongue before starting off on her powerful wings.

The new angel—Ptarsamiel—looks you over. “So, you’re the newcomer?” he muses. “Wow, your wings are so tiny.” He looks over his shoulder and flexes his own wings. “Were mine ever that small?” When he returns his gaze to you, he notices the blushes rising to your cheeks, and he waves you off. “I hope Ursupala didn’t shake you up too bad. She looks like a hardass, but she’s really a big ol’ teddy bear. You’ll come to think of her as your mama soon.”

You are surprised by the blunt language he uses. It is a stark contrast to your majestic surroundings, but you find comfort in the familiarity of his tone.

He continues, “So you can call me Sam. Urs says it’s up to me to give you a tour of the place, eh? Well, I’ll tell you what she told me, back when I was in your position. I know you’re going to have a lot of questions, but try to take things in and live in the moment. Everything will be explained in due time, yeah?”

You can’t imagine anyone would be able to answer all of the questions you have, but for some reason, you trust him. You nod.

He motions around the garden. “So this is the roof.” He hesitates, then says, “Urs probably explained this to you already, but this is Adainmelhye’s pride and joy. Oh, you might call him… God? Yahweh? Odin? You get the gist. Adainmelhye planted this garden, and he spends a lot of time here making sure it’s always in bloom. He’s got quite the green thumb, wouldn’t you say?”

Sam turns away and starts for the door you entered through. “And now,” he mutters, “the stairway of death. Once your wings grow in, you probably won’t be taking this by foot anymore.”

You peer back down the stairs and, with a groan, you follow Sam. At least you will be staying fit here, you think.

As you are descending the stairs, Sam begins his explanation. “This is the afterlife. It’s where people go when their time on Earth is up. I know it can be hard to understand everything that’s happened, but you have time to process it all, and we have excellent resources to help. I know you’ll do fine. After all, Adainmelhye recruits only the strongest warriors to his realm.”

You pause, unsure. Your memories are already slipping. Had you been a fighter?

Sam notices you and shakes his head. “No, not necessarily that kind of warrior. Sometimes the most dangerous battles we’ll ever face are inside us, and sometimes, we don’t always come out victorious. But Adainmelhye doesn’t care about who wins. He sees the people who fight, even when no one else does, and he knows how to recognize strength. He’s seen it in Ursupala and in you and somehow even me.” He quiets for a moment before musing, “I wonder what kinds of battles you waged.”

You wonder too, but you are pulled from your thoughts at his next words.

“None of us remember our lives. It’s not so important, though. What matters now is that Adainmelhye saw you, and you’re here now. You’re loved here, unconditionally.”

Whatever you had done, whoever you had been, it feels nice now to be recognized.

“Anyway.” Sam motions to the building the stairs wrap around, the one with countless doors. “This is the Academy. Don’t worry; it’s not like the ones you’re used to. We call it that because you’re going to be learning a lot while you’re here. Can you believe there are five-hundred and forty rooms? But you’ll be learning about more than just our architecture, like how best to serve Adainmelhye and protect the world. Some of us, like Ursupala, might become part of the Council of Seven—those’re the angels of authority who advise Adainmelhye Himself. Others find their calling in helping angels around the Academy, with training or cooking or healthcare. And others go on to become guardian angels on Earth, protecting the people and places that need us most. We’re all different, so we’ve all got different places that are best fit for us. I wonder where you’ll end up.”

As you continue your journey, Sam tells you more about the other angels. He explains the roles of the Council, talks about his favorite memories of messing with them. He talks about himself: he doesn’t remember his time alive, and he promises soon you won’t either, but he tells you about the two hundred years he’s spent in the afterlife, his time as a guardian angel to a small town under a waterfall, about the children he had watched over and protected, and he talks about his shift to working up here, under Ursupala, wherever he is needed. He is an angel of many talents, he assures you, but with a smirk you recall the hesitation Ursupala had shown when she’d summoned him.

Before you know it, you are back in the great hall on the ground floor. Sam takes you to the room directly behind the staircases, a library the likes of which you’ve never seen. Books and scrolls fill the ceiling-high shelves, and plants and art provide the perfect atmosphere for learning. You itch to read here, to spend whole afternoons curled up with a book on one of the soft couches, but Sam tugs you along, off to somewhere else to continue your tour. He shows you the offices, the dining halls, the training grounds, and when he is finished, he shows you upstairs, to the endless dorms that housed every angel here. “Can you believe Adainmelhye built this all Himself?”

