#its near impossible to access sidewalks

[actual-corpse]

I'm not afraid of becoming disabled for vanity reasons.

I'm afraid because this world isn't built for disabled people.

I'll be confined to my home because of the lack of public transit. Or I'll be stuck having to trust people to go out of their way to assist me.

Airplanes will destroy my expensive equipment.

I might not be able to use public restrooms.

There's nothing wrong with disability itself...

It's the world around us. It's so hostile.

[foursquare12345-blog]

Why Outdoor Advertising Is The Most Effective Way To Reach Your Audience

When it comes to Advertising, there are countless ways to reach your audience. You could use digital ads, radio spots, television commercials, or even old-fashioned print ads. But with all the options out there, which one is the most effective? The answer might surprise you: Outdoor Advertising. Sure, it might not be as flashy as some of its contemporaries, but Outdoor Advertising has been proven time and again to be the best way to reach potential customers. In this article, we’ll explore why Outdoor Advertising is so successful and what you can do to make sure your campaign reaches its full potential.

What is Outdoor Advertising?

Outdoor Advertising is a form of marketing that involves placing ads in public spaces, such as on billboards, bus stop benches, or building wraps. This type of advertising is effective because it allows businesses to reach a large number of people in a variety of locations. Additionally, Outdoor Advertising is often less expensive than other forms of marketing, such as television or print ads.

Why Outdoor Advertising is Effective

Outdoor Advertising is one of the oldest and most effective forms of marketing. It’s a form of marketing that can be traced back to the ancient Egyptians, who used billboards to advertise their wares. In modern times, Outdoor Advertising is still an incredibly effective way to reach your audience. 

1. Outdoor Advertising Is Highly Visible

Billboards, bus shelter ads, and other forms of Outdoor Advertising are impossible to miss. They’re designed to capture the attention of people who are on the go. And they’re usually placed in high-traffic areas, which means that your target audience is likely to see your ad multiple times.

2. Outdoor Advertising Is Cost-Effective

Outdoor Advertising is one of the most cost-effective forms of marketing. It’s much less expensive than television or radio ads, and you don’t have to pay for airtime or production costs. Plus, outdoor ads can stay up for weeks or months at a time, which means that you get continuous exposure for your brand without having to keep reinvesting in new campaigns.

3. Outdoor Advertising Reaches a Wide Audience

Outdoor Advertising reaches a wide range of people, including those who may not be reached by other forms of marketing. For example, people who live in rural areas may not have access to television or the internet, but they’re likely to see billboards

The Different Types of Outdoor Advertising

Outdoor Advertising is a broad term that covers any type of advertising that is done in public spaces, including on streets, sidewalks, public transit, and in parks. It can take many different forms, from traditional billboards to more modern digital displays.

Another popular type of Outdoor Advertising is Transit Advertising. This includes ads placed on buses, trains, and other forms of public transportation. Transit ads are often seen by a large number of people, making them an effective way to reach a wide audience.

Digital billboards are another type of Outdoor Advertising that is becoming increasingly popular. These billboards use LED screens to display digital content, which can be changed frequently. Digital billboards are especially effective at grabbing attention due to their bright colors and moving images.

Outdoor Advertising is an incredibly effective way to reach your audience. It allows you to target a specific location with your message and ensures that your ad will be seen by a large number of people.

Where to Place Your Outdoor Advertising

When it comes to Outdoor Advertising, there are a few key things to keep in mind in order to make sure your ads are seen by as many people as possible. 

First, you want to make sure your ads are placed in high-traffic areas. This could be busy intersections, near public transit stops, or even on the sides of highways.

Another important thing to consider is the time of day that your ad will be most visible. If you're placing an ad near a highway, for example, you'll want to make sure it's visible during daytime hours when more people are likely to be driving.

Finally, you'll also want to think about the placement of your ad in relation to other nearby ads. You don't want your ad to get lost in a sea of other outdoor advertisements, so try to place it in an area where it will stand out.

How to Create an Effective Outdoor Advertising

Outdoor Advertising is an incredibly effective way to reach your target audience. Here are a few tips on how to create an effective outdoor advertising:

1. Keep it Simple: Your outdoor ad should be easy to read and understand at a glance. Use large, clear text and bright colors to grab attention.

2. Focus on your message: What do you want your ad to say? Keep your message concise and make sure it can be easily understood by your target audience.

3. Reach your Audience where they are: Place your outdoor ad in strategic locations where it will be seen by your target audience. Make sure to consider foot traffic, vehicle traffic, and line of sight when choosing a placement for your ad.

4. Make it Eye-Catching: An effective outdoor ad must be visually appealing in order to stand out from the rest. Use creative design elements such as graphics, photos, and videos to capture attention and hold interest.

5. Timing is Everything: Choose the right time to launch your Outdoor Advertising campaign based on when your target audience is most likely to see it. Seasonal changes and events can also impact timing – for example, back-to-school or holiday shopping seasons may be ideal times to reach certain audiences with Outdoor Advertising..

Conclusion

In conclusion, Outdoor Advertising is effective for a variety of reasons. It’s one of the oldest forms of advertising and continues to be used by many businesses today. Outdoor ads can reach a large audience with little cost, which makes them an attractive option for any business looking to promote their products or services. Four Square Media Services is the leading Advertising company in Delhi. We give all the services of Outdoor Advertising. Like- Hoarding Advertising, Road Show Activity, Digital Wall Painting, Auto Rickshaw Advertising, Transit Media Service, etc. With our experienced team, we can help you create an effective campaign that reaches your target audience and helps you achieve your marketing goals.

[llatimeria]

tbh i don't even think i'd need to go fully automated luxury space communism with this shit. i don't think any of the improvements i want are impossible under capitalism. like obviously yes the concept of landlord and tenant needs to be burnt to the ground, but in the meantime...

i live in a big multi-building complex community that basically looks like this, except less nice

and honestly i don't hate living here, or at least living in a community like this. i have my complaints but at the end of the day they're pretty good at upkeep and maintenance and communicating with us when stuff's happening. i could definitely be living somewhere much worse.

the problems i have are problems literally every american suburban community faces right now and they all basically circle back to suburban sprawl. this apartment complex is huge, and i happen to live near to the middle of it, so i can't... go anywhere or do anything without a car. even the nearest stores are just too far away to casually walk to. not to mention places where you don't have to be spending money, like parks or libraries.

the thing is, though, being huge, it does have enough room to fit all those things. we even have a few community buildings and spaces that hardly anyone uses, and a few others that are nice but could definitely be nicer.

for example, there's a dog park here! it was a deciding factor for us living here! it's nice and i see people in there all the time! bbbbutttttt the substrate is all woodchips, there's no pathways in the park itself, it's littered with dog poops (at least, i hope they're from dogs) people don't bother to pick up, there's blackberry brambles to trip on, there's no shade, there's hardly anywhere to sit and the few benches that are there have no cover, which in the pnw means they're always either damp or wet. you can see how this is not ideal for families with small children or dog owners with disabilities (which is not a hypothetical category, btw - i'm disabled and have a dog obviously, but i've also seen at least 2 or 3 people walking their dogs while riding mobility scooters around the complex, which always strikes me as a bit risky and probably uncomfortable, especially considering the lack of sidewalks and pedestrian crossings in some areas).

my proposed plan:

1. rip up the woodchips and chuck em out. fuck the woodchips. replace with a moss lawn or lawn with native grasses.

2. add a paved, covered sitting area: at the minimum, a simple patio table with a big umbrella, or if we wanna get fancy we could have a permanent structure protecting many tables and chairs

3. add paved walkways (wide enough for wheelchairs and scooters) from the entryway to the sitting area

(i'd say add some more dog bag/trash can stations but this place already has a bunch of those and people still don't pick up after their fucking dogs-)

there's other stuff i can think to do (add a water fountain, more native plants, etc) but even just these changes would make the dog park not only more accessible, but more enjoyable for everyone. i'm sure the people living in the building adjacent to the dog park would probably prefer looking at a nice green space from their patio over a Beige Rectangle too.

and that's just ONE THING. i could also propose plans to add a community library to the main office building. or add a maker's space with machines and doohickeys our apartments are too small for on their own. or add more sidewalks and walkable spaces. or add a convenience store literally anywhere in here.

im frustrated because its like. none of these things feel that insane, even under current societal conditions. it wouldn't solve every problem, but it would make life for the people who live here much more bareable. and it's all so... tantalizingly... within reach. but i have no actual say over anything that goes on in this complex, not even any way to even casually pitch my ideas so we can all work together to figure out the intricate details. so what's even the fucken point lmao

www.google how do i perform a communist coup of my apartment complex. i have ideas

[spinchip]

It’s Not That Bad

Wordcount: 2400 Ship: Mountaingshipping, Cole/Zane/Kai Warnings: Broken bones, blood, violence, injury

Summary: Zane hides an injury.

The fight can’t even be classified as a real fight, in Coles opinion. It’s a street brawl, raw knuckles and split lips- the remaining members of the SOG are brutal when they catch the scent of blood. Without leadership the gang has devolved into troublemakers and men itching for violence, and they’ve gotten bolder- the fight taking place in broad daylight near the center of town. Two weeks ago they’d taken Jay down in the middle of a scrap, a bat to the side of his temple when the group had been separated (he’d been laid up in bed in the dark for days afterwards with a concussion) and since then they’d gotten cocky about the Ninja's weakness.

Lloyd had been adamant about showing a united front- the Ninja team had to be unflappable, rigid and strong to show the growing gang that they were not so easily beaten. They couldn��t afford to give them another inch, which is why it’s so frustrating when they get separated once more. There’s a new player on the gangs side this time, a big man hefting a hammer that could hold its own against Coles. He’s not particularly fast, but the others in the group keep them occupied while the man swings his weapon with bone breaking force. His presence was not something they could ignore, splitting their attention dangerously, making their formation too easy to break.

And it’s not Jay this time, but Zane, who is pushed into a throng of enemies all looking for blood.

Cole doesn’t see what happens to get them to this point, he misses the moment Zane is surrounded, but Lloyd urges the others to make their way to him over the clash of fists. Zane’s always been capable, and today is no exception- but just like before when it had been Jay, there are too many, and it’s not long before a lucky shot sends Zane to the pavement. A sloppy leg sweep Zane wasn’t expecting, going sprawling onto his stomach. It’s simple enough to recover from just fine.

Except the big man swings his hammer before Zane can get his hands underneath him. Down down down in a deadly arc-

There’s no warning Cole can give, no speed or strength to stop it, random men pushing him away from his friend but not crowded enough where he can’t watch it happen. The head of the hammer hits the base of Zane back and the sound it makes- Cole can feel the impact in his bones, his stomach churning and nearly making him gag. The crack of the anvil on metal makes him feel ill.

Zane doesn’t yell or scream, his fingers dig into concrete so hard they leave gouges, and then he goes completely limp. He looks dead, lying facedown on the pavement. The gang members hoot and holler, their fight rejuvenated, and they jump into the fray with more vigor than before.

Slowly, the man brings his hammer up and Coles realizes he means to hit him again.  He pushes frantically through the fight, blows glancing off his shoulders as he barrels through. Nya appears at his side, hair askew, and throws waves of water that sweep several people off their feet, dumping them clear of the path. Cole slams into the big man's side before he can deliver another blow, knocking him back from Zanes still form. Before either of them can get to the downed nindroid, new adversaries file in to try and beat them back, the fight resuming- but the ninja now scrambled and panicked at the loss of one of their own, and the gang member reveling in it.

The man with the hammer, he’s got thin blonde hair and dark eyes, manages to keep up with Cole. Despite Coles obvious skill and experience, he’s making stupid rookie mistakes. Internally cursing, Cole urges himself to focus- rushing into the fray to protect Zane would mean nothing if he fell to the man's hammer too, but it’s looking increasingly grim. The man is pushing himself faster, sweat beading on his brow, and he’s strong.

A smaller man darts past the two of them in a planned maneuver. The big man steps back and Cole is thrown off kilter as his hammer swings wide, and realizes too late that the smaller man has a knife- he can’t avoid it now. He twists, steps back, tries to minimize the damage- and then the man’s legs slide out beneath him and he hits the ground hard, head bouncing off the ice-slick pavement. Zane appears at Coles side and throws ice hard, frost and big chunks of ice invigorated by the wet pavement from Nyas last attack freeze the big man's legs to the road. Cole falls into place at his side, the two fighting off a few more before the gang realizes Zanes back on his feet.

Their bravado and cockiness vanishes. One man turns and runs, and at that the gang scatters- the one who are able to, of course, and are not frozen to the sidewalk or knocked unconscious.

Cole spins around to face Zane, who’s surveying the scene silently, “Are you alright?” He asks, hovering his hands over Zane as if to feel out the injury by aura alone.

Zane’s eyes are trained on the alleyways the gang members disappeared into, mouth a thin and calculated line, “I am alright. The Sons of Garmadons strength is dwindling.”

Cole blinks, frowning. It was almost like Zane wasn’t speaking to him, but the backs of the men hiding away in the dark corners of the streets. As if he was making a point.

The cops show up and begin to load the remaining men into Police Cruisers or ambulances, depending on their state. The ninja did not always pull their punches, especially after Zane hit the ground.

Zane watches as the man with the hammer is loaded onto a police cruiser.

Lloyd motions the two of them over, the others are gathered near a throng of policemen milling about, and Cole reaches out and sets a hand of the small of Zane's back to lead him- Zanes shirt is soaked through and ice cold. The moment his fingers make contact, Zane jolts forward with the barest intake of breath between his teeth. Cole jerks his hand back, the pain flashing across Zanes face almost impossible to catch, but Cole knows his boyfriend better than anyone. A blank mask slips over Zanes face as he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the act, striding across the pavement before Cole can comment.

Cole trails after him, and now that he’s really looking he can see a dark outline of what looks like water straining the back of Zanes gi. In the heat of battle, if Zane got a particularly bad scape, he’d do some emergency first aid and patch himself up with ice like a scab. The hammer hit him hard, it must have jostled something loose- Cole tries not to worry too hard, Zane is still standing and had even fought with him. They just needed to wrap this up quick and get him home. He has half a mind to scoop the nindroid up gently and carry him back right now- but Zanes' words from earlier hang around his ears. Treating Zane like a delicate injured flower in front of any of the new SOG was bound to encourage their violence, just like in the aftermath of Jay. Like Lloyd wanted, a united and unbreakable front is what they needed to project.

Zane is hiding an injury, and for the sake of reputation, Cole has to allow it.

The police chief is standing with the others, and by the time Cole catches up Zane’s already reassuring everyone, “I am fine.” he says gently, Kais worry coming off of him in waves, “Is there anything we can help with?” He directs his next question to the police chief, clasping his hands in front of him.

Cole, along with the rest of his little family, zeroes in on the way Zanes hands are trembling.

His face is completely serene, his gi is soaked through as his ice patch job struggles to stay frozen, and he’s shaking badly enough for even Nya to notice, shooting him a concerned glance as the Police Chief thanks them. He drones on about safety measures and clean up and other things Cole wants him to shut up about so he can bundle Zane up in his arms and kiss and make it better.

Finally, once the conversation draws to a close and they can excuse themselves from the scene, they unconsciously box Zane in as they walk back to where the bounty is parked. The ramp is down and they surround him protectively as they trek up it. Zane still doesn’t hint that anything is wrong, the silence stretching over them tense as they wait for something to happen.

Nya lifts the bounty into the air, and still Zane doesn’t say anything as he pensively stares over the edge of the railing. Cole can’t stand it anymore, he turns around as the city disappears beneath the clouds, “Zane-” he starts.

“Cole.” Zane gasps, grabbing at Coles shoulders as his knees buckle, the calm mask cracking down the middle as he collapses. Like on the pavement before, Zane clenches his hands and bunches Coles gi in his fingers. Cole, startled, grabs Zanes waist- he gasps and whimpers, and cold fear snaps across Cole's mind. He’s never heard Zane make that noise before.