You can hardly fathom the work needed to create a place like this, and you begin to admire this deity. You look forward to meeting Him. And, just as Sam is taking you to Adainmelhye’s throne room, a horn sounds throughout the building, grabbing the attention of every angel around.

“He is come!” someone shouts, joy ringing through the echo of their voice. “He is come!”

Sam turns to you, a smile blossoming across his face. “Adainmelhye is back,” he says. “Let’s go greet Him.”

You follow him back to the main hall and out the front doors. You look back, and you are surprised to find the building looks just as run-down as when you’d first seen it. You marvel at the magic needed to fit all that extravagance inside such crumbling facades.

Sam doesn’t let you wonder long. He notices you staring and says, “Oh, that. Adainmelhye wanted His realm to look like the orphanage He’d founded when He lived on Earth. That’s what’s up with the exterior. He values sentiments over aesthetics.”

You nod, satisfied with the explanation.

You and Sam continue to the platform you’d arrived on, and you see several hundred angels already gathered and awaiting the return of their god. Their shouting fills the sky, and you take a dizzy step away, overwhelmed by the excitement.

From the clouds, you spot a new train emerge. This one is similar to the one that brought you here, though it sparkles, opalescent, in every radiant hue of the rainbow. It arrives at the platform, and suddenly every angel around you takes a knee. You do the same, bowing to the god who has chosen you.

A man steps off the train and onto the platform. You are surprised to find he looks exactly like your grandfather, cheery-eyed with deep laugh lines and crow's feet. He walks ever so slowly, frail and hunched over, and you fear he may fall. He makes his way to you, and a ribbon of laughter flows from his lips. “Ah,” he says, “it is such joy to have you join us.” He calls your name, and when you meet his eye, you see only love in his gaze. “What better way to welcome our newest friend than with a banquet?”

You want to tell Him you are not worth that. The banquet Ursupala and the others had prepared was for their god, not you. But you look into those gracious eyes, and you know you cannot take the smile from His face.

Everyone moves into the gigantic dining hall. Adainmelhye welcomes you to His table where there are perfectly-cooked meals awaiting you on silver platters, enough to feed the whole realm—perhaps the whole world. All the angels eat and laugh together, and the hall is filled with joyous life. Even Ursupala, seated beside Adainmelhye, is smiling as she engages in conversation with her god.

You are seated across from them. Adainmelhye raises a glass of wine to toast to you, and you shyly bring your glass to meet his. You do not know what He saw in you, why you are here, but even as your memories fade, you are certain you have never felt more welcome anywhere else.

Adainmelhye smiles wide, stars in His eyes, and as He watches you take your glass to your lips, He says, “Welcome home.”

[lpdwillwrite4coffee]

CHILDREN OF LILITH CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Lisa dropped her bag in one of the dining room chairs and slid out of her coat. “What time are we going to Onyx?”

“I told everyone ten,” Griffin muttered, removing his holster.

Looking to the clock, Lisa smiled. “Great, that gives us girls plenty of time to doll ourselves up.” She gestured for Nikki to follow her. “C’mon, let’s go find you something fitting for a Queen.” She winked to emphasize the word.

Cautioning a glance at Griffin, Nikki nodded and joined Lisa on the stairs. They disappeared into Lisa’s bedroom, leaving the men alone in the quiet main room.

Boz set his laptop down on the table and turned to look at Griffin. “Hey, um… You know I was just kidding with that dethroned bit, right?” He chewed the corner of his bottom lip. “I was just… yeah, it was stupid. I mean, Nikki hasn’t gone through the whole process, not like you have, so you’re still King-”

“Boz,” Griffin interrupted gently. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

“Really?” Boz cast an incredulous stare over his friend. “’Cause you barely said two words after we left Amsterdam’s.”

Griffin strode to the coffee pot and poured the stale contents into a mug. “I’m just tired,” he said, hitting a selection of buttons on the microwave.

“Right.” Boz’s voice was taut, as if he were straining to hold more words in.

Griffin didn’t turn, or speak, and after a moment he heard Boz sigh.

“Okay, well I’m gonna go get in a quick work out before we have to leave,” Boz said, starting down the hall towards the pit.

“Boz,” Griffin called. Digging the heels of his hands into the edge of the counter, he glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “We’re good. Everything else…” He stopped, flattening his lips into a hard line. “But you and me, we’re good. You know that, right?”

Slipping his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, Boz ducked his head. “I do now.”

The sadness in his brown eyes when he looked up made Griffin’s stomach drop. Unable to say anything else, Griffin watched him vanish down the hall and listened to the door to the basement click shut.

Whiskey found its way into his reheated coffee only moments later.

* * *

Serena studied the building plans for Onyx, her fingers tracing the path of air conditioner vents and crawl spaces she’d have to take to avoid being caught by security. It was well known throughout the Underground that Onyx had a very strict no Vampire policy, which was upheld by military trained bouncers and heat sensors attached to every camera. One cold blip on their monitors and they’d descend on her faster than a pack of Newborns.

There was a glaring lack of electrical equipment by the club’s restrooms, more than likely for patron privacy than anything else, but it gave Serena a wide enough blind spot to work with. She only had to lower herself down from the roof, climb through the rafters above the dance floor, and slide into the air conditioning vent that lead to the women’s bathroom. From there she could slip into the men’s room.

And wait for Griffin.

He’d have to go in eventually- one of the downsides of being human with a functioning bladder. She’d grab him when he was alone and probably too drunk to put up much of a fight. But just in case, she had an eighteen-gauge syringe full of Ketamine ready to knock him out.

Alexander would have his Bloodletter back. She’d return to his good graces holding the Hunter King’s head in her hands.

Serena would show him just how irreplaceable his kitten was.

* * *

“What about this one?” Lisa asked from the doorway of her closet.

Nikki paused towel-drying her hair and looked up. “It’s nice,” she started. “But silver isn’t really my color.”

Lisa held up the sparkly mini-dress and hummed. “You’re right. You need something… richer.”

“If you put me in royal purple, I’m chucking this hairbrush at you.”

Laughing, Lisa ducked back into the small space, shoving garments out of her way. “I won’t lie. I was thinking about it. But now that I know how adverse you are to it, I’ll save myself the concussion.”

“Maybe something green?” Nikki offered. Kaelin always said she looked great in green.

Because of your hair. Emerald green makes the red in it pop!

“Or blue,” Nikki added. “Blue works too.”

“’Cause of your eyes?” Lisa asked, her voice muffled by a hanger full of scarves.

“Yeah,” she nodded, staring absently at the collection of earrings hanging from a wire jewelry stand on Lisa’s dresser. The ritual of getting ready for a night out held a soreness in it now, catching Nikki in the throat and making her eyes water. Kaelin would love this.

Kaelin would have an absolute field day, if Nikki were honest. Not only would she be digging her manicured nails into the back of Griffin’s neck and making him beg for forgiveness for upsetting her best friend, she’d be obsessed with Lisa’s wardrobe. The whole room really. Red walls accented with black and white patterned curtains and bedding were definitely something Kaelin would ooh at. Add in the Moroccan inspired glass lanterns hanging around the room and mountain of jewel-toned throw pillows at the head of the mattress, and Nikki was certain Kaelin would start taking hundreds of pictures for reference the next time she decided she wanted to redecorate her own bedroom.

“Are you a mini-skirt person?” Lisa asked, jolting Nikki from her train of thought.

“I’m not opposed but I think I have bad luck in them,” she said. “Last time I wore one I fell and flashed a huge group of people. So, maybe something with more fabric?”

“Roger that.” Lisa thrust a hanger back onto the wooden bar and continued looking. Her movements slowed as she searched, and she glanced back at Nikki twice before she finally spoke again. “Are you… Are you feeling okay?”

Nikki’s heart stuttered in panic. Her hand went to her nose, waiting to feel blood pouring from her nostrils.

“No, no, sorry.” Lisa stepped forward, shaking her head. “Not that, you look fine. I just meant you looked kind of… sad?”

“Oh.” Nikki let her hand fall to her lap. “I, uh… I keep thinking about Kaelin. She loves this kind of thing.” She motioned in the direction of the closet.

Lisa nodded sympathetically. “I know how hard it is. To keep going, even when they’re not here.”

Her eyes shifted to a framed picture of her, Boz, and Griffin set at the back of her dresser. The trio was crammed into dimly lit booth, with pint glasses and paper coasters scattered across the lacquered table in front of them. Lisa was in the middle, with Boz’s arm draped around her shoulders, and her own hand on Griffin’s forearm. Ridiculous green shamrock sun glasses were perched on Boz’s head, while Griffin’s hung from the loose collar of his shirt, and green bead necklaces were layered around Lisa’s neck. They were flushed from drinking, and all smiles.