“Not there,” he shakes his head, Cole moves his hands up to cup under Zanes armpits, and while he doesn’t seem to be happy he doesn’t make that awful whimper again.

Jay and Kai are at his side, fluttering their hands in a panic. They want to help but Zanes reaction makes them reluctant to put their hands on him.

“How can we help? What’s hurt?” Jay asks as Cole pulls Zane closer, pressing them together to help stabilize him.

Zane doesn’t attempt to stand on his own, “Shut me down,” He pants, “It’s- the hammer. He broke my spine.”

Jay pales dramatically, weaseling between the two of them to gain access to Zanes chest compartment. He pried it open quickly, reaching it with practiced ease and resting his finger on the switch off button.

He hesitates, under normal circumstances Jay was to never use this button, “Are you sure?”

“Jay.” Zane stresses each letter, and tears spill over his eyes.

He goes limp- again- as Jay pushes the button, his forced shutdown stealing the iron grip from his hands and the tension from his body. He ragdolls in coles arms, slumping bonelessly into his chest. With no ice to keep him stable, Coles can feel the way his body- it’s… it’s not quite right, the break in his spine sending intense warning siglas to coles head where he’s laid against him. The same bone deep wrongness he’s felt once, in dance class when he was 12, and a girl landed wrong doing a complex dance move and her hand had twisted the wrong way- it’d made him sick, seeing the new bend in her wrist where there wasn’t supposed to be one. It makes him feel sick to carry Zane down to the garage when the dock at the monastery, legs trailing behind him and waist a little too loose where the rigid metal casing was snapped.

Jay's prognosis is, “It’s better than It could have been.” Which is not reassuring to Cole, but Nya seems to lose a bit of tension at.

Zane's artificial spine worked much like Cole or Kais, a bundle of ‘nerves’ and wires and other tubes strung through it to keep it safe. The blow had broken through the outer protective metal but the main cord and delicate wiring was largely unharmed. A few pinched and torn wires, mostly- Zane's ice brace kept the wound from deteriorating drastically. Jay wouldn’t comment on how much pain an injury like this would heap onto their friend, but Cole remembers the way the blood had drained from his face at Zanes confession.

“The fact that he could even move…” He mutters to Nya in awe, delicately and oh so gently maneuvering wires. Nya nodded, mute.

Once their repairs reach completion it’s nearly dark out, Jay flips the on switch back up, and they wait for Zane to turn on.

He wakes up with wet eyes, a few stray tears slipping down his face as the leftover pain signals work their way out of his system. He twists over the edge of the table, looking for relief from the hazy pain, nearly taking himself to the floor if not for Coles gentle hands steadying him.

He clutches at Cole again with a low sound of pain, and slowly his eyes clear.

Cole holds him as Zane buries his face in the soft of his gi top, hiding his eyes against Cole's collarbone. Kai moves in and starts to pet his hair soothingly, warmth spreading through his hands.

“You should have said something.” Cole murmurs, “This wasn’t a loose tube or a scrape, this isn’t something you should have powered through. You should have stayed down.” Cole doesn’t dwell on how much it must have hurt for Zane to get back on his feet, and how if he hadn’t the grunts knife would have struck home.

“I could not.” Zane breathes, pulling a way to readjust so he’s resting his cheek against Cole and his face is bare, “If the SOG knew they had hurt me-”

“We would have dealt with it just fine.” Kai says firmly, “Zane, this- you can’t hide an injury that bad. Watching you collapse, knowing how badly you were in pain…” He can’t finish his sentence, huddling closer and clutching at both his boys.

“I apologize,” Zane mutters, his eyelids flutter.

“We can discuss this tomorrow.” Cole says gently, “But I think we’re all exhausted. Let’s go to bed.”

Kai looks like he wants to say something else, but Zanes dazed and sleepy expression makes the words die on his tongue. He runs a hand through his hair, and Cole watches the weight of the day fully settle on his boyfriend's shoulders, “...Yeah, that sounds good to me.”

Cole carries Zane up to bed, Kai immediately taking up a spot at their boys' side. Zane curls into the warmth of Kais embrace as Cole turns out the light and crawls in behind him. Cole cuddles into Zane, who’s already asleep again, and idly traces the near imperceptible scar on his back where the hammer had split metal.

He stares into the patch of darkness where Zanes head is, and thinks about Zane lying prone on the pavement. He pulls him closer, wraps him up in his arms and holds on tight.

He closes his eyes, and sleep doesn’t hesitate to come.

[silvers-hero-vault]

all the memories remain

read under the cut or on ao3

After gaining back his memories during the confrontation with his other version, Vision tries to figure out what happened in the time he has no recollection of. He discovers that the world has changed and moved on, but still, he tries to find a place for himself again.

WandaVision spoilers!

Warnings: none, some mentions of canon-typical violence

Words: 4.796

AN: I wanted to explore what white Vision could do after taking off in the middle of the fight, never to be seen again.

This is set in the same 'universe' as my other WandaVision fix-it "You thought my name's Ralph?". the stories aren't directly connected though so you don't have to read the other fic to understand this one.

Tag list (wasn't sure who to tag so I tagged the people who interacted with the post were I asked if anyone would want to read this...) : @satans-bae-and-queen @queenlovett @bi-tiger @thoughts-and-travel @andi0017 @synagtala @friedchickening @awesomedeepstudentmilkshake @spacetummy @sidninkoutek @evenstar06 @rainyfestivalshoepainter @thatoddgirl777 @data-is-my-favorite-android @feluciasynthezoid @i-kno-who-i-am @marvel-starwarsfangirl

After the memories had streamed back into his consciousness, the pain and death, but also the joy and friendship and overall the love that he had experienced with Wanda by his side, he had spared the other version of him one last glance before taking off through the round window in the ceiling.

He didn’t know where he was going at first, just that he needed to get out of Westview, away from the humans that had stripped his memories from him and tried to make him into a mindless weapon. The ones that had tried to make him kill Wanda, the one that was so prominent in his memories and the person that he had loved so dearly until everything had fallen apart.

While he rifled through his memories one location came up again and again, often in connection to Wanda but there were other people. Memories with the other residents of the house that he had spent a considerate amount of time in. He remembered faintly that there had been a fight, later on, that drove them all apart and he found his memories drawn to himself and Wanda once again. They were in a dark street and suddenly he remembered the pain slamming through him, saw the spear pressing up through his upper body.

With a shake of his head Vision let go of the painful memories. For that was his name, Vision, and he would keep it, if only for his memories sake. The name felt strange and not like his but at the same time it felt right and through his contemplation he came to the conclusion that he would stay with the name after all. Because it was his, like always had been and always will be.

Another look through his memories, this time more careful to stay away from any of the painful ones, he found what he had been looking for. The location were so many of them, the avengers, had lived. The avengers compound. He still knew the exact location of the compound and he changed his flying route to lead him towards the compound.

Vision didn’t know how long it took him to reach the compound he saw so clearly in many of his memories, but when he arrived, it was to find only ruins. Another look back at his memories told him that this was the right place, but he didn’t remember its destruction. The last memory he had of the compound, the building had still been intact. But now, hovering above the debris, he realised that it looked more like a battlefield than the place where once people had lived together to form an alliance against the threats that humanity faced.

He decided that he had to go somewhere else, get information on what had happened and he was sure that such information could be provided through the internet. Surely something as large as the destruction of the avengers compound would have reached the public. There must have been official statements what had happened to the place that earth’s mightiest heroes had called their home.

Of course, he could have just checked in that moment, needing no actual computer to access information, just like he didn’t need it to know what the ship of Theseus was. The knowledge for that was easily accessible for him, just like any other information he desired.

But for some reason, Vision felt the need to find someone who could answer his questions first, before he resorted to getting those answers himself.

He made his way towards the city of New York, just like before flying high enough that he wouldn’t be detected before he reached his destination. Even though there was surely still a fight in Westview happening, he didn’t dare risk to be sighted by the military or someone who would contact the right authorities. He at least needed this opportunity to find out what had happened in his absence before they could take him captive again. He didn’t plan for it to happen, but if it did happen, he wanted to have the answers to his questions by then.

The flight to New York didn’t take as long as the flight from Westview to the remains of the compound had taken him. The streets were full of people, but there weren’t as many as he would have expected from the city that was known for never sleeping.

The usual buzzing of the city that he remembered was now missing and somehow the people all seemed sorrowful, as if something was holding them down and away from how they would normally go about their day. But at the same time there seemed to be a happiness permeating from them, as if a good thing had happened. A good thing he had no knowledge of.

Vision landed on the sidewalk near his destination. Immediately, several people turned around to him and he could hear the shocked whispers of the people that were standing near or passing by. He remembered that he had died, so the people must think him dead and therefore impossible to stand in front of them. But at the same time another pressing matter occurred to him. Not only was he dead in the public’s eye, his appearance had changed as well. He had seen it when the other version of him had given him back his memories, but had not yet realised the impact the white colour of his new body would have.

He remembered being able to change his form at will but even as he thought about doing it, Vision knew that it wouldn’t work. He remembered that he had done it before, but he couldn’t remember how he had done it. Wasn’t sure if he could still do it, with only a few pieces of his original body remaining.

He still knew how he could change the arrangement of his atoms to phase through things but he could not tell how he had changed his appearance before. It might have been connected to the mind stone, but that was gone now. Not a part of him anymore.

Noticing once again the crowd that had started to gather around him, Vision paid his inner contemplation no further mind and he started the short walk towards the tower he remembered as the former headquarters of the avengers, before they had moved into the compound and further away from the city.

As he reached the tower, he took flight again and flew up onto the roof of the building. He knew that the avengers had lived in the higher levels before moving out so he would have a greater chance of meeting someone there.

Everything was empty. There was only little furniture to see from where he was standing and everything of the interior was dark and unwelcoming. It seemed unlikely for anyone to be here. A quick look through all the windows inside told him that he was right. There was no one here. Thinking back, he had not expected anyone to be, but he had still been urged to check. In case he didn’t remember something vital that would have told him that there was someone still living here regardless of all the things that he remembered and the fact that they had all lived in the compound after Ultron.

Still, Vision entered by phasing through a window, because even though he wouldn’t find a person to answer his questions, he was still inclined to check if anything of value had been left behind. Upon entering he found that the floor had been cleared of most furniture and the rest that remained had been covered with white sheets. There were no indications that anyone had been here in a longer period of time.

Vision took a few more steps inside, his gaze wandering over the ghostly appearance of the furniture under the sheets and the dark shadows that resulted from he low lighting of the room. After he finished his round through the room, he determined that he wouldn’t find answers here, and therefore had to result to the solution he hadn’t wanted to go to before.

He closed his eyes and with a mere thought, he obtained the information that he had needed. It had been over every news channel and multiple other ways of communication. The avengers compound had been the place of a large battle against an alien army. A battle far greater than the battle of New York had been. Not much more was to be found about the incident as it hadn’t been covered sufficiently by the media.

Another detail caught his attention. The date of the most recent reports. They all had the same year attached at the end. 2023.

Almost on reflex, he teared his eyes open and took a step backwards, not taking any more information in. He looked back at the memories he had obtained with the help of his other self. The last he remembered was the stone being ripped out of his forehead. That had been in 2018.

The conclusion that came to him had been inevitable, but all the same he didn’t want to believe it in the first moment.

It had been five years since he had been killed by Thanos. He was missing five years of information which explained his inability to find any of the avengers. He didn’t even know if they were still alive.

Even though he knew he wouldn’t like what he would find, Vision tapped into the information he had at his disposal again, looking for answers.

He found them immediately, the news of the dead heroes and the return of everyone who had disappeared was still plastered everywhere, taking over every news headline and front-pages of newspapers and magazines. He found himself among the dead heroes that were mourned by the public, but he wasn’t the only one.

Tony Stark, the famed Iron Man, and his creator, was among the fallen. As well as Steve Rogers, Captain America. The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff had also lost her life in the fight for the rest of the universe.

As Vision took this information in, he decided to find anyone of the remaining avengers that he could find. He knew he had no where to go, but maybe one of them could help him find a place again.

He couldn’t go back to Wanda. Well, he could, but he didn’t want to burden her with his presence. The last time he had seen her, he had tried to crush her skull and then he had left while his other self and Wanda had faced the current threat against them and Westview.

He searched the internet again, for any information were any of the avengers could be at the moment, but there was no forthcoming information. SHIELD was no more, which meant that he had no idea where to find Fury, one of the only people who could know where the others were. He would not go back to SWORD, given that they were the ones who took him apart and put him together again and took his memories and everything that had made him Vision away from him.

His search didn’t give him any results, but he remembered faintly of having visited the farm were Clint Barton lived with his family. If he had any luck, the archer could be found there.

With a new destination and something that could have been called hope, Vision took of and started towards the next place that he hoped would give him answers.

***

Everywhere he went, Vision found places fallen into decay and disarray where he remembered a normal house with residents living inside. All the streets that he found abandoned, he remembered to be full of live and laughing children. All the overgrown gardens he remembered to be well cared for in the past.

The difference between what he remembered the world to look like from what felt like a week ago, compared to how it looked now as he passed over the streets of countless cities and small towns, was unsettling at best.

The Barton farm was not how he remembered it either. The last time he and the others had visited on behalf of Clint’s daughter, who had insisted that all of them visit for her birthday, the farm had been well cared for. There had been small messes all around, but it had been caused by the children that left their things lying around everywhere. Now, the house had been overgrown by the plants that had already started to make their accent up the outer walls of the house five years ago. The garden looked like no one had cared to maw the lawn in a long time and the windows were all dull and covered in grime.

After touching onto the ground, Vision started to walk towards the house, slow steps taking him nearer and nearer to finding out if there would be someone at home. If not, he wasn’t sure were he would go next.

He climbed the steps in front of the veranda and took a few hesitant steps towards the door before carefully nocking on it. He could hear sounds from inside, muffled voices and silent music. With only a moment to brace himself, the door opened and before him stood Clint Barton.

He looked worn out and wary, older. His hair had changed too but he wasn’t able to point out what exactly it was that had changed. The archer didn’t move after opening the door, didn’t say a word either. It seemed to Vision as if the man had been momentarily frozen in shock.

It took a moment before he recovered and Clint took a step backwards, his eyes widened slightly as he seemed to register what he was seeing. Then his brows furrowed, a frown marring his face.

He seemed uncertain when he asked: “Who are you?”. The question sounded more like a statement and Vision took it as such.

“I think you know.”, he said, then he paused. His voice sounded different than in his memories. Only slightly, but enough to be noticeable.

The man in front of him still seemed shocked, but the frowning had lessened and Vision interpreted that as a good sign. “Why do you look so different?”

Vision looked down at his hand, noticing the white pallor once more. He had nearly banished that part from his mind, assured by his memories that this was not what he looked like.

He looked up at Clint again and looked into his eyes. His gaze then wandered over the archers shoulder, seeing the living room and behind that the kitchen. He could see Lila sitting at the kitchen table, talking animatedly with Laura, Clint’s wife.

It felt like he was intruding and he suddenly remembered the children he had seen in Westview, Wanda’s children. He shook the thought from his mind and, remembering the question, he met Clint’s gaze again.

“I’m afraid that’s a rather long story.”

Clint shrugged. “I mean, I have no idea what is going on, but you could come in and tell me.”, he stepped aside and after Vision had passed the threshold, he closed the door behind them and continued talking. “And by the way, I know someone who might be able to help fix your looks a bit. No promises of course, but I could give him a call.”

He nodded without turning back to him. His gaze wandered down to his white hand again. “I will give it some thought.”