“What happened?” Nikki asked, not realizing she’d said the words until Lisa responded.

“There was an accident.” Lisa stopped and she sighed. “Actually, it wasn’t an accident. But Griffin says he doesn’t remember what happened… only patrolling with Boz and me before, and then waking up in the hospital after.”

The scar on Griffin’s side- the angry red slash from a wound that looked close to gutting him… That must have been what Lisa was referring to. Nikki’s stomach twisted.

Lisa pressed her shoulder into the doorframe, worrying with a strap on the camisoles she held. “We were in the Village. We’d heard about several Vampire attacks in that area so we decided to focus our efforts there. We’d just finished one sweep when Griffin said he heard something… He told us to go on, stick together while he checked it out. He went off alone. We never patrol alone. It’s one of our rules. Safety in numbers, you know?” She stared intently at the fabric between her fingers. “It was taking too long for him to catch up. Boz said not to worry- Griff could handle himself, since he’s the one with the special abilities. But I knew… I knew it wasn’t right. Something was off. And then I saw the smoke.”

Nikki’s heart stopped for the second time. The club she used to bartend at had burned down…

“Griffin was in that fire,” she whispered.

Lisa nodded. “The whole building went up in flames so fast… And you know, I swear I smelled gasoline, but the papers said it was an electrical short of some kind. Faulty wiring.” She gave a weak shrug. “I guess the how doesn’t matter. Whatever had happened inside… it got those Vampires’ attention. Griffin was bleeding, so much it drew out that pack we’d been hunting.” Lisa curled her lip in disgust. “Fucking Newborns were so hungry they ran into a burning building for a meal.”

Nikki watched the muscles of Lisa’s throat work as she swallowed hard.

“They’d just started feeding when I found him.”

“And he doesn’t remember any of it?”

Lisa’s eyes met hers. “That’s what he said. I asked him about it when he woke up, but…” She shook her head. “And anytime we’ve tried to talk about it since he just shuts down.”

“How long was he in the hospital?”

“Three days,” Lisa answered. “He’d lost a lot of blood and there was some internal organ damage. Surgery lasted eight hours, I think. Boz would know. I had kind of lost track of time by that point.” She turned to replace the clothing on the hanger and paused. “It was the first time I’d ever thought about losing him. He’d always seemed so constant. Imperfect, sure, but he was the one that brought us together. The one with the gift- the Blooded Hunter. He was the strong one.” She swallowed roughly. “But seeing him like that… Lying there in that hospital bed, it hit me that we might have to go on without him. And that just seemed impossible to me.”

Nikki watched her, seeing her own pain reflected in Lisa’s gaze. When friends became surrogate families, the fear of their presence being ripped away was crushing, no matter the circumstances.

“I think a part of me didn’t want to believe Kaelin was just as vulnerable as me,” Nikki murmured. “It just never occurred to me that she’s mortal, you know? She’s such an important part of my life… I could never imagine her not being there.” A sad smile played at the edges of her lips. “Plus, she’s like a force of nature in heels and red lipstick. Nothing could ever get to her.”

Except something had. And that cracked Nikki’s foundation more than anything during her descent into the Underground.

“I know we can’t compare to her,” Lisa started. “But you’ve got us.”

Nikki let herself smile a little wider. “Thank you.”

Quiet settled over the women like a cotton sheet, and Nikki finally felt like she could take a deep breath.

Turning, Lisa rummaged near the back of the closet and pulled out a sequined cobalt blue off the shoulder top and a pair of dark wash jeans.

“What about this?” Lisa asked, holding up the outfit for inspection.

“Perfect.”

* * *

Nicholas patted Twitch’s cheek with the broad side of his knife.

“Go on,” he urged the trembling human. “Tell them what you told me.” He jerked his head towards the pack of Newborns that had joined them in the cell.

Twitch swallowed, nearly choking on the buildup of saliva and blood at the back of his throat. “Wh-What part?”

Smirking, Nicholas winked at him and leaned in. “You can keep our sweet nothings private,” he said. “I want you to tell them about Onyx.”

The left side of Twitch’s face was mottled indigo and violet, his eye socket fractured and the flesh around it so swollen he was partially blind. Lifting his head so he could see the majority of the group with his right eye, he sucked in a breath.

“All their cameras have heat sensors,” he mumbled through bruised lips. “And their bouncers carry silver knives, silver tipped bullets…”

Nicholas waved his hand, gesturing for him to get to the important details.

“The security office upstairs isn’t under surveillance,” Twitch said. “Some of the guys there do some crazy shit they don’t want anyone to see.”

“Like blood harvesting?” One male asked, narrowing his dark eyes.

“Yeah,” Twitch admitted, gulping. “Douglas, the head of security… he set up a whole system in one of the rooms. That’s where I go to get my supply.”

“How many are involved?”

“Everyone.” Twitch let his gaze fall to the floor. “Everyone there’s in on it.”

A slim female with short brown hair folded her arms. “This place is in Hunter territory,” she said, looking to Nicholas. “If we make a preemptive strike, they have every right to come after us.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes. “Have you been feeding under a rock the last month? Territory lines don’t matter anymore.”

“Do the Hunters know that?” She asked, arching a delicate eyebrow at him.

A growl rippled through Nicholas’ chest and he strode forward, stopping an inch away from the female. “Don’t test my patience, Felicia,” he bit out. “I’d hate for you to sit this operation out because you’re missing both of your arms.”

The beat of tension dispersed when Felicia tilted her head, exposing her throat in deference to her Alpha.

“That’s better,” Nicholas murmured, dipping down to land a quick peck over her pulse point before turning back to Twitch. “Anything else you’d like to share with us?”

Still slumped to one side, Twitch considered the question a moment. He lifted his stare, locking it on Nicholas with as much heat as he could muster.

“You’re insane for going in there,” he said, voice surprisingly firm. “The place’ll be packed, crawling with security. You’re just setting off a powder keg.” He cautioned a quick glance at the other Vampires before saying, “It’ll get messy. Real messy.”

Nicholas smiled, his fangs extending in grotesque delight. “Fabulous,” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for a way to truly make my mark. And what better way than to do it with fireworks?”

Stepping over, he ran his fingers through Twitch’s matted hair and gave his bruised face a lingering stroke before heading to the door.

“C’mon everyone,” he called over his shoulder. “We’ve got lots to do.”

“And what about him?” Felicia asked, nodding to Twitch.

Nicholas regarded the human. “Leave him. I’ve always wanted a house pet.”

[davidoespailla]

Check-In Time: Rundown Motels Are Becoming Cool Condos, Affordable Apartments

istock; realtor.com

Luna Lodge, in Albuquerque, NM, is the quintessential Route 66 motel.

A kitschy, neon sign with an arrow points to the parking lot that’s lined by three square Pueblo Spanish Revival buildings with flared stucco hoods over the doors. The 1949 property was even placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1998 “as one of the best examples of a largely unaltered tourist court remaining along New Mexico Route 66.”

But despite its iconic status, the motel fell into disrepair over the decades. The dilapidated, boarded-up building became a magnet for criminal activity.

Then Luna Lodge got a new lease on life. In 2013, the renovated building once again began welcoming people into its rooms. But they weren’t just passing through. The former motel had been converted into 30 affordable apartments for low-income and disabled tenants.

As more and more travelers have turned away from classic motor lodges and hotels in favor of spacious Airbnbs with all the comforts of home, many of those old way stations have been left behind. While many have been demolished, others linger on in varying states of neglect. But over the past half-decade, a growing segment of city governments, nonprofit organizations, and developers have been reclaiming these structures to transform them into apartments and condos to meet a growing need for housing.

There were about 16,000 motels open for business in 2012, representing just 27% of the 61,000 operating during their heyday in the 1950s, according to Mark Okrant, author of “No Vacancy: The Rise, Demise and Reprise of America’s Motels.” The number has dropped even further over the past six years.

“Motels developed a negative reputation that has carried along for the past 40 or 50 years: They are regarded as anything from cheap to honky-tonk, a place to go for a one-night or one-hour stand,” says Okrant.

In decades past, these properties, many of which are located on prime commercial arteries, would have been turned into shopping spaces. But with the rise of e-commerce (thanks, Amazon), that’s no longer practical.

“People are starting to think, ‘What do I do with this thing?’”says KC Conway, an economist at the commercial real estate group CCIM Institute.

Fading hotels become luxury condos, apartments The House is a former motel that now houses millennial renters.

Photo provided by Kelly Herzog

Converting motels and hotels into residential buildings makes good business sense. After all, they’re often located in or near tourist destinations, or places where people live and work—and where there’s a shortage of housing.