***

Vision spent one day in Clint’s house. He told the archer what he remembered of the things that happened. Waking up in the capsule in the temporary SWORD basis, being send out to eliminate Wanda and the other Vision, gaining back his memories and leaving Westview.

In exchange, Clint told him what had happened in the last five years. After Vision had been killed, Thanos had succeeded in his plan to eliminate half of the universe’s population. Some of the avengers had been left behind and after five years, Tony figured out how to travel through time, which resulted in the avengers fixing everything and bringing the dusted back.

Followed by that had been a grand fight, the one that had found the compound destroyed and afterwards, there had been a funeral for Tony. Steve had gone back in time to get the stones to the locations they had come from, but he never returned and wasn’t actually dead, just old.

He spent the night there and in the morning, he thanked Clint for letting him stay and answering his questions. Afterwards, Vision left the small farm behind again.

He made his way back to New York, back to the empty tower. He had decided that he would stay there until he was able to figure out what he would do next. He had played with the thought of returning to Westview, but he had abandoned it again. The other version of him was there and he wouldn’t dare to intrude on his and Wanda’s life.

Wanda. She was the one who was most prominent in his memories, even though he was unable to forget and remembered every instance of his life, she was the one he saw when he closed his eyes. He knew what it was, of course. The last time he had been with Wanda before the stone was ripped out of his forehead, they had wanted to settle down together. Deep down, he still wanted to, but he also knew like that wasn’t an option.

He didn’t know what had happened in Westview after he had left. If they had won the fight or if the other witch had overpowered Wanda. Or if Tyler Hayward had managed to turn things in his favour. But at the same time, he believed that Wanda had won, because she is powerful, always had been.

As he paced through the compound and watched the streets of New York City underneath him, he wondered if the other Vision and the children were still there. If they were safe again. He hadn’t been in there long and back then, he had only been driven by orders, without a single thought of his own. But now, looking back at everything and with all his memories at his disposal again, he realised that he would like to go back. To go back to Wanda, the love of his life. Still, after everything that happened, he felt like he couldn’t.

All the same, Vision made his way to Westview again, not to go back to Wanda, but to see how things had turned out. The feeling of not knowing what went down in the town was one he could no longer tolerate.

Just like before, the flight to Westview happened without any noteworthy occurrences and he reached the town just as the sun began to rise up over the horizon. The deep orange light drenched everything in a golden light and the silence seemed to echo around him.

Belatedly, he noticed that the red barrier that had separated Westview from the outside was gone. The town sat in the tranquility of dawn as if nothing had ever happened. As if there hadn’t been a fight and as if the town hadn’t been trapped inside an energy field for days. Thinking about what had happened here while floating slightly over the street while moving forward, Vision realised that he didn’t even know what exactly had happened here.

He had his orders, at first. Obliterate Vision and Wanda. Nothing more. Then, when the other Vision had helped him gain back the memories that had been locked away from him, he had spent all his time trying to sort of the whirlwind of memories, thoughts and emotions inside his head. He only knew one thing, he had recognised Wanda’s magic everywhere. It had been all around him, filling up the air.

Now it was gone, he couldn’t feel her power around him anymore. He wasn’t sure if it was for better or worse that the possibility of meeting her here was very slim. Ever since he had the time to become better acquainted with his memories agin, he had walked a very fine line between wanting to meet Wanda again and fearing that seeing her would make everything worse for her. It was as if, deep down, he still had a bit of hope that one day, Wanda might come back to him and that they could start anew when that moment came.

But his logical thinking stopped him from really believing in it. His mind told him that it would be better for her, and possibly for him, when they stayed apart. She didn’t have to know that he remembered everything again, that he remembered her.

The sun had risen a bit higher when he turned towards Sherwood Drive. The golden light drenching everything in its colour had gotten lighter and the first birds had started to chirp. As he neared the property, he wasn’t sure if he was at the right place. A quick look around told him that, yes, he was on the right street and the house that he was nearing was number 2800, the house Wanda had lived in.

It couldn’t really be called a house anymore. It was nothing more than the foundation were a house was supposed to be. It looked like it had never been build.

The memory of how he purchased the house pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. It was one of the memories he hadn’t taken a closer look at. He had known that it was there, but it hadn’t been important until know.

He had bought the home as a surprise for Wanda, even before they had officially decided to settle down together. When they were in Ireland, everything had felt so right between them that he already knew that she would say yes, even before he had asked her. So he had purchased the house and it was supposed to be build soon after the bought it. And when Wanda had said yes to his proposition, he knew that he had made the right choice. But their bubble of happiness hadn’t lasted long as a spear was plunged through his chest and everything they had hoped for fell apart.

A smile ghosted over his lips when he thought back to writing his little message to Wanda onto the property deed, drawing a heart around it.

Noticing how far the sun had risen over the horizon, he shook himself out of his memories and faced the present again. 2023. The house didn’t exist and Wanda had trapped a whole town inside a magical barrier that no one could escape from. He had tried to kill her.

If their was one positive thing in all of this, it was that he hadn’t succeeded in killing her. If he had, he was sure that he wouldn’t have gotten his memories back.

Once again he made himself focus on the present. Nothing was left for him here, which would mean that he should go back to the tower, or find somewhere else he could stay. But he decided against it, making his way towards the town-square. If anyone who had been tasked with cleaning everything up was still there, they had to be in or near the town centre, where they could overlook everything.

One person was already outside and talking on her phone when Vision reached the town-square. The black woman, wearing a blue SWORD uniform, pacing back and forth in front of the cinema.

He hesitated to approach her, the SWORD logo on her shirt holding him back for a moment, but he couldn’t remember seeing her when he woke up, so he decided that she was probably to be trusted.

She turned towards him as soon as she saw him approach and his steps didn’t falter on his way over to her. She lowered her phone and her eyes went wide, possibly because she was realising who he was.

As soon as he was in hearing distance, she spoke up. “What are you doing here?”

He stopped where he was and looked a her for a moment. She didn’t seem scared like he would have expected, just confused. It seemed like he would be able to have a proper conversation with her after all.

“I do hope I am not interrupting. I had left so fast during the fight and I wanted to check if everything was alright here. Did you apprehend the ones that gave me the order to kill Wanda and my other self?”

The woman in front of him pocketed her phone and looked at him with an expression of disbelief. She seemed stunned and didn’t say anything for several minutes before she managed to get out of her state of shock. She shook her head slightly and blinked a few times before looking at him again.

“I’m sorry, do you mean Hayward? He was arrested.”, she paused for a moment and Vision waited. It seemed like she wanted to say something else and was searching for words. “What do you mean with ‘your other self’? You mean Vision, right?”

He nodded. “Yes, I know I look different but I am just as much Vision as he is.”

She shook her head and corrected him. “Was. He and the twins, they aren’t here anymore. Wanda had created them with her magic and she needed to let them go in order to free the town and pull the barrier down.”

He turned the words over in his head. When he came here, he had thought that Wanda would have left with Vision and the children, began a life somewhere else. But this put things in another perspective entirely. Another question came to mind then, one that had been present since he had been at the foundations of the house. “Where is Wanda now?”

The woman snorted and shrugged her shoulders. She seemed more relaxed now than she had moments ago. “She left, I don’t know where to.”

He frowned. It was not like the Wanda he knew to just leave and let others sort out a mess she had created. She would have wanted to help. The woman seemed to see his hesitation and took a step forward, holding out her hand. “I’m captain Monica Rambeau.”

He took the hand and shook it. “It is good to meet you, captain Rambeau. I am sure you know who I am.”

She took a step backwards again, letting her hand sink back to her side. “Actually, I’m not sure. Are you Vision or not? Because I saw the other Vision yesterday and he definitely looked different than you.”

He nodded. “Ah, yes. I apologise. I am Vision, just as much as the other was Vision, maybe even more than him. My body has been taken apart and rebuild by SWORD, as far as I can tell, but I am still me. I posses all memories of what happened before my death five years ago.”

Captain Rambeau let out a slow breath and averted her eyes from him for a moment, then she nodded. “I take it someone filled you in on what happened.”

She waited for him to confirm her statement and as soon as he nodded, she went on. “There’s really nothing you could do here anymore, everything’s organised already. We’ll still be here for a few days though, to overlook everything.”, she hesitated for a short moment and her voice seemed to have softened when she continued. “Do you have a place to stay?”

He hesitated and gave her question some thought before answering. He had a place, theoretically, but he knew that he couldn’t stay in the tower for too long. Surely someone would start to use it again, sooner or later. And he didn’t know what to do with his time either.

“Theoretically, I do, but I am not sure for how long I can stay there.”

She took out her phone and started to type something. When she was finished, Captain Rambeau looked up at him again. “Would you like to work for SWORD? Well, for me actually, but it would be under SWORD’s name.”

He nodded, not needing to think about it for long. He needed something to do and he could help. Even though it was SWORD, captain Rambeau seemed like someone he could trust. “I would, yes.”

A smile spread over he face and it made her look younger, but at the same time she didn’t loose her professionalism. “Great, meet me here later. I can give you the details by this afternoon.”

[grim-faux]

2 _ 19 _ Brewing Storms

First

The past few days of calm weather and mild drizzles, managed to build up into a punishing electrical system of blazing assault. When the rain ceased entirely was the first indication that something was amiss, and the Thin Man became relentless to demand Mono pay attention, and made certain he kept better tabs on the child. In case. Rain cease was not uncommon, weather patterns did change in the Pale City, though it retained consistency depending on the airwaves and ozone flooding the atmosphere above the beacon.

 As time wore on and they worked through the unsuccessful search for substantial foods, the Thin Man remained preoccupied by the buzzing air. It was possible the boy sensed the ion charge and became more aloof than usual, at least, that is what he theorized. The boy didn’t wedge himself into hiding, but he lingered here or there in a place, exploring artifacts and rubbish alike. When Mono was like this, it was a challenge to keep him mobile on his own. That, and his reluctance to accept assistance if a pathway became too perilous or they reached a snag. Barriers meant nothing to the man in the hat, but they became something else to Mono, who had not the strongest grasp of his abilities yet.

 Setbacks cropped up around every bend of the road, buildings collapsed, or a throng of Viewers captivated in one narrow alley by one lone television. Then there was Mono lagging, locked amid a persistent stupor. Not one of the stores they could break into yielded anything to draw the child out of it. This whole prospect was unmotivating, and the Thin Man suffered secondhand misery from the boy’s dour mood. Until at last, he determined shelter was unavoidable, much to Mono’s silent disinclination. The boy was still sour about earlier, and that stubborn streak threatened what little health he retained.

 Ever since the train, the Thin Man has not favored electrical storms. They were his least favorite of all the Pale Cities resumé of inclement weather, given the interference and stress it placed upon the transmission, the circulating airwaves, among regular vibrations humming through the atmospheric currents. Through the shoddy window of the small house – it was a pathetic, ramshackle, ugly little place – he could spectate as another blaze of light washed across nearby identical homes. The disturbance did not affect him as much as it used to, when he was young – especially not during his penance in the Tower; buried within miles of concrete and Flesh.

 For Mono….

 It was a colossal storm of force. Not a drop of water fell, not a net of mist in the air; only the splash and lash of glow conducted within the room. Nearest to the center of the home collapsed in a corner, lay a lopsided bookcase with broken shelves. The child huddled under a plank of wood, wrapped entirely in a pillowcase and cringing with each whip of radiance and tremendous snarl. The room and surrounding spaces held better shelter, such as a collapsed sofa chair beside a wall, or a closet. But Mono sought the area furthest from the outside, and open sky. Nearly all the rooms in this small abode had a window or more, the radiance made each pulse brighter than the memory of sunny day. Whatever those were.

 The buffeting clamor wasn’t terrible, barking and surging through the bellowing wind. It was the current slicing through. Mono was especially tuned to it, tensing before each brilliant ark belted through the dense cloud canopy. Blue, grays, bleak mauve.

 Not that a lightening bolt could hurt either, but it would not be pleasant. It did impede the Thin Man’s conduit to his powers, so best to lay low. He was not in the mood to challenge a faux supernatural force of nature, nor deranged denizen of the Signal Tower. After the day he had, it was an excuse to stop for a time and evaluate the situation. The last few days had not endured with anything but agitation, and the child was not receptive to pay attention when he d̴e̸m̶a̶n̵d̸e̶d̵.

 For a time Mono had done well not to stray off when the fancy struck, the child had even settled to get regular rest without persuasion. A stark change had come about, he almost missed the child constantly underfoot. During these moods the boy became inconsolable, curling into a corner or wedging himself in a crack in the wall where it was neigh impossible to extract him. Delaying the long and tedious venture to navigate the ruins of the city, a perilous task for a child.

 Once more he paced near Mono, scrutinizing the lump under the bent panel as it cringed. Not a second later, bleached radiance seared along the walls. The Thin Man hummed as the ions fizzled out.

 It had been a sequence of bad events, and now the electrical surge hovering. If not for what occurred the other day, he may have reserved the opportunity to escort his child self to a more suitable area, rather than this wretched hovel. It drilled out his patience, this struggle to keep the boy on task while Mono was dedicated to being led astray by any iota of thing that snared his interest. Maybe he did do it to spite him, the whole fiasco exasperated him.

 “Mono, no.” A sigh. “Come along.” Another sigh. “What now? What is it?” Sigh. After sigh. “You are going to collapse, and I won’t drag you O̸f̷f̷ ̸T̴h̶e̵ ̵S̴t̶r̵e̵e̸t̸.” Even that had not deterred the child or seem to spur his attention.

 This is what led to the end of what might’ve been a successful hit on substantial edibles.

 The road on one side remained whole for the most part, and it was the first day of no rain. Regardless visibility issues due to a thick fog, the Thin Man deemed the path safe. Somewhere along the route they (or he) passed a chain linked fence, which dissuaded interest due to the sum of Viewers gargling on the other side. Thinking back, Mono must’ve teleported through to investigate something. The Thin Man never saw what initially occurred, he was busy retracing his steps, after Mono failed to catch up. That failure made sense now.

 One of the Viewers gave an aggravated squeal from their shared club alley, and he put the two together. He flashed behind the fence in an instant, on the fringe to witness the whole swell of disgruntled denizens to swarm. Where was the child!

 The mob hurtled after a fluttering thing, bounding across the sidewalk and scrambling under mounds of ruble.

 “Mono! Here!” The Thin Man stalled time and discarded caution, opting to move fast and intercept the child before the agitated Viewers. However, Mono ducked behind a cracked piano flattened beside the building, and the Thin Man missed where he went next. The tempering enabled him to reach the piano before the deranged adults, and he traced along the only trail among rubbish piled high, seeking the shared transmission. The pace of time resumed its dutiful roll, and the piano began to bellow and clanged when the Viewers began shredding it; the attack becoming much louder and more violent with the escalating agony the instrument blurted out.

 By the time he realized Mono was not hidden nearby, he barely caught a flicker of the boy for the last time right before he squeezed into a drainage access cut into a gutter.

 The Thin Man didn’t hesitate to deal with the horde proper and well, before launching an investigation. The delay cost him spare few moments, but Mono was long gone from beneath the grate access. He leaned low peering into the depths, listening to days old rain gurgle deep within, the humid puff of grunge assaulted him. “Mono? Child?” No answer, and no tinge to the transmission. Gone.

 Damnit.

 Despite his firm admission not to pursue a desertion such as this, the Thin Man rationalized this wasn’t desertion. The child was frightened, and they were separated by unavoidable circumstances – those being Mono C̸o̶u̸l̵d̴n̶’̶t̴ ̶F̵o̴l̷l̵o̶w̷ ̴T̶h̷e̵ ̸S̵i̵m̶p̶l̴e̸s̴t̸ ̶O̷f̴ ̵O̸r̵d̵e̵r̸s̸.