In booming Atlanta, what used to be a Hawthorne Suites extended-stay hotel was completely overhauled into luxury apartments in late 2016. The Metro, as it’s called, features 200 units topping out at $1,550 for 1,154-square-foot, two-bedrooms with new HVAC systems, stainless-steel appliances, and quartz countertops.

Plus, the property has a pool, tennis court, and multiple fitness centers.

“It was totally renovated inside and out,” says manager Montecchia Walker. The complex has maintained about a 93% occupancy rate since it debuted.

Some properties that don’t boast the larger, apartmentlike units typical of an extended-stay hotel are getting upgraded to attract younger renters.

In Eagle, CO, a bedroom community on the outskirts of the infamously expensive ski resorts of Vail and Beaver Creek, K Real Estate Development picked up a struggling AmericInn right off Interstate Highway 70. It then turned the inn into a millennial haven called The House. Units start at $1,360 a month, a couple hundred more than the going rate for a one-bedroom in the housing-strapped area. The first 10 tenants moved in in December.

While the basic configuration of the rooms was untouched (concrete walls and precast concrete floor decking made big changes nearly impossible), the studios and one-bedroom units come fully furnished. They even have new kitchenettes featuring a sink, fridge, and hot plate.

Areas that formerly catered to hotel guests have been converted into community spaces. Hammocks and exercise equipment now sit over what was once an indoor pool, and there are plans to start group yoga and fitness classes. The old sauna now offers a station to wash dogs or mountain bikes. And the former check-in area has been converted into a lounge with comfy couches.

“The idea is you only sleep in your room and you have all this other space to hang out,” says co-owner Kelly Herzog. “It’s a built-in community.”

Former motels can make great vacation homes A former Long Beach Island, NJ, motel that was converted into condos

Van Dyk Group

On the New Jersey shore, savvy developers have been buying up old motels from owners who want to retire. These properties are now being reimagined as condos for urbanites who’d like a summer house—but can’t fork over the $1 million needed to get a single-family house on the beach.

“Developers are finding that it’s easier to find 10 buyers who want to spend $200,000 on a condo than one buyer who wants to spend millions on a large motel they’d have to operate,” says Realtor® Nathan Colmer, who’s with the Van Dyk Group in Long Beach Island, NJ.

For as little as $129,000, beach-home seekers can pick up a small one-bedroom with pool access just blocks from the famous dunes in Seaside Heights, NJ. They boast low homeowners association fees and few restrictions on owners renting out the units.

“A single-family in the same location would cost $2 million,” says Colmer.

But while these beachside retreats are a relative steal, the vast majority of them are not designed for folks who want to live in them year-round. They tend to have kitchenettes, and most are open to residents only from April through the fall.

“For the most part, these are strictly summer destinations,” says Colmer.

Motel conversions can add some much-needed housing stock The House is a former motel that became apartments designed for millennials.

Photo provided by Kelly Herzog

Turning old motels into housing can also add inventory to markets where there simply aren’t enough homes to meet demand.

In Eagle, The House’s co-owner, Herzog, had learned that the surrounding Vail Valley is about 4,000 housing units short of what’s needed to accommodate its workforce. So when a friend in real estate told her an underused lodge would be coming onto the market, she jumped on it.

What’s happening in Vail Valley is similar to many other desirable real estate markets. The share of renters considered severely rent-burdened—spending 50% or more of their monthly income on rent—increased by 42% between 2001 and 2015, according to a 2018 study by the Pew Charitable Trusts.

Now, builders are finally putting up homes again after a long, postrecession slump. However, the high cost of land and materials, and the nationwide construction worker shortage, has prompted the majority to focus on higher-end developments, where they can capture greater profits. Converting existing motels into new housing is an appealingly affordable option for developers as well as tenants.

In the notoriously expensive San Francisco Bay Area, the formerly blighted Islander Motel in Alameda was turned into a complex of 62 affordable studios in 2013. Dubbed the Park Alameda, the community offers numerous green building features and a community garden for local workers making between 20% and 50% of the median income in Alameda County. The rent of $300 to $785 is well below the area’s median $2,208 for a studio.

For the homeless and disabled, these adaptive reuse projects have been a godsend. Low-income motel conversions have been sprouting up across the U.S., from the Gulf Coast of Florida to a 101-room former Budget Inn in Sacramento, CA. Old Route 66 landmarks like Luna Lodge and its nearby sister property, the Sundowner, have been transformed into peaceful sanctuaries for folks making less than half the local median income. A quarter of the units have been set aside for formerly homeless tenants and those with special needs.

These homes have helped many of their residents get back on their feet.

Though the residential conversion of failing motels is growing, there’s still a long way to go until it catches on nationwide. Banks don’t fully understand the concept, so many of the big players are reluctant to write loans on these conversions. City zoning and local building ordinances need to be rewritten.

And in some areas, these affordable housing projects have spawned backlash from local communities such as Pine Hills, FL, where One Stop Housing is proposing to convert the formerly crime-ridden Magnolia Inn and Suites into 214 studios that would rent for $750 a month. The company has been buying up old motels and turning them into apartments across the state. But some members of the community don’t want low-income housing in their backyard.

While Herzog considers herself lucky for having some innovative members on her city council in Eagle, it took more than a year to change the zoning from commercial to residential.

“It seems like a logical way to help with the housing issue if you can find the right spot,” says Herzog. “You don’t have to go out and rebuild something; you’re using what’s already there.”

The post Check-In Time: Rundown Motels Are Becoming Cool Condos, Affordable Apartments appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.

Check-In Time: Rundown Motels Are Becoming Cool Condos, Affordable Apartments

[gillespialfredoe01806ld]

Check-In Time: Rundown Motels Are Becoming Cool Condos, Affordable Apartments

istock; realtor.com

Luna Lodge, in Albuquerque, NM, is the quintessential Route 66 motel.

A kitschy, neon sign with an arrow points to the parking lot that’s lined by three square Pueblo Spanish Revival buildings with flared stucco hoods over the doors. The 1949 property was even placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1998 “as one of the best examples of a largely unaltered tourist court remaining along New Mexico Route 66.”

But despite its iconic status, the motel fell into disrepair over the decades. The dilapidated, boarded-up building became a magnet for criminal activity.

Then Luna Lodge got a new lease on life. In 2013, the renovated building once again began welcoming people into its rooms. But they weren’t just passing through. The former motel had been converted into 30 affordable apartments for low-income and disabled tenants.

As more and more travelers have turned away from classic motor lodges and hotels in favor of spacious Airbnbs with all the comforts of home, many of those old way stations have been left behind. While many have been demolished, others linger on in varying states of neglect. But over the past half-decade, a growing segment of city governments, nonprofit organizations, and developers have been reclaiming these structures to transform them into apartments and condos to meet a growing need for housing.

There were about 16,000 motels open for business in 2012, representing just 27% of the 61,000 operating during their heyday in the 1950s, according to Mark Okrant, author of “No Vacancy: The Rise, Demise and Reprise of America’s Motels.” The number has dropped even further over the past six years.

“Motels developed a negative reputation that has carried along for the past 40 or 50 years: They are regarded as anything from cheap to honky-tonk, a place to go for a one-night or one-hour stand,” says Okrant.

In decades past, these properties, many of which are located on prime commercial arteries, would have been turned into shopping spaces. But with the rise of e-commerce (thanks, Amazon), that’s no longer practical.

“People are starting to think, ‘What do I do with this thing?’”says KC Conway, an economist at the commercial real estate group CCIM Institute.

Fading hotels become luxury condos, apartments The House is a former motel that now houses millennial renters.

Photo provided by Kelly Herzog

Converting motels and hotels into residential buildings makes good business sense. After all, they’re often located in or near tourist destinations, or places where people live and work—and where there’s a shortage of housing.

In booming Atlanta, what used to be a Hawthorne Suites extended-stay hotel was completely overhauled into luxury apartments in late 2016. The Metro, as it’s called, features 200 units topping out at $1,550 for 1,154-square-foot, two-bedrooms with new HVAC systems, stainless-steel appliances, and quartz countertops.

Plus, the property has a pool, tennis court, and multiple fitness centers.

“It was totally renovated inside and out,” says manager Montecchia Walker. The complex has maintained about a 93% occupancy rate since it debuted.

Some properties that don’t boast the larger, apartmentlike units typical of an extended-stay hotel are getting upgraded to attract younger renters.

In Eagle, CO, a bedroom community on the outskirts of the infamously expensive ski resorts of Vail and Beaver Creek, K Real Estate Development picked up a struggling AmericInn right off Interstate Highway 70. It then turned the inn into a millennial haven called The House. Units start at $1,360 a month, a couple hundred more than the going rate for a one-bedroom in the housing-strapped area. The first 10 tenants moved in in December.