 If the child didn’t revert to his flighty tendencies, he might locate him easily. Further down the road or in an alley, some opening would present certain liberation. Should. He only had to pursue the line and meet with Mono. He was not devoted to this task, but who could say, it was possible Mono was prepared to detach from his nightmarish future shadow and roam on his own.

 Navigating the twisted pathways was not a difficult trial (not alone), and every other city block or patch of alley presented one or more of the drainage accesses. However, no Mono. The Thin Man carried on, encouraged by the mild ebb of the transmission, and hoped the boy didn’t stumble onto a television or whisk away.

 After a prolonged search, he pondered concluding this lunacy and leave well enough alone. Until he came upon a sequence of collapsed skyscrapers, eviscerated over a shallow gulley, which was sculpted out from where the road once stretched through. For a brief time, he stood among the hollowed interior, while the gale whipped through tattered clothing snagged on the cleaved edges of the walls. The ground was at least stable, for now. Somewhere within the ruin, the ties to the transmission lingered strong.

 Within the splayed cavern of a building, he at last approached upon the irrefutable location where the boy was secluded. He poked around slanted and precariously stacked ruble, though not a sound gave Mono away. Only the dull threading of water carved through the stale atmosphere. He just knew by the transmission this was where he would be, he was waiting. Or… hiding. He was chasing the child when he asserted, he wouldn’t.

 The boy sat hunched beneath a collision of cement and rebar, back pressed to the wall. One knee drawn up, the other leg hooked over his ankle. The hat he wore lay low, the Thin Man could barely find those little eyes beneath its rim. Was he asleep? He reached a timid finger toward the hat—

 Mono twisted sideways and crawled into a small opening beneath the ruble, scooting on his knees and hands until he hit a barrier. He huddled there, body tense and eyes agape.

 “Mono?” he crooned, withdrawing his hand and tilting his head. “Are you staying? Here?” No answer, only that unwavering glower. On the cusp of his decision, the Thin Man leaned back on his knees. Then, Mono crept forward a bit and gazed up at him. “Ah, there he is. It’s not very hospitable under there, is it?” Still no speek, but this open place was not safe to risk such luxuries.

 In due time the boy did come around and departed the secluded cuvee. The Thin Man seized the chance and gripped Mono by the shoulder, in order to turn him one way then the other. “Are you hurt?” The child fussed and writhed in his grasp, but didn’t lash out or dig his heels into the cement. “Your eye is looking much better.”

 Cautiously, he released Mono so the boy wouldn’t lose his balance. Mono withdrew a step or two, but didn’t launch into the tight hide space. He fluffed out his damp coat, eyes fixed on the tall-tall figure.

 In a crackling flicker, the Thin Man shifted to his full height and adjusted his hat. The boy was all right, that was all he needed. This time he would not beseech, Mono could figure this out on his own. Without further suggestion, the man in the hat turned and began walking. He settled on no landmark or ambiguous recollection, his first goal was departing these dreary ruins.

 Beneath the steady trickle of rain from days ago escaped, the near imperceptible sound of a coat flashed around its wearer. With a careful glimpse from the corner of his eye, the tall thin man spied the boy trailing – bounding over debris and whatever else, whereas he stepped over with graceful ease. Perhaps one day, Mono would tire of this and discard him, the same way S̵h̶e̴ discarded Them. That was the boy’s right. That would never change. Not ever.

 Within this hushed bubble, the two navigated their own misgivings. The Thin Man engrossed by the presiding dilemma, and Mono wondering where he was going to find food, let alone when. Through raiding dwellings that remained put together, they didn’t find anything, at all. Not a crumb, aside from spoiled boxes, ruined merchandise, insect infested kitchens. Before they could commit to a firm scout of the grounds in good, the weather began its shift with all the force and power it had accumulated.

 It was Warhammer to anvil, the canopy of clouds crackled and surged.

 Under the plank of wood, Mono stifled his whimpering and tried to stay very quiet. He’s certain nothing can hear him through the horrendous ignite of each thunder blast, but he took no chances.

 Briefly, he has to kick the blanket off and rub at his hair and shoulders. Pins and prickly needles rolled through his nerves, some of the flashing beams felt aflame. Even his toes ached. At first he dismissed it as something that came from the train cart, but his teeth ached and his whole scalp sizzled. He didn’t remember what all happened that day, it felt so far away. It was hard, he hated that day. Thinking about it made the tingling worse, it wasn’t exactly painful, not all the flashing bursts. Some of the more intense whiteouts made him go stiff, while the air sizzled around his head.

 He wound the blanket up around his bundled shape (something that should never be done – it became a net) and thumped on the hard wood. Even his face bristled. The cracked slate shielded him from the flare blistering the sky, but couldn't blot the surge beating his senses. Beneath the next flowing crackle and groan, the clack of the Thin Man’s shoes passed close.

 The Thin Man paced occasionally. Coming to check him, before going back to the window. He said this bothered him too, but was lie? Mono didn’t care, he was mad.

 “It would help if you tried to relax.”

 Mono didn’t want do speek, or anything for that matter. He wanted to suffer.

 The boards creaked too near, and Mono poked his head up. He twisted around and snagged a crease in the panel beneath him, straining to anchor against the hands enclosing around his body, snaring him within the blanket. Mono had an impressive grip on such a thread thin space, but he couldn’t begin to contend with the Thin Man’s strength.

 “Nuhn,” he mewled, when his hands popped loose.

 “Calm, Mono. You need to be calm.”

 Mono hissed and flailed. Up until he was settled against the Thin Man’s chest – then he was clawing at the dense fabric, twisting, gnawing, fighting to dislodge from the hands clasping him. Or, express his agitation in a most vivid fashion. Naturally, the Thin Man wouldn’t let up. And that made him angrier.

 “This only makes it worse,” the Thin Man was saying, as he ambled around the room. He tugged the blankets edges tighter around Mono, confining his thrashing. “Don’t be tense. Relax.”

 The little rubbing motion on his back made the achy prickle lessen, but he didn’t have to show he liked it. For a while Mono would be still. He winced, as another sparkling sensation needled through his body. “Sad?” he creaked.

 The Thin Man stopped beside the window, checking for the flares far distant through the clouds. “No. The weather is a nuisance, but it will pass. These intense storms cannot endure long.” He continued to knead into Mono’s back, trying to uncoil the knotted muscles. Electric current is what made him, and to an extent the child. When the lad refused the lash given off by the polarity, it ‘stung’ him. If the boy was too resistant, he could work to distract him while he looped around the room. “You can feel the pricking before the surge. Don’t resist, do not withdraw. Relax, and let the current roll through.”

 That seemed too ambitious. Mono whined in his throat, while another wash of painful tingling coursed through his skin. It did sort of help, what the Thin Man was doing. “Hurt.”

 The Thin Man hummed through the sparking interference. “Try less.” He slouched back on the sofa chair and settled a glare on the window. “Don’t think about it. Don’t think about anything.” The child squirmed, but he tried to keep him still and steady. Until the storm expelled itself completely, if necessary. Mono made some displeased sounds, quietly, but it wasn’t the ferocity from earlier.

 He could not maintain the stare off with the force of nature beyond the window, and thusly uncoiled to let himself lean on the chair’s arm. Mono stopped twitching, which was a good sign that the storm was losing its potency. Perhaps giving it the promise of eternal damnation moved corrupted nature to tears.

 “Sound,” Mono mumbled.

 “Pardon?” The child didn’t answer. Was likely asleep, which would be better. He would need the rest, as after this storm he was going to be sore. Then the prospect of escorting this child, stiff and aching. Joy-O-joys.

 Keeping track of the boy… was tedious. Much of the time the Thin Man would have preferred stay reserved for examining through building spaces, however, Mono was eager with distractions and inconsequential things. That was a fault of the child’s drive to puzzle through obstacles on his own, and then the resulting backtracking if an open route ended with no feasible means for navigation. Quite a bit of backtracking, and lost time.

 Unless the Thin Man could deal with the barrier, without bothering Mono. Such as something simple, open a door – usually the case – or, maneuver an item for him to leap onto, nudge a board over a gap. Simple alterations to the decrepit environment, which Mono was receptive of.

 Then! This opposition for assistance when it was only practical. Unforeseen barriers, stumbling through an alley wherein a new chasm now resided, or entering a room where the floor has vacated the premises…. Stirring up a horde of creatures into shambling pursuit.

 The Thin Man took a breath and sighed. The child was reluctant to really test his abilities – in relatively safe conditions, or under supervision. When he was child and dismissed the man in the hat, he came into those powers so effortlessly. Like slipping on a new hat. He remembered how it had been, the way it felt. The relief that swept through him after ‘conquering’ his foe. The thrill and sense of duty upon racing blindly through the massive doors, opened for him, inviting, straight into the Tower’s embrace. Not a thought or doubt in his mind. Foolish, reckless… gullible.

 Mono shifted, drawing his knees up and curled his hands over his face.

 Children learned fast to be self-sufficient or they just didn’t live long. For Mono, the entire drama ended when he was discarded. Left to the Tower, he would grow and age with no need unsatisfied, but for invoking his retaliation on the world. Rejected his inclusion, despised him, damned him to fail. That never changed… child or elder. The story never changed. The world wanted him to surrender all his ambitions, and when he did… he made them regret.

 Regardless his younger-self’s placement in that world, the Thin Man maintained stark apprehension. None of the dominate issues would resolve, the day-to-day struggle remained ever present; not helped by Mono’s preoccupation with mediocre… things. It worked well enough to settle Mono into a remote dwelling and bring the necessities he needed. Though that was inconsequential, Mono was driven to explore and seek – he was nothing but a child. He hoped to curb the compulsion and get that boy to rest, if possible, maintain a refuge for Mono to seek when one was needed. One day perhaps, one day that child would venture too far into the distance, and he would surrender all ambition to follow.   

 Mono was relentless. The Thin Man... was not.

 Some while later and no further cringing from his charge, the Thin Man deemed it appropriate to disconnect, and with a grunt eased back on the sofa arm. The storm was dispersed, some residual charge lingered in the atmosphere, but that was nothing but empty particles sputtering on the damp wind.

 The Thin Man set his hat over his face but made sure to gingerly stroke Mono’s back. Until he could no longer maintain the effort, and let his thoughts dissolve into distorted shadows, static, and four bleak walls.

 An hour or more of calm passed, aside from a dull creak of the building chastised by the howling wind. Then, Mono opened one eye and peered up at the Thin Man.

Next

[astudyinfreewill]

Could you maybe do something like Adam and Ronan hanging out with Blue and Gansey near the beginning of their relationship and Ronan marvelling at how he actually gets to hold Adam's hand now and it feels too good to be true 🥺

dear anon... i’m so sorry. this spiralled from the intended 500 words of cute hand holding to 2500 words of group dynamics. i have no excuse. hopefully there is still enough hand-holding to fit the bill 😅

since this got long-ish, you can also find it over at my AO3 if you prefer to read there!

and at every table, i’ll save you a seat

adam/ronan, fluff, 2.5k. takes place after the main events of trk but before the trk epilogue.

“I’m just saying, if he starts shit, I’m gonna walk out. I don’t need that drama in my life right now.” Ronan huffed, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, hands shoved deep into his leather jacket pockets. His breath condensed in the cold early December air. “Noted,” Adam replied, with the patient tone of someone who had heard the threat before and was not particularly concerned.

Ronan glowered - not at Adam or at anyone in particular, he just glowered. He did mean it. He couldn’t be fighting with Gansey right now, he just couldn’t.

Technically, they were already in a fight. This was new: historically, it was Adam and Ronan snarking at each other until one of them snapped, much to Gansey’s great exasperation; or Adam and Gansey waging cold war at each other until Ronan got tired of it and did something purposefully outrageous just so they’d get mad at him and forget whatever argument they were having. It usually wasn’t Ronan and Gansey. But then Ronan had dropped out of school.

The argument that had followed hadn’t been big and explosive, but rather drawn out into instalments: interrupted before things could get too bad and then picked up again at a different time, with Gansey pleading and needling and insisting graduation was mere months away. Ronan had endured a week of this before dealing with it the only way he could conceive of: by moving himself out of Monmouth and back into the Barns, which had been the plan anyway.

Adam had been a quiet bystander in this. He did not approve of Ronan dropping out, and it was clear in the tight line of his mouth when Ronan had told him. But he had always been good at picking his battles, and he had clearly decided not to fight Ronan’s for him. “Are you sure?” he had asked, looking at Ronan with narrowed blue eyes that, as usual, saw far too much. “Yeah,” Ronan had replied. In all honesty, he hadn’t exactly thought it through, because he could not think it through right now - but that was exactly why he was dropping out. He couldn’t be around people. He couldn’t be expected to function and show up and act like an engaged student and study for exams after– everything. So he said again, “Yeah.” And Adam had nodded, and that had been that.

Of course Gansey, correctly guessing that Adam would disapprove of anyone giving up on education, had tried to gain access to his – recently increased - leverage, but his efforts had fallen flat as far as Ronan could tell.

“But you must realise it’s a mistake”, he’d said on the only occasion Ronan had been witness to, one time when he’d arrived early to pick Adam up from work. “Don’t tell me you agree with him!”

“I don’t, but it’s his mistake to make,” Adam had replied, his annoyance clear even from Ronan’s sightless spot around  the corner of Boyd’s main entrance. “Leave him alone, Gansey. Just because your friends want different things from you doesn’t mean they’re not your friends anymore.”

God, but Ronan loved him.

There had been a long pause filled with Gansey’s chastised silence. This wasn’t solely about Ronan’s choices, and they all knew it.

After that, Gansey’s tactical maneuvers had stopped, but Ronan still hadn’t really spoken to him since dropping out, which was less a hostile decision and more due to Ronan not being in school and refusing to answer his phone. When he left the Barns, it was to spend the night at St. Agnes or go for a long drive with Adam, who knew better than to try to play peacemaker on those occasions.

But now it was Gansey’s birthday, and Blue had summoned them at Nino’s, and apparently would never ever speak to him again if he did not show up. So, whatever, fine. It’s not like Ronan would ever miss Gansey’s birthday anyway. He wasn’t that shitty of a  friend. He just didn’t want any drama.

“I’m just saying he needs to lay off,” he added, defensive.

“Fine,” Adam rolled his eyes. “Now are you gonna stop being a big baby?” he held out his hand for Ronan to take. “We’ve been out here for ages. Let’s go inside, I’m cold.”

“Now who’s being a big baby,” Ronan shot back, but took Adam’s hand anyway. He couldn’t help the little electric thrill that went through him at the sensation of skin on skin. It had been almost a month now since he and Adam had gotten together, since their first kiss on Ronan’s birthday, and he still wasn’t used to the idea of this being offered so casually, like something he could just have. Because he could just have it now.

They walked into Nino’s to see Blue waving at them energetically to signal her position. There was no need for it, of course, because she was sitting at the same booth they always sat in. “God, so dramatic,” Ronan moaned, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Ain’t that the truth,” Adam commented, his lips tilting into a smirk. Ronan gave his hand a little squeeze.

Blue, satisfied with her flagging-down antics, had sat back down, and now was placidly nestled into Gansey’s side, looking like one of those small angry birds who puff up and tuck their head into their body until they’re perfectly round. On Gansey’s other side, perusing the menu intently as if it didn’t have the same 12 choices as always, was Henry Cheng, his hair looking like an abstract painting and his t-shirt screaming out a Kylie Minogue logo.

And Gansey himself looked… the same as usual, which was to say, it was both impossible to tell and impossible to forget that he had died and been resuscitated in the past month. He also looked anxious. That, Ronan mused, was also usual. He just didn’t usually look anxious about greeting Ronan, and Ronan wasn’t sure he liked that. He chewed on his lip, then gave Gansey a reluctant half smile and hoped it didn’t look like too much of a snarl. Gansey also gave a half smile that looked like a gastritis grimace.

Progress.

“Hey y’all,” Adam greeted. “Hi Blue. Cheng,” he nodded. Then he turned towards Gansey, starting to raise his right fist reflexively; he paused, looked briefly down at where his left hand was joined with Ronan’s, then seemed to make a split-second decision and raised that hand instead, curling his fingers into a fist around Ronan’s, making it so they both fist-bumped Gansey at once. It was embarrassing and looked silly and awkward, but somehow, afterwards, Ronan didn’t feel quite so tentative, and Gansey’s grimace was more and more reminiscent of a smile.

“Very fucking clever,” he muttered in Adam’s ear as they slid into the booth.

“I know, right?” Adam replied with a cheery smile. “I should be a counsellor or something.”

Ronan shoved his shoulder into Adam’s good-naturedly. Adam jostled him right back. Neither let go of the other’s hand.

Immediately, they were pulled into conversation by Blue and required to arbitrate a discussion between her and Henry on whether reality shows were morally bankrupt or a fascinating social experiment. Adam, who had never watched a reality show, sided with Blue out of principle. Gansey, who for very different reasons had also never watched a reality show, was discreetly trying to pull Ronan’s focus with an entreating look; Ronan, warily, let him.

“How have you been, Lynch?” Gansey asked.

Ronan shrugged. “How have you been?”Gansey looked for a moment like he was going to lose his patience. Instead, his face cracked in a different direction, an almost melancholy expression coloring it. “Alright. Adjusting, I suppose. To… everything.”

Everything being “dying and coming back to life as a patchwork tangle of ley line forest”.

“That’s rough, man.” Ronan raised his glass sympathetically, and Gansey tilted his own back.

“You must also be… adjusting. To everything.”

Everything being losing his mother, losing Cabeswater, and almost dying himself.

The undercurrent of things unsaid, hovering just under the surface, was too much; Ronan was going to scream.

But then Gansey did the unexpected.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Ronan choked on his drink a little.

“I shouldn’t have hassled you about school. I just…” Gansey waved a vague hand.

“Think you know better than everyone?” Ronan supplied dryly. Damn, maybe Parrish was rubbing off on him.

Gansey tilted his head. “Perhaps. I made a few bad calls. I, uh. I may have sold Monmouth Manufacturing to get Child to let you stay in school.”

The words were like an ice pick in Ronan’s heart. He felt Adam’s hand tighten around his, despite the fact he was ostensibly still listening to Blue. Adam knew, then. Ronan could only imagine that argument.

“Dick. You did what?”, he rasped. “I never, ever asked you to do anything like that, you colossal fucking-”“I know, I know,” Gansey said, raising a placating hand. “It was stupid. I was maybe not thinking straight. Bit concerned with my own impending death. It’s alright. I managed to buy it back.”

The storm cloud threatening to explode in Ronan’s chest dispelled. Monmouth was safe. Monmouth, with its tall windows and its dusty floors and its walls that held a thousand stories of insomnia and grief and laughter and companionship and fights and friendship. Brotherhood.

“Good,” he said, a little hoarsely. “You love that place.”

“I do,” Gansey admitted wistfully. “It’s just been a little… well. Different. Now that it is just me, I mean. I don’t see you at school, and I don’t see you at ho– at Monmouth. And it’s a big place, and I suppose maybe I was – there is a chance that I perhaps might have been a little afraid of being… well. Lonely. I guess.”

Well. That was a low blow. Or maybe it only felt like one because Ronan had not stopped to think about that and was caught unawares now – but he was gonna go with low blow anyway. It seemed wrong for Gansey – Gansey, of all people – to be lonely. He had always been the one collecting lonely people, the glue holding them all together. Ronan had spent so much time worried about losing Gansey’s friendship, so it was a baffling change of pace for Gansey to miss him.

It made him feel a little bad, but he also knew he was doing the right thing. He needed to be at home right now - his real home, his childhood home, to process everything. And Gansey had other people now – he had Blue and he had Henry, and Ronan had Adam – well, he’d had Adam before, in a manner of speaking, but it was different now. They were both following their own paths. But it didn’t mean Ronan couldn’t be there for him.

“You can still text me, you know,” he said as casually as he could.

Gansey glared at him. “I have been.”“Really?” Ronan said even more casually, scratching at his stubble. He shrugged. “Try again,” he added, more sincerely, holding Gansey’s gaze.

Gansey gave him a small, earnest smile. “I will.”

And just like that, things were okay again. Ronan leaned over the table to give Gansey an amicable punch in the shoulder, but had to raise his right hand, still entwined with Adam’s, to reach forward. It didn’t occur to him that their joined hands were visibly resting above the table until Gansey’s eyes shot down to them and quickly away, his expression doing something complicated but not displeased. He nodded, that little unguarded smile still on his face. Approval, perhaps. Ronan had not asked for it nor did he need it – but it was still nice.

Not as nice as actually getting to hold Adam’s hand though. Now that he’d been reminded of it, he couldn’t stop focusing on it – the warmth, the contact of thumb crossed over thumb, his fingertips brushing over Adam’s still slightly chapped knuckles, the way Adam’s calluses were familiar to him now in a way he’d never expected to know outside of a dream.

Adam – who by this point was wryly arguing with Henry over whether there was even a point to a student council when everyone on it was part of the 1%, to Henry’s impassioned retorts that there are more issues than just classism, Parrish – absently shifted his hand so it was resting palm up on the table, an open invitation, a gentle suggestion to readjust. Ronan followed in kind, resting the back of his hand against Adam’s palm. Adam wrapped his long fingers around the side of Ronan’s palm – Ronan closed his fingers over Adam’s.

He felt warm all over. He took a sip of his iced tea but couldn’t hide the small, private smile playing on his lips, nor could he stop staring at their hands crisscrossed over each other’s on top of the table.

And then he was rudely snapped out of it by Blue’s teasing Awww, cute.

Ronan raised his head slowly, making sure to narrow his eyes menacingly despite the distinct heat he could feel on his cheeks.

Blue was staring at their hands, an unrepentant grin on her face. She met Ronan’s eyes without a trace of concern, taking a big, leisurely gulp of her tea.

“You got somethin’ to say, Sargent?” he asked pleasantly.

“Yeah,” she replied defiantly. “I said you guys are cute.”

This was all new terrain. Ronan had never been teased for being in a relationship, but he’d also never been in a relationship, and hell – he’d all but avoided thinking about the mere idea of a relationship until last year.

Then Adam pressed his leg against Ronan’s under the table, a private show of support, a quiet reminder that it wasn’t Adam and Ronan, but Adam-and-Ronan. It was such a small thing, but it meant so much. Less than a year ago, Ronan had been sitting in this same booth, watching Adam hold hands with Blue and feeling like he’d swallowed his own heart and it was slowly poisoning him from the inside.

And now, it was Adam-and-Ronan.

He tilted his chin haughtily. “Maybe we fucking are, Sargent”.

Blue scrunched up her nose, her expression going from teasing to earnest. “Yeah, you are. It’s nice to see you looking like that for a change.”

Ronan raised an eyebrow. “Cute?”

Blue leaned her chin on her hand. “Happy.”

Oh.

Well, how about that.

Ronan exhaled loudly from his nose and threw himself back against the headrest of the booth; but he also extended a leg under the table so he could knock into Blue’s tiny booted foot. She bumped his boot right back.

At his side, Adam leaned into him lightly, shoulder pressed warmly to shoulder, his head tilted in a way that suggested he might soon be resting it against Ronan’s temple, as he sometimes did when he was tired after a long shift.

Yeah. Ronan supposed that, all considered, he was pretty happy.

[guigz1-coldwar]

'Western Brick in the Wall : Part 2' : New chapter for "Always for the greater cause..." is out !

Chapter Summary: Entering West-Berlin with the team was something easy for Bell despite the few things that weren't going to plan but now, the hard part of the mission is coming...

To read it on AO3, click here!

Taglist: @snowgoldwaylon , @clxudtea , @efingart

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23rd February 1981

Yirina 'Bell' Grigoriev, Ex-KGB, Perseus

Leaving the electronics store to join Katinka's hideout, West-Berlin

"Dammit," I thought to myself as I was stepping out of the store by its front door, mainly thinking that I was going to make a sort of burglary into a CIA hideout in West Berlin and that, I would be all alone to do this. I volunteered for that without any choices since the others weren't willing to do it, so I had to comply. That was also a way to think about the shitty weather, still raining heavily outside when I landed on the sidewalk of the street.

It's been since I arrived in this divided city that the rain was still falling on it, making me sniff away and take a deep breath before concentrating myself on the mission that I needed to do: enter discreetly inside a CIA apartment, find the briefcase that Katinka Goodman was keeping with her, putting a tracker inside of it, and then, get out without getting caught, allowing us to track without any problems the briefcase before putting our hands on it and maybe capture Smirnov.

The street was still filled with people with umbrellas and of course, some policemen patrolling around and interrogating people around, surely about those rumors that Krauz told me but also now about that brawl in the bar. Of course, I needed to avoid walking near one of them or making any eye contact with them and it's with my lowered head inside my head that I crossed the street on the pedestrian crossing before managing to enter the apartment complex and its main hallway.

Thanks to the intels, I was knowing that the apartment I was going to sneak myself inside was just on the first floor and I decided to climb up the stairs, seeing from afar in the hallway that some cops were interrogating an old lady and it was better to not put myself in their sight, going upstairs before looking around to find the front door of the apartment and making sure that no one was there to surprise me.

"Wraith, I arrived at the front door," I spoke through my earset, passing my hand around my right ear to be sure that I was going to hear well.

"Good, enter and find the briefcase, it must be in the desk room," She advised me as I was kneeling in front of the apartment's door, taking out of the inside of my jackets, the lockpicking tools that I was given, taking a breath before starting to use them on the lock, trying to not make any loud noises. "Are you in?" She asked me.

"No, I've only started to lockpicking that door," I replied to her in a low & annoyed voice as it was just only a few seconds that I started to do my things and it was like my words caused me to have some calm & peace, struggling at first to use the tools before hearing some little noises inside the lock, meaning that I was slowly gaining a skill for opening locked door and after 3 same clicks that I heard, the door was looking unlocked. "Now, I'm in," I whispered, my voice sounding more positive before I put my hands on the door to open it delicately and slowly, not forgetting to put on the green hood I was given on my head.

The first thing I saw in front of me when I opened the door was a reflection of myself in a big mirror, almost scarring myself because of it, along with a little coat hanger near it, peaking my head inside to observe a big hallway, giving access to every room of the apartment and by looking at it, there were only light in the deepest room that was at my view, it was the kitchen of the apartment and no one was in it.

I stepped inside in a silent way, keeping my hands on the door while entering before trying to shut down the door by been the most discreet girl in the world, acting like a teenager that did go out of her house without having the authorization of her parents but unfortunately, the door made a big noise when it was shut down despite been very slow in my moves as if it was something that couldn't be avoided.

"Who's here?" I heard a voice inside the apartment coming from the only lighted up room, prompting me to move quickly inside the first room I was able to see, opening the door, and then, closing the door without closing it fully and letting me a little view to see who was coming between the space of what I could see, seeing a blonde woman, wearing a simple shirt and jeans...Katinka herself, looking alone.

She arrived near the door and looked around her, seeing curious about what she heard as I was continuing to observe her discreetly from the little space between the door and its frame and as I thought she was going to get away, suddenly, a phone rang in the entrance that was posed on a dresser and she moved to pick up, turning her back against me.

"Yes?" She started, taking the phone in her hands. "Oh, hey, Zed," She greeted, probably this Smirnov she was talking...a nickname, maybe?..."Yes, don't worry, I have the briefcase," She affirmed to them as she looked over at her kitchen. "Don't worry and I'll have something more maybe, later, Zasha," She added in a clear and positive voice before she hangs up the phone, putting it back on the dresser before walking away from the entrance and letting me go away from the door to take a breath.

"Bell, I've got you in my sight," I suddenly hear in my earset, Wraith's voice, making me look up at the window of the room, giving to the outside, realizing that it was the main window of the apartment that she was looking at when I come inside the store. "You should be in the desk room," She told me, discovering that in fact, I managed to land in the room where the briefcase was.

"Yeap, I'm in," I whispered, my right fingers on my ear and looking around before seeing the black briefcase on a wooden desk. "Got visual on the target," I exclaimed, walking to get to it, putting my hands on the briefcase, and opening it, discovering CIA files about Greenlight but also a thing called 'Numbers'

"What did you find?" Wraith asked me in my earset, having heard the click of the briefcase getting opened.

"What we need but also things about 'Numbers' at what it said," I responded.

"Good, get the tracker in and get out of here," She ordered to me in a clear & serious voice and I complied, taking out the little tracker of my jacket and after checking up a perfect hiding place, I put the tracker inside the briefcase in one of its sides, very well hidden and once it was good, I closed the briefcase and locking it but as I took some steps behind me in the middle of the room, the back of my head was met by something...a gun cannon pointed at me.

"You thought that I didn't hear you come in?" The voice spoke behind me, it was Katinka herself, having a gun at me behind my masked head as I put my hands up for her, trying to find a way to get free. "Well, we will see how they will react," She exclaimed, moving her gun slightly up and it was at this moment that I decided to act against her.

I quickly moved my left hand and tapped it over her own hands, getting the pistol out of them before grabbing her and pushing her against one of the libraries that were behind her. But then, I remembered that I couldn't neutralize her since she was important to give us Smirnov and by that thought, it was important for me to flee & run away but unfortunately, I tripped over after Katinka put her hands in front of my legs, making me fall on the ground on the front.

"Not so fast, you're staying," She taunted as I was trying to get up after knocking myself hard, almost head first on the floor and I was ready to continue my escape before I turned my head around at her, seeing her already up and her gun back in her hands. "You're the surprise!" She told me before she used her gun and hit me hard against the back of my head...

...sending me right into sleep...damn it...

---------------------------------

23rd February 1981

Freya 'Wraith' Helvig, Ex-NIS, Perseus

In the electronics store in front of Katinka's hideout, West-Berlin

"You're the surprise!" This is what I heard through my earset before everything went shut in Bell's side, her earset sounding completely dead and unresponsive and I tried to call her multiples times worried but no one was responding to my calls, fearing now the worst for her.

"Helvete! [Fuck!]" I cursed almost loudly in the store, realizing that Bell was in big trouble but it was impossible to have her back without screwing up the mission and our chances to get Smirnov.

By the second I realized that I decided to pack up the materials I was using back into the bag, used to transport everything and once I was done with it, I got up from my spot, not forgetting to remove any traces of my passage here before starting to walk away from the store, leaving it from the back door where Knight was guarding it.

"I heard Bell struggling and then, nothing else," He explained to me as I opened the side door, all of our earsets connected, everyone has tried to contact Bell to no avail. "What's our move, now?" He asked me curiously as I was moving near the grilled door, leading to the street.

"Everyone, gather to the extraction point to join Bellamy," I ordered to him and the others before opening the grilled door and taking a look at Knight. "Let's move, dammit," I said to him in a harsh voice, seeing him not move at all like an idiot from his spot before complying to follow me.

With that turn of events, we needed for the team to regroup at the extraction point that was in fact at only 100 meters from where the store was: inside a hidden alley between two apartment complexes with Bellamy that was waiting for us in one of the vans that were granted to us by Anton Volkov himself for the mission and after two minutes of walking through the rain on the streets and avoiding the cops, we managed, with Knight, to join the van, Stitch managing to arrive before us as he was the one to open the back doors.

"Good to see you here, come on," Stitch greeted me & Knight inside the van as Bellamy was checking up the material to localize the tracker, "Bell has been captured, that's bad," He expressed something that everyone in the van was sharing.

"She was taken by surprise, we all heard that," Knight spoke up, sitting down on one of the seats, shaking his head to clean up his wet hair.

"At least, she got the tracker on," Bellamy stated, making us look at one of the devices he was using, useful to track that little piece of technology, a map helping us to see where the tracker is actually, along with a blinking green button meaning that it was active. "Wait, it's looking like it's moving," He said, pointing out that the little dot on the map was moving a little.

"Seems that Katinka is moving," Knight suggested, the situation looking damn obvious.

"We can't take any risks about the operation, Bellamy, call Krauz and ask for him his help and some armed men for the mission," Stitch stepped inside the conversation, giving us suggestions and orders about what to do now. "Wraith & Knight, we're preparing our guns," He added before his eyes went outside the van, looking through its little window...

"We ain't going to lose it!"

----------------------------

23rd February 1981

Yirina 'Bell' Grigoriev, Ex-KGB, Perseus

Unknown location, West-Berlin

My head...shit, it was the main thing that was hurting me when my brain was going back on in the living world again like it did when I woke up days earlier in my quarters in Solovetsky and the next things that were making themselves clear to my head was the fact that I was in a bad situation than I ever thought and now, captured and tied up in maybe one of the hideouts of the CIA somewhere but not to a chair.

I was clearly tied up to a pole that was behind me, my hands still in front but raised above my head handcuffed, my mask was still on my head and the things that were missing on me was my jacket, only feeling my white sleeveless shirt on me but still my mask on...strange choice. My eyes went slowly getting opened, perceiving a sort of a small warehouse in front of me...and of course, some people in front of me, seeing Katinka giving the briefcase to Smirnov.

"Hey, our prisoner is waking up," A man with a marine blue jacket and one glove at his left hand spoke up, having seen my eyes opening before I could see him take in his hands a bucket. "Let her get her brain fully ready for our questions," He suggested to his friends before he decides to throw the content of the bucket on me, it was very cold water, landing on top of me, my eyes closing for a second in fear and my skin not ready to feel that cold like that.

"Woods, don't be too harsh, okay?" Smirnov told him, moving next to him and putting their hand on his chest after putting down the briefcase near a chair.

"As you wish, Zed but I want to know how that person managed to enter one of our hideouts like that?" He complied, his eyes getting focused on Katinka that was a bit disturbed by that.

"Don't blame me, they must have found a way to get in but it ain't my fault," Katinka defended herself to him, pointing him with her right hand.

"Alright, alright," Smirnov stepped in between the two, their hands spread to the two, not wanting to fight at the moment "No fight, we have better things to do, remember?" They said, looking at the two as if they were their boss before their eyes went on me. "Now, we have to know who are they," They exclaimed in a clear voice before they moved in front of me.

"Fuck you, you CIA pigs," I cursed to them, trying to get out but...with metal handcuffs, it's going to be hard and if I somehow managed, I would have to face armed soldiers in the warehouse, guarding it and all behind the trio.

"So, that's a woman," That Woods sighed, crossing his arms.

"Tell us, who are you?" Smirnov asked me, staying calm & peaceful to me not like his friend Woods behind him, looking like he wanted to punch something.

"As I said, just go fuck yourself, you traitor," I replied to him, wanting to spit on their face but my mouth was behind the mask, making it impossible to do. "Ain't going to tell shit to anyone of you," I continued, my eyes drifting towards Katinka & Woods. "And you, keep behave yourself," I scoffed.

"Woods, stay down!" Smirnov ordered, having sensed that Woods was walking towards me with clenched fists, urging to beat the shit out of me. "At first, let me see your face," They proposed, putting both hands on my hood before pulling it out of me, letting me breathe freely.

"Thanks, I was getting hot with it," I joked, wanting to break a laugh out of me before I could see a rather strange face on Smirnov. "What? Saw a ghost or something, traitor?" I asked them with a smile, looking jaw-dropped and disturbed to see me here...a fucking ghost, they saw.

"Shit...shit...shit," Smirnov muttered, moving away from me and turning their back around to face their little friends. "It can't be possible, she was declared dead," They talked to themselves as it was looking like Katinka & Woods weren't understanding the whole situation.

That situation was making me laugh as I was, somehow, able to make them saw a ghost perfectly despite been not in the right spot to be the one making the joke and putting fear to the others before my eyes went on the ceiling, seeing the darkness outside...but also some dark figures through the windows of the ceiling...my guardian's angels...starting to act at the second Smirnov was returning to their friends. Windows were broken in a few seconds and instants later, smokes were coming out of the ceiling, falling on the ground and invading the whole warehouse around me, covering it entirely in the white smoke.

"Shit, we're attacked!" Woods shouted, taking off his pistol in his hands.

"Quick, we need to flee, they're looking too much for us," Katinka added as she put her hands on Smirnov's back before the trio disappeared in the smoke, letting me & the briefcase alone.

As the pole wasn't going to the top, only making like 2 meters, I knew that I could free myself by getting my hands above the pole, starting to use some acrobatics skills by sticking my wrist against the pole before balancing myself on the pole, getting my legs up in the air and taking three seconds between each move, getting my hands higher before I managed to succeed, freeing myself from the pole but not entirely free.

My hands were still handcuffed and an American soldier was approaching me to tackle me on the ground after my succeeded attempt. I was the first one to make a strike, using my legs to kick him in the chest, getting his gun off his hands behind going behind him to strangle him with the handcuffs, not going softly and hardly until I could hear a loud crack from his neck, killing him with a broken neck before letting him fall on the ground...

"Bell!" Wraith's voice comes out of the smokescreen that was in front of me, and then, I could see her perfectly coming out of it with a sort of machine gun pistol in her hands, shooting without looking in a direction where a soldier was trying to charge her. "You're okay?" She asked, getting in front of me.

"I"m okay, can you..." I said, putting my hands in front of her to show her that I wasn't free at all.

"Okay, let's free you up," She exclaimed, pointing her gun between my two hands before she shot one bullet, breaking me free to use my hands perfectly. "Glad to see that you're okay," She told me in a good voice.

"And to see you too," I affirmed as she moved to grab the assault rifle of the soldier I killed.

"Thanks but now, I'm taking care of the briefcase, get Smirnov before Stitch!" She ordered in a serious voice, handing me the gun in my hands with a few mags with it and I complied with it, taking it before she moved towards the briefcase as I start to join the others in the fight.

The smokescreens soon disappeared from the warehouse to give me a clear sight of the fight: there were all here, Bellamy, Stitch, Knight & even Krauz and some of his men, fighting off some of the soldiers that were trying to oppose resistance to them and they were doing good but as Wraith said, it was unsure that Stitch will try to have Smirnov alive, meaning that I needed to take another path from the others.

There was one row of the warehouse that wasn't used by any of our men's, giving me a clear path to get through the warehouse, to catch Smirnov and maybe their friends along with it as the end of the warehouse was their only way out. However, my row was still filled with some soldiers but with the assault rifle and my hand-to-hand fighting skills, those guys weren't a big problem for me, either shooting them or stabbing them with their own knives, getting some knife cuts on my arms along the way..

After cleaning up the row I was from the soldiers, I reached the side exit of the warehouse, not after taking care of some 'reinforcements' before I could enter a small hallway, leading to the exit, and then, I could see Smirnov that was going to walk out of the building before I shot a warning shot near them to scare them to not move at all.

"Don't move!" I shouted at them loudly, aiming at them with my rifle.

"Go, I'll join you,' They said, seemingly speaking outside before the exit door behind them was getting closed despite been widely opened, leaving them alone with me as I was approaching them. "Listen...we can talk about this," They tried to plead, feeling the fear in them. "Hey, please, Je-" They wanted to say before I decided to make them shut their mouths by striking them at their chest with the back of my rifle.

"You'll plead with your life later," I told them as they were kneeling on the ground, holding their chest in pain before I grabbed them by the back of their collar as there were people coming in the hallway, seeing Stitch with Wraith, Bellamy, Knight & Krauz.

"Bell, on the behalf of Perseus, thank you," Wraith was the first one to speak, looking happy that I followed her suggestion and still seeing Smirnow breathing as she pulled her guns away.

"That's one good thing to hear," Stitch exclaimed before I threw Smirnov at him and what they received was a big punch on their faces, knocking them out instantly, back on the ground. "Knight, get Krypto in the van," He ordered at Knight who complied before he looked at me with a smile, Wraith moving next to me and putting her hand on my back. "It's time for us to leave West-Berlin," He told us before moving away with Bellamy & Knight who was carrying the unconscious Smirnov on his shoulders.

"You did good, Bell," Wraith complimented me, her hand behind my back comforting me and it was giving me a smile on my facedespite the pain of the small cuts on my arms. "I'll patch you up when we will come back to the hideout," She reassured me, seeing them.

"Thanks, Wraith," I thanked her, looking up to see her face, looking at her smiling at me. "Hey...uhm...I wanted to know," I stopped her as she was going to move away from me even if she was going to wait for me as I wanted to know about something that was flowing in my head after that successful mission.

"Are you still feeling open for a drink?"

[skepticaloccultist]

The Society with No Name

The Society with No Name

 I had taken the train in from our temporary accommodation in the English countryside to deal with a few pressing matters back in London. Our house in Hackney has been packed, and while most of it will go to storage some is on its way to Portugal. We have taken offices there, and are preparing to sign the papers for our new home in Portugal in the coming days.

There are many things I will miss about London, though these days of plague mean that I miss them already. The bookshops and private libraries, the lectures and occasional events that bring me out into the night. But this country has become a shambles, and more sensible accommodation is in our future.

Among those things that I will think of even in the brightest of Portuguese sunshine is a place that I have come to consider a second home in London. One of the few reclusive lairs in central London that affords one such as myself a bit of respite, and a proper coffee, or whiskey as the case may be.

Located down a street too narrow for any but foot traffic, two right turns from Leicester Square station, is a rather peculiar building that seems to have grown like a weed among the more traditional structures around it.

Painted these days where there is wood on its two facades in a dark blue, the building is narrow at its base, a corner slot some 20 feet on either of its two street facing sides. Stretching some five or so stories tall it is impossibly angled outward over the sidewalk as it rises. Not in any modernist architectural style, just in a centuries long battle with gravity.

The door is nondescript, black painted wood under a stone mantel that bears the number "13", though the vagaries of London's postal code system mean that it hasn't had that number as a street address since shortly after Queen Victoria expired.

If one were to knock at the door, no one would answer. To enter, one needs to have a key.

+++

I became a member or "key holder" of the society sometime during the summer of 2009. It had long been on the fringes of my social group, small though it has always been. Though it was only through a chance meeting of a standing member that I was invited to join.

As many will know I have spent my life politely declining membership in a range of secret societies, handshake clubs, and masonic fraternities dressed up in various historic ethnographic fashions. I have never been much on membership in anything, initiatory or otherwise. I am not a very social fellow when it comes down to it.

It was the complete lack of any "club" like structure that the society presented that drew my attention. Members are not encouraged to interact, no events public or otherwise are planned. One simply pays annual dues and receives a key that grants them access to the building, including a small lobby bar staffed 24 hours a day, a number of rooms of various sizes furnished with arrangements of chairs and tables with doors that can be closed, and access to one of the largest private esoteric libraries in the world, taking up an entire floor of the building.

Not only is one not compelled by the society to interact with other members, but if you have not been introduced it is considered impolite to attempt conversation. Ideal for the recluse who seeks a perfect Turkish espresso at 1am, with the least amount of social interaction possible.

When one has entered through the front of the building the hall is modestly lit, a short entry that has a coat room to one side and opens into a sort of lobby, with a cafe style bar set into the rear of a small room, a few chairs and a table or two along one wall and three booths along another.

The bartender on duty never comes from behind the bar to serve, and it is expected that each member bus their own tables before they leave. A hallmark of the society is courteousness.

Opposite the entry way across the tiny lobby is the staircase, which goes upward around a tattery old iron lift. The stairs creak as you climb them, but the hand railing is fixed solid. Not something that can be said for the lift.

I have ridden the lift on several occasions, each time being reminded why no one ever rides in the lift. The noise alone is enough to think a banshee was the operator.

One climbs the slender stairs, pausing on the occasional landing to peer out of the crooked windows onto the street below. No one ever seems to be on the streets when you look out of the windows, regardless of how crowded the streets were just moments ago when you were approaching the building.

On each floor the stairs open to a landing that leads into various rooms. Some more private than others. The rooms are decorated minimally, with shelves of books and curiosities left over the years by members.

On the third floor is the library.

+++

 The origins of the society seem to have come out of a select group within the British supper club the "Ye Sette of Odd Volumes." Members of that organization seem to have acquired the building in the early 1900s and from there the society evolved.

It is unknown to current members who actually owns the building, or if the society holds it in some obscure trust. Though a general trust fund was setup in the 1950s and covers staff pay and building upkeep, the annual dues each member pays seem to come to about the required budget each year.

The building was built sometime in the 18th century, though from its ill fitting the upper few stories must have been a later addition. Typical of the period the rooms are mostly wood trimmed plaster walls. Each of the member rooms is painted in a particular colour scheme, though these seem to change as years go by.

As was typical of societies of the early 20th century membership is coed, with women being key holders from the beginning. The only restriction to membership is that members must live within commuting distance of London. Those members that leave the region must relinquish their key. It is intended as a place of solitude for those who need it in their dealings with the city, a place to coordinate and consult with the volumes in the library.

It is said among older members that the building was a well known opium den in the late 19th century, frequented by literary types and dragon chasing aristocrats. The layout of the rooms certainly lends itself to the idea of opium beds and servitors, with the rooms' high ceilings perfectly suited to smoke filled chambers.

The rooms on the top two floors of the building are more open, like small ballrooms. Though furnished with a few chairs they are easily emptied out for purposes privy to only the society members behind closed doors. These rooms, unlike those on the lower floors, have windows that can be opened. It is considered polite to book a room ahead on the calendar if one plans to need it for more than a day, though exceptions are often made.

+++

Unlike the other floors, which are divided into smaller rooms, the landing of the third floor has only a single door, made of glass and requiring a key to open, the same as the buildings front door. This is the entrance to the society's library, a densely packed but well organized room full of books, maps, papers and other ephemera.

The society's library grew out of the private libraries and individual donations of previous members of the society, usually upon their death. It takes up the entire third floor, with fiction and other non essential volumes found across the shelves of many of the members rooms on other floors.

The first member whose private collection was to form the core of the original library, who willed a portion of their collection to the society upon their death, was William Sharp, former Golden Dawn member and founder of the Celtic Society. After his collection was sorted other members began to add works, then as members passed on it became a custom for their private libraries to be donated to the society.

By the end of the second World War a librarian had been employed as part of the staff trust. Initially just a job of sorting and keeping records it has evolved into a more curatorial role as the members who donate their collections often have a great overlap in their private libraries' holdings and there is only so much space on the third floor.

Works from the library can not be removed from the building. Anyone attempting to do so is banned without recourse. They may be taken to the members rooms but must be signed out at the time, though signing out is on an honors system of a paper list on a clipboard near the library door. In the history of the society a book has never gone missing.

The holdings of the library are much of what you would expect, rare volumes, original manuscripts. The society holds the personal papers and effects of several of its former members. Possibly my favorite object in the library, though in no way occult, is a stack of love letters written between botanist and writer Edith Wheelwright and Beatrix Potter in the late 1920s. An eloquent longing preserved in a private way that will never be seen by public eyes. The two women's handwriting alone makes one ache with decadence.

+++

The gentleman who primarily works behind the bar is an eloquent older Italian who speaks a dozen languages in passing and can read one's tarot on a rainy day. He makes a distinguished espresso as well.

I have long attempted to get him to stock some pastries at the bar but he refuses, serving only liquids hot and cold. On days where I am holed up in one of the rooms I often pop around the corner to an unremarkable ramen noodle shop. A tiny place decorated in a trendy colourful style but a passing bowl of noodles if one knows how to order.

I was able, sometime after a year or so of being a key holder, to insist that the bar stock my preferred bourbon. Though I had to personally supply the first few bottles kept behind the counter they eventually began to replenish themselves.

I do run into friends who are also members occasionally on the stairs, though more often I am in the building to meet them directly during daylight hours. The hours I generally keep tend to be late, and while there are others who frequent the society at similarly nocturnal intervals, like myself, they keep to themselves and their business.

It will be a shame to have to hand in my key in the coming month, I will be unable to spend as much time as I would have liked here in this comfortable late 19th century chair, whose time for a reupholstering was ages since, and to look out of the window on the landing outside of the library, where no one ever passes by below regardless of the time of day, and the park across the way from the building seems to go unnoticed to anyone but the squirrels.

Perhaps London will lure me back one day, after the plague and the war have passed? Previous members in good standing are always welcome to return if they find themselves living full time in London again. In the meantime I drink a final espresso or two from Silvio, taking the bourbon with me, and spend some time in the library saying my goodbyes.

[solkraka]

excerpt from On Art // A Hero in Flight

Understanding heroes enables us to understand those aspects of ourselves we agree with most. We tend to ask children what their favourite heroes are, but the qualities of those heroes we idolise as children tend to be those to which we aspire as we grow. This has been the case throughout history; Gilgamesh inspired who knows how many lads to strive towards displaying magnificent feats of strength, Odysseus towards cunning and ingenuity. Tristan and Isolde, with their unyielding love, inspired how many burgeoning couples; how many generations of people were galvanised into adhering to their moral and spiritual law after reading of Moses?

The names and contexts of heroes changes with our understanding of ourselves as a whole – and yet, the hero as the embodiment of our greatest selves remains, a perpetual adaptation. One of the ways in which heroes carry our aspirations is in their ability to fly when we cannot innately do so. Superman speeds his way through the skies in the span of heartbeats; Spider-Man slings his way through a city with (most of the time) grace. Even those who cannot fly innately have their ways of ascending, even if for brief moments: Iron Man has his engineered suits, while the Batman can shoot his way into the sky. Therein lies a nuance of our heroes, then: the way heroes fly indicates something about them, and thus about those who enjoy them.

What started as mere leaps and bounds for Superman evolved eventually into a continuous and autonomous flight. He has become powerful enough to not only outrun and outleap every person on the planet, but to sustainably defy gravity itself. In many ways, it’s more than that. From a practical sense, the best way to explain Superman’s flight is to say that he carries his own gravity relative to himself, which explains his ability to hover, rather than merely leap and descend. Gravity is the weakest of the greatest forces in the cosmos, bending even light to its will – and yet, unlike us, Superman is able to defy it on a whim, enabling him to fly through space, to hover above a city, to catch a crashing plane.

What might be equally fascinating are the implications of Superman’s form when he flies. If you were to don a kid in a cape and ask them to fly as Superman does, they would more than likely extend their fists over the head and zoom onwards. This gesture, throwing up one’s hands in an exhilarating moment, with the feeling of the wind soaring past you, is identical to that of those who have, despite the odds, garnered victory. This in itself seems meaningless; Superman, of all people, deserves to throw up his arms in the sign of victory, for that’s what he does, time and time again. But it is more than that. It’s the fact that emblazoned upon Superman’s chest is – to humans – merely an S, encased in a pentagon; to Superman, however, to the species from which he originates, it is the crest of a family dedicated to hope. That is what people see when Superman flies over them, a victorious symbol of hope. Think of all that makes Superman the superhero he is: his durability, his dependability, his strength – not merely physical, but mental, spiritual.

The embodiment of hope is this durable, potent, impossible, and yet-so-grounded person, this person who is willing to do everything in his power to stop those who literally walk beneath him as he soars to save them from another danger. Until he revealed it recently, no one realised he was just a reporter from a decent newspaper, who was raised in a small country town. He made anyone capable of donning the cape; he is a universal hero. Anyone could be the man saving a skyscraper full of people from a fiery death; anyone could be the man who saved the world. Anyone could be the man who flew. In this way, anyone could be the person to whom they looked up and knew, though something was wrong, it would soon be right again.

The same goes for Spider-Man: all that anyone knew of him was that he was a man, strong and dextrous and lithe, who zipped through the skies and helped anyone who needed it. It is not solely his anonymity which makes Spider-Man so relatable, nor just his quips and snarkiness, but his evident humanity. People have seen him hurt, seen him bleeding, seen his mask torn, his limping gait. There is always the scene from the second Raimi film to recall, when those aboard the train, shocked to find out how young Spider-Man is, make themselves a barrier between the unconscious hero and the villain pursuing him. Even Spider-Man’s tagline shows how close he is to the rest of us – he’s just our friendly neighbourhood superhero, helping people in his spare time. Not because he’s beholden to help others; he does so because he can. He has the ability to do so, and so he does; and, if he can, then why can’t we also help others when we are able?

The way Spider-Man flies originally was an innate aspect of his: he could project web from his wrists. In recent years that was rendered to a web-shooter he wore upon his wrist, but in both cases his webs were triggered by pressing his middle and ring fingers to a pad near the base of his palm. For those unfamiliar, it might not strike as an interesting gesture, but for those who recognise American Sign Language, this is quite the way to fly. Spider-Man flies with a sentence: “I love you.” Examining this closer, we see that it’s through love Spider-Man connects with people – he can use his webbing to bind, to silence, to save, to leave messages. He also uses it to venture from place to place, to avoid obstacles.

Without things that reach towards the sky – whether organically, such as trees, or manmade, such as buildings – Spider-Man loses much of his effectiveness in transport. And sometimes, once he started relying on web-shooters rather than matter within himself, he runs out of that connective tissue, and is no longer able to fly as freely as he can with his webbing. From this we can gather that, while Spider-Man flies with love, if he overextends it, or is without aspirational assistance, even he is left to walk with the rest of us. And though there are other assets of his which have him stand out from a crowd – his strength, durability, ingenuity – these are not what immediately set him apart. Upon the ground, he is still capable of being hurt by all the things that could hurt everyone else.

And, just like everyone else, Spider-Man is well-acquainted with taking the bus, with walking the sidewalks. This cannot be said for those like Iron Man nor the Batman, both of whom are constantly set apart from those they seek to help. Both of these rely upon their ingenuity – the former excels in engineering and physics whereas the latter in strategy – but they also rely upon their astounding wealth to fix their problems. Without the budget either of them have access to, they would not be able to be quite the heroes they are. Iron Man, for example, were he not the extremely rich man he is, would likely find himself limited by the constraints of his wallet, rather than those of his imagination. And the Batman, were he not able to surreptitiously acquire those technologies and gadgets that his inherited company allows, would still be a strategist and fighter of great prowess, sure, but in the city of Gotham, where the divide between haves and have-nots is rigid and immense, how many times would he have died due to a lack of the proper armour and medical technologies?

This is not to say that Iron Man and the Batman aren’t heroes – though it must be mentioned that the latter is much most befitting the antihero, vigilante subset than otherwise – or are somehow lesser in magnitude than Spider-Man and Superman, but to point out the significance in how these humans without innate powers still manage to fly, and what that looks like.

Iron Man uses a propulsion system generated first by the power of his core (which is keeping his heart alive), and later on by an external core. Iron Man has a vast intellect, aside of his resources, and has shown that, in a pinch, he is able to engineer absolute marvels. And the way he flies emanates this: he launches himself through the air, continuously pushing on and onwards, requiring high amounts of energy to do so; he can continuously expend this energy, and increases the efficiency of his suit beyond physics as we understand it. He pushes himself to meet the limit of his imagination – and then pushes further. He is chronically tinkering with his suits, trying to make them – and, likely, himself – better than every previous iteration. He relies on software he’s developed to help with this, to catch things he may not pay attention to, to understand things he might not, to spot trends he has suspicions about but needed verified. Iron Man, rather than hope or love, flies with progression, with the yearning to manufacture better things.

The Batman still has both his tenacity and incredible foresight, and has shown repeatedly that he is capable of standing against all kinds of villainy, with or without access to his gear. But the Batman does not fly to remain in the air; he flies to descend, so that he might see a target better or gain access from a place unforeseen. He relies on his grappling hook to reach high places, where he may perch until it is time to fall upon his prey. And he is always falling, an aspect he prepares for with his cape. He is one who cannot fly, and he has no pretences about it. Considering his style, how this meshes with his archetype, one must realise that the Batman is not one who would fly. Socially, he comes from a place of privilege, from somewhere there is no reason to fly; he has reached the pinnacle of the social classes in Gotham and has no reason to spread his wings. More than that, though, the villains of Gotham are cast as insane, and as severely mentally ill; the Batman comes from a place of relative moral upstanding.

Though he is lost in his grief and driven by his need to make the world one his father would enjoy, though he has severe PTSD and anxiety (and likely paranoia), he has not turned to the dark side in ways of many of his rogues gallery. Yet, because of his own closeness to the madness of those he stalks at night, he is unwaveringly vicious in his handling of them. Of the aforementioned, he has the least restraint when it comes to dispelling crime, stopping only at the line of murder. But the Batman always descends to their level, always meanders the pathways of his rogues’ minds. To understand them better, sure, but in many ways as an effort to distinguish himself from them. It is vital to note, however, that the Batman may descend, but it is always with the goal of dragging himself from the depths and returning to his roost – and that difference, between himself and some of his peers, is all the difference.

[yamisnuffles]

Just For Two

Some tooth rotting fluff, set in the post-apocalypse.

Read on Ao3

- - - - -

As near as Crowley could tell, London had been transformed into a snow globe. Large, heavy flakes drifted lazily down to coat every surface in downy layers of white. As a result, the sort of silence that could only come with a good snow had blanketed the city. It was idyllic. Perfect. Too perfect, really, and Crowley was inclined to believe a certain angel had a hand in it. A suspicion that was strengthened by the fact that said angel had used it as an excuse to close the shop for the entire day, claiming no one would want to be out in such weather.

Judging by the figures that passed the windows all day long, plenty of people actually wanted to be out in that weather. And why not? The sidewalks in Soho were all miraculously ice free, the roads were clear, and despite the snow, the sun was shining most of the day. If ever there was a day to get out and enjoy the winter weather, this was it. Not that Crowley was inclined to point out that fact. He disliked the snow as a rule and the shop being closed meant the door wouldn’t be opening at all hours, letting in the cold. Better yet, it meant he got Aziraphale all to himself.

The angel was currently puttering about the shop, setting his collection into whatever new diabolical order he’d devised and taking his time about it. He picked up one book at a time, drummed its spine thoughtfully in tune to something he was humming, and then ferried it to a new locale with a swing in his step. He’d made a mug of cocoa after the sun had set but had promptly forgotten about it. It had since become Crowley’s charge, and the demon kept it warm in his hands through a minor miracle. In return, the mug warmed him as he sat sprawled on the couch, watching Aziraphale come and go.

Crowley felt peace like he hadn't since… since… well it didn't really matter. Before . And he'd been feeling it a lot recently, more than he had any right to. He'd be damned if he was about to ruin it by worrying if he had any right to feel a certain way. Well, he'd be damned either way, so all the more reason to enjoy himself regardless.

Aziraphale made his way back to his desk and flapped his hands a bit for want of something that wasn’t there. Crowley’s lips pulled back slowly into a smile.

“Looking for this, angel?”

Aziraphale turned. “Hmm? Oh, yes.” His eyes lit up at the sight of the wispy steam rising from the mug in Crowley’s hands. “And you kept it warm for me. Thank you, my dear.”

Aziraphale reached out to receive the mug but Crowley drew it closer to himself instead. “Ah-ah. I’ve been at this for hours. If not for me, you’d have a cold cup of chocolatey sludge waiting for you. I think I’ve earned a toll.”

Crowley quite liked cocoa. He had a sweet tooth, if he was honest about it, but as a demon it wouldn’t do to admit to such a thing. So instead, he used excuses such as these to get a sip. Only, this time, it would seem Aziraphale had a different idea. At the same time Crowley had lifted the mug to his mouth, the angel had bent toward him. Crowley’s eyebrows lifted high on his forehead while pink blossomed over Aziraphale’s cheeks.

“My- my mistake,” Aziraphale stammered. “When you said- well I thought- don’t I look the fool. I’ll just-”

Crowley instantly banished the cocoa from his hands and back to the desk where it belonged. Before the angel could shuffle off in embarrassment, he caught Azirphale’s wrist and pulled him in for a kiss. Aziraphale’s lips were comparatively cold against Crowley’s cocoa warmed ones and the sensation sent a shiver down his spine. They melted as one into the kiss, Crowley lifting slightly off the couch to meet Aziraphale as he stooped down to get better access to the demon. Aziraphale licked along the crease of Crowley’s lips and the demon happily allowed him entry. The angel’s tongue against his own was sweeter than any cocoa. A happy sound escaped from between their lips and it was impossible to tell the source.

Aziraphale pulled back suddenly and licked his lips, which had curled into a wicked grin. “The cocoa does taste good. I’d hate for it to go to waste after all your hard work.”

Crowley let out a sharp bark of a laugh. He waved his hand at the mug. “Yeah, go ahead. Wouldn’t want it getting cold.”

Aziraphale’s smile brightened and he wiggled as he gathered the mug up into his hands. He’d only taken a single long sip, though, when he put it back down on his desk.

“What? It’s not cold already, is it?”

“No, you’ve kept it just the right temperature.”

“Then what?” Crowley sat forward. “Not as good when you’re not tasting it inside my mouth?”

Crowley was rewarded with a deeper blush and yet another  small wiggle. “Well, I can’t disagree with that,” Aziraphale replied, “But there was, you see, it was just something else I’d been considering for a while. I’m not sure why it struck me again just now and it’s not terribly important. I’m not even sure it’s something you would enjoy but I couldn’t help but hope-”

“Angel, spit it out already. Trust me, if it’s something you think you’d enjoy, I probably would as well.”

“That’s not true! You scoff at the idea of reading with me. You barely ever have more than a bite to eat yourself when we go out. You cringe whenever I so much as suggest the idea of doing magic. And-”

“Alright, alright, alright.” Crowley wouldn’t mention how much he actually enjoyed all those things, even the silly magic tricks. He might not enjoy them himself- or might, in the case of reading, say he didn’t enjoy them- but there was little in this world he liked more than watching Aziraphale indulge himself. Actually, it was probably his favorite thing. Not that he could go and say something like that aloud. “Why don’t you try me instead of deciding right out I won’t like it?”

“Yes, I suppose I ought to do that.” Aziraphale fiddled with the bottom hem of his waistcoat and kept his eyes rather pointedly on his feet. “I’ve been working up how to ask you all day. Is this the right atmosphere? Should I put on music? All rather silly when I think about it now.”

“Aziraphale…”

“Right. Um…” The angel tipped his gaze upward again and unleashed The Look . It didn’t matter what he asked, chances were Crowley was going to agree. “Would you dance with me?”

All that hemming for that. Crowley’s heart squeezed with fondness for the silly angel. He got to his feet and took Aziraphale’s hands in his own. “Of course,” he said with a soft smile.

“You… just like that? You made such a fuss when I tried to get you to try the gavotte.”

Crowley jokingly withdrew his hands. “You didn’t say anything about the gavotte. Last time you tried to show me the gavotte, I nearly ended up with a bookshelf toppling over on me.”

Aziraphale put his hands on his hips and pursed his lips. “That’s because it’s not meant to be done alone. I was- I was flustered by trying it without any partners. But that’s not what I intended for tonight.” He took a decisive step forward, grabbed one of Crowley’s hands and placed the other on the small of his back. “No steps for me. None of your ridiculous… gyrating. Just dance with me.”

“Yes.” Crowley swallowed hard and forced his voice lower, cool and casual. “I mean… yeah.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. Literally glowed happily in response, lighting up his smile, his eyes, and Crowley’s heart in the process.

Angels didn’t dance as a rule, and while Aziraphale might have flouted that rule in a discreet gentleman’s club once upon a time, he’d been right in pointing out that the steps had been the key. Without clear cut rules to follow, he floundered. Crowley, meanwhile, might taunt the angel by saying demons knew how to cut loose, that didn’t mean they were any good at it. Oh, Crowley still enjoyed himself immensely but even ‘gyrating’ was probably a more graceful descriptor than he deserved. But in that moment, none of that mattered.

Their first few steps were immensely clumsy. Toes were promptly crushed and legs tangled. Aziraphale snapped directions, as though he knew better because of course he thought he did. Meanwhile, Crowley couldn’t help but snipe and snark in response. They managed to knock knees and nearly toppled when they both tried to overcorrect. Rather than fall, they crashed together. And just like that, any bitter feelings dissolved and they laughed.

It was self conscious, as they both realized what fools they were being, and then joyous because after that it worked. An angel who wasn’t supposed to dance and a demon who couldn’t claim to have ever done so well, danced together and it was beautiful. There was nothing extravagant about it. Probably most outside observers would have scoffed. Crowley, though, was delighted. They balanced each other and moved far better together than they ever did alone, the way they always, impossibly, had.

Aziraphale leaned in, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder. The demon pressed his cheek against a crown of downy curls so that he could feel the slight vibrations as Aziraphale started to hum again. It was a pleasant sensation, even if it meant they were left more shuffling about than dancing at that point.

Crowley would have liked to stay that way forever but he’d never been one to leave a question be when it occurred to him. “Why now?”

Aziraphale stopped humming and from the corner of his eye, Crowley could see long lashes flutter. “What?”

“Why after six thousand years did you decide today was the day?”

“No reason, really. Only, like you said, it’s been six thousand years and when the thought came to me as it sometimes does, I thought, ‘Why wait more?’ There’s no reason not to do whatever we please, now that we’re on our own side.”

Crowley tugged Aziraphale into a tight embrace and then reluctantly loosened his grip because it made it impossible to dance. “If we’re playing catch up on everything we couldn’t do before-”

He pulled back further so that he could look Aziraphale in the eyes, enjoy their happy sparkle, and then tilted his head to plant a reverent kiss on the angel’s lips. It was enough that Aziraphale’s feet stopped moving and Crowley had to nudge him back into action.

Aziraphale smiled the small, smitten smile that he saved just for Crowley. “Please don’t imagine that I’m complaining, dearest, but we’ve definitely done that before.”

“Sure, but I’ve still got a lot to go if I want to catch up on all the times I wanted to do that but couldn’t.”

Aziraphale chuckled softly. He leaned his head back on the demon’s shoulder with a sigh. “If that’s how it is, then I hope you enjoy dancing because we’ll be doing this far more often.”

Crowley huffed a laugh of his own. “I think I’ll manage. Maybe we’ll even get all fancied up sometime, do it somewhere nice.”

“Perhaps.” Aziraphale shifted. His nose nuzzled against Crowley’s neck, just above the pulse that the demon didn’t need but that sung of his love in place of other music. “For now, this is perfect.”

They were rocking back and forth, little more, but Aziraphale was right. Crowley pressed a kiss to the angel’s temple. “Perfect,” he agreed.

[sweetiepie08]

Rebel Z (Chapter 1)

Invader Zim fanfic

While analyzing Zim’s PAK for weaknesses, Tak discovers strange coding that sends her on a search for answers. The clues lead her to uncover a conspiracy that governs all of Irken society. When the truth sends her on the run, she has no choice but to return to the one place the Tallest would never willingly go: Urth.

Meanwhile, Dib has noticed odd changes in Zim’s behavior. Has the invader simply grown bored of his mission over the last few years, or is there something more interesting going on?

People who asked to be tagged: @incorrect-invader-zim , @messinwitheddie, @reblogstupids, @cate-r-gunn

If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list please let me know.

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3.  Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6.  Chapter 7.  Chapter 8.  Chapter 9. 

[-]

Tak sat on the sidewalk, leaning against Zim’s fence and making sure she stayed out of sight from the security cameras. Her fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the top of the gift box by her side. She kept her eyes trained on the street, waiting for the SIR unit to arrive home.

It’d been years since she first came to Urth and tried to snatch the planet out from under that undeserving worm. She told herself it was nothing personal. The Irken Elite didn’t get caught up in petty personal vendettas. It was about proving her herself worthy as an invader and proving Zim unfit for even a fake mission. She’d lied to herself then. Not anymore.

She made a few more attempts over the years. Each time Zim and those meddlesome humans thwarted her. Every failure ended with her going off-planet to regroup and examine where she went wrong. After so many defeats, she finally had to admit to herself this was personal. This was about Zim and her fatal flaw was underestimating him.

A whistled tune caught her antenna and she looked up to see Zim’s SIR unit, called GIR, walking toward the base. He was dressed in his dog costume and he carried a bag of groceries. She stood up and put on a fake smile as the robot skipped its way over.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice gratingly sweet. “Aren’t you Zim’s SIR unit?”

“Hellooo…” Gir sing-songed in reply.

“Listen, I know Zim and I haven’t had the best relationship and I wanted to make it up to him. I got him this present to say sorry for all the times I tried to ruin his mission. Could you make sure he gets it? There’s a jumbo bag of gummy bears in it for you.”

“Okie-dokie!” The head of GIR’s costume opened up and a claw arm flew out of his head. It snatched the gift box and drew it back inside his head’s storage compartment. He then gave her a little wave and scampered into the house.

Once he was inside, Tak got down and army-crawled to the base’s window, careful not to set off any motion sensors. As she peered inside, she could see Zim, sitting on the couch, looking over something on an Irken computing tablet.

“GIR, good, you’re home,” he said, not looking up from his work. “I’ve just finished drawing up the plans for-”

“I got a present for you!” GIR squealed as the gift box popped out of his head.

“Eh? A gift for Zim?”

GIR nodded vigorously.

“Huh.” Zim set aside the tablet and slid off the couch. “Well, thank you GIR,” he said, picking up the box. “Wait, this isn’t full of moldy tacos again, is it?”

GIR shrugged “I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

GIR shook his head.

“This isn’t from you?”

GIR shook again.

Zim narrowed his eyes and examined the box. He gave it a light shake and placed an antenna on it to listen. Finally, he looked at the tag.

TAk smiled. She could imagine his heart dropping as he read the words.

“Night-night? Tak?” Zim threw the box on the ground. “Computer! Activate defensive maneuver number-”

Before he could finish, MiMi jumped out of the box holding an electrified shocking fork. She jabbed it into his neck. Electricity coursed through his body and he fell to the floor in a heap.

“Master?” GIR gave Zim a poke.

MiMi swept to the door and let Tak in. Once inside, she disabled her human disguise. “He’s napping,” she said, dropping a large bag of Urth candy at GIR’s feet. “Here’s your gummy bears. I’ll take him downstairs to rest.”

The SIR unit began gleefully digging through the bag as Tak grabbed Zim’s ankle and dragged him to the kitchen. MiMi followed close behind. They took the elevator down to the base’s main computer lab and walked over to the control panel. She stuck Zim’s body in the control seat and plugged in his PAK. The computer lit up, showing a log-in screen. She placed Zim’s hand on the identification pad and, just like that, she gained access to the computer network.

“MiMi, restrain him.”

Her SIR until gave a solute, then pulled a roll of duct tape out oh her head and taped Zim down.

Tak turned back to the computer and inserted a programing disc. She grinned as her coding filled the screen. It was her best work yet, a near perfect copy of the Control Brain’s PAK reading system. Only the Massive held such technology. She’d waited three Urth years for this moment. Three years of consorting with shady figures from the back alleys of space. Three years of making deals with backdoor hackers. Three years of trading favors to gain access to the technology she needed. It all lead up to this moment, the moment when she finally learned how to crush Zim once and for all.

MiMi tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned to look, MiMi pointed to Zim and made a slashing motion across her throat.

“No, Mimi, we can’t kill him yet.” It was true. She could easily kill him now while he was vulnerable, but it wouldn’t be satisfying. When she finally claimed her vengeance, she wanted his eyes to be wide open.

The computer dinged, alerting her that the program was ready to run. She turned back to the screen and looked into the wicked eyes of her own reflection. “Alright, let’s see what makes Zim, Zim.”

She swiped her hand across the control panel, opening a starting page. It outlined Zim’s basic information.

Name: Zim

Age: 16.6

Occupation: Food Service Drone

Assignment: Foodcourtia, Banishment.

So far, so good. Now she just had to run the error check simulation. She typed in the command and waited for the program to work its magic. When it finished, the alert sound blared and the word DEFECTIVE flashed across the screen in big, red letters.

“Hmmm… No surprise there, MiMi, but I need more. Let’s get more specific.”

She typed in a few more commands and the screen showed her a list of all of Zim’s defective areas broken down by category. The list was long, too long to go over before Zim woke. Two categories caught her eye: PAK Installations and Irken Traits. These two seemed curious. She opened the file for PAK Installations first. A list popped up.

PAK Installations

·        Perseverance: 89342/10

·        Loyalty: 324/10

·        Penchant for destruction: 352301/10

·        Susceptibility to propaganda: 134/10

Tak’s mouth turned downward as she read over the list. Every Irken knew the PAK boosted certain personality traits to ensure successful service to the Empire. However, only the highest-ranking PAK engineers knew what. Some of these were to be expected. Of course, an Irken must persevere in the face of opposition and remain loyal to the Empire. Those were obvious. And she supposed a soldier must be capable of a little destruction. But susceptibility to propaganda?

She switched off the PAK Installations and looked into Irken Traits. Surely this section would reveal enhancements made to the already superior race. Why else would the PAKs monitor their natural Irken inclinations?

Irken Traits

·        Creativity: 3342/0

·        Personal ambition: 3625/0

·        Need for companionship: 334/0

·        Need for affection: 3420/0

·        Sense of individuality: 4280/0

·        Survival instinct: 4406/2

Tak took a step back as she analyzed what this meant. Suspicion crept through her like a parasite and the truth glared down at her from a screen. Irken traits were meant to be blocked? This couldn’t be the norm. There had to be some mistake. Zim was a defective after all. Perhaps these blocks were just part of his defects. Or maybe his PAK was changed after the mess he made of Impending Doom I. Yes, that must be it. The Control Brains must have tried to take away certain skills to prevent further disasters. But if these blocks were deliberate, why didn’t the levels match up? Surely the Control Brain would have caught these errors during re-encoding. And could she even be certain that these blocks were unique to Zim? To be sure, she’d have to compare his results to those of a standard PAK.

Her hand unconsciously reached back and brushed the top of hers. It was the only PAK immediately available. She hadn’t tested the program on herself before. It would have been the smart thing to do, instead of coming all this way without testing it on a real PAK. She told herself that her ship wouldn’t have enough power to generate a full reading, but that wasn’t entirely true. She could have at least attempted a partial reading, just to make sure.  What stopped her?

She unplugged Zim’s PAK and plugged in her own. Her start page appeared on the screen.

                                                                   Name: Tak

                                                                   Age: 16.9

                                                                   Occupation: Janitorial Squad

                                                                   Assignment: Dirt (planet)

She scowled at her demeaning encoding. It should read “invader” or at the very least “Irken Elite.” She had everything they wanted. She excelled at every training. She passed every testing simulation she took. She made herself the best of the best. The final test should have been a mere formality. If not for the idiot taped to the chair behind her, she would be in her rightful place.

She typed in the command for the error check. Yet another formality as far as she was concerned. It was required to view her own stats. An error reading should be impossible. After all, she was everything the empire wanted her to be. She worked, and studied, and molded herself into the shape of a perfect Irken soldier. There was no way she could be…

DEFECTIVE

              The word flashed across the screen in glaring red letters. The alert sound shook her antenna and the light from the screen burned her eyes. Her mouth fell open and her body broke into a sweat. “No! It can’t be!” She must have gone wrong somewhere, made some mistake. It was the software. That was it.  That was the problem, not her PAK.

              You know that’s not true, her own sinister mind whispered back to her. It was right. The PAKs were designed to be completely secure from enemy tampering. A PAK could only be accessed with specific Irken equipment and software. If there was a flaw in her coding, it should not have connected to the PAK at all. The only way for her to even be seeing this word was if her software perfectly imitated that of the Control Brain’s programing.

              She pressed on, swiping straight to the PAK Installations.

PAK Installations

·        Perseverance: 1344/10

·        Loyalty: 10/10

·        Penchant for destruction: 10/10

·        Susceptibility to propaganda: 5/10

So, at least her errors were not as off as Zim’s. Her loyalty and penitent for destruction were at the ideal levels according to the reading. But her susceptibility to propaganda was too low? And perseverance too high? And these were considered errors? Were these not good qualities to have? There was something strange going on here, to be sure.

She swiped over the Irken traits.

Irken Traits

·        Creativity: 3542/0

·        Personal ambition: 5437/0

·        Need for companionship: 23/0

·        Need for affection: 10/0

·        Sense of individuality: 4281/0

·        Individual survival instinct: 4192/2

A smug smile came to her face when she realized her creativity and ambition outmatched Zim’s, but it quickly disappeared when she saw what her ideal levels were. Zeros all around, just like him. According to the reading, she should have no creativity, no ambition, no individuality… She barely even had a survival instinct. She should be nothing. Was this what the Empire really wanted? Just mindless drones?

This wasn’t right. Something deep down in her gut told her so. These characteristics were assets. They were what helped make the Irken race so great. But if Irkens were superior, why were their natural traits being blocked? Something was wrong, very wrong.

Perhaps the problem was in the encoding. She and Zim were technically assigned to menial occupations when they both had the training of the Irken Elite. Their jobs didn’t match their skill-level. Tak was clearly meant for something greater and Zim… Zim was an anomaly all his own.

But even if that was the case, these stats still didn’t make sense. Did a janitor or food service drone not have the right to see themselves as an individual? Did they not deserve the ambition to aspire to something greater? Or to be creative in their assigned professions? And what did a level 2 survival instinct entail, anyway? Just the wherewithal to get out of the way of a crashing ship? Or the ability to look before falling off a cliff? Nothing about this added up.

Still, she only had the data for 2 allegedly defective Irkens of low rank. If she wanted answers, she’d have to look at a PAK which bore a higher rank. Luckily, she knew just where to find one.

“MiMi,” she said, shutting down her program and removing the disc. “We’re leaving.”

MiMi cocked her head to the side and pointed at Zim.

“Leave him for now. Something more important has come up.”

MiMi nodded and followed Tak out of the room.

After a quick raid of Zim’s fuel stores, Tak and MiMi made their way out of the base. They went to the backyard where she parked her ship. She uncloaked it, revealing a grey, outdated, Vortian vessel. It was all she’d been able to acquire since she was forced to eject from her Spittle Runner. Yet another loss she could attribute to Zim. It wasn’t quite up to the standards of modern Irken vehicles, but she’d been able to modify it to run on an Irken operating system. At the very least, it allowed her to blend in both inside and out of Irken controlled space.

As MiMi added fuel to the tank’s ship, Tak climbed inside. “Computer,” she commanded, waking the ship’s A.I.

“Yes Master,” the robotic voice answered.

She’d never bothered to download her personality into the A.I. like she had on the Spittle Runner. It didn’t feel right. Her last ship was her pride and joy. She’d turned that thing from a pile of scrap metal to a vessel capable of outrunning even the latest creations of the Irken military engineers. That ship was worthy of her mark. What she wouldn’t give to have it back.

“Awaiting orders,” the computer reminded her.

MiMi finished