While the basic configuration of the rooms was untouched (concrete walls and precast concrete floor decking made big changes nearly impossible), the studios and one-bedroom units come fully furnished. They even have new kitchenettes featuring a sink, fridge, and hot plate.

Areas that formerly catered to hotel guests have been converted into community spaces. Hammocks and exercise equipment now sit over what was once an indoor pool, and there are plans to start group yoga and fitness classes. The old sauna now offers a station to wash dogs or mountain bikes. And the former check-in area has been converted into a lounge with comfy couches.

“The idea is you only sleep in your room and you have all this other space to hang out,” says co-owner Kelly Herzog. “It’s a built-in community.”

Former motels can make great vacation homes A former Long Beach Island, NJ, motel that was converted into condos

Van Dyk Group

On the New Jersey shore, savvy developers have been buying up old motels from owners who want to retire. These properties are now being reimagined as condos for urbanites who’d like a summer house—but can’t fork over the $1 million needed to get a single-family house on the beach.

“Developers are finding that it’s easier to find 10 buyers who want to spend $200,000 on a condo than one buyer who wants to spend millions on a large motel they’d have to operate,” says Realtor® Nathan Colmer, who’s with the Van Dyk Group in Long Beach Island, NJ.

For as little as $129,000, beach-home seekers can pick up a small one-bedroom with pool access just blocks from the famous dunes in Seaside Heights, NJ. They boast low homeowners association fees and few restrictions on owners renting out the units.

“A single-family in the same location would cost $2 million,” says Colmer.

But while these beachside retreats are a relative steal, the vast majority of them are not designed for folks who want to live in them year-round. They tend to have kitchenettes, and most are open to residents only from April through the fall.

“For the most part, these are strictly summer destinations,” says Colmer.

Motel conversions can add some much-needed housing stock The House is a former motel that became apartments designed for millennials.

Photo provided by Kelly Herzog

Turning old motels into housing can also add inventory to markets where there simply aren’t enough homes to meet demand.

In Eagle, The House’s co-owner, Herzog, had learned that the surrounding Vail Valley is about 4,000 housing units short of what’s needed to accommodate its workforce. So when a friend in real estate told her an underused lodge would be coming onto the market, she jumped on it.

What’s happening in Vail Valley is similar to many other desirable real estate markets. The share of renters considered severely rent-burdened—spending 50% or more of their monthly income on rent—increased by 42% between 2001 and 2015, according to a 2018 study by the Pew Charitable Trusts.

Now, builders are finally putting up homes again after a long, postrecession slump. However, the high cost of land and materials, and the nationwide construction worker shortage, has prompted the majority to focus on higher-end developments, where they can capture greater profits. Converting existing motels into new housing is an appealingly affordable option for developers as well as tenants.

In the notoriously expensive San Francisco Bay Area, the formerly blighted Islander Motel in Alameda was turned into a complex of 62 affordable studios in 2013. Dubbed the Park Alameda, the community offers numerous green building features and a community garden for local workers making between 20% and 50% of the median income in Alameda County. The rent of $300 to $785 is well below the area’s median $2,208 for a studio.

For the homeless and disabled, these adaptive reuse projects have been a godsend. Low-income motel conversions have been sprouting up across the U.S., from the Gulf Coast of Florida to a 101-room former Budget Inn in Sacramento, CA. Old Route 66 landmarks like Luna Lodge and its nearby sister property, the Sundowner, have been transformed into peaceful sanctuaries for folks making less than half the local median income. A quarter of the units have been set aside for formerly homeless tenants and those with special needs.

These homes have helped many of their residents get back on their feet.

Though the residential conversion of failing motels is growing, there’s still a long way to go until it catches on nationwide. Banks don’t fully understand the concept, so many of the big players are reluctant to write loans on these conversions. City zoning and local building ordinances need to be rewritten.

And in some areas, these affordable housing projects have spawned backlash from local communities such as Pine Hills, FL, where One Stop Housing is proposing to convert the formerly crime-ridden Magnolia Inn and Suites into 214 studios that would rent for $750 a month. The company has been buying up old motels and turning them into apartments across the state. But some members of the community don’t want low-income housing in their backyard.

While Herzog considers herself lucky for having some innovative members on her city council in Eagle, it took more than a year to change the zoning from commercial to residential.

“It seems like a logical way to help with the housing issue if you can find the right spot,” says Herzog. “You don’t have to go out and rebuild something; you’re using what’s already there.”

The post Check-In Time: Rundown Motels Are Becoming Cool Condos, Affordable Apartments appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.

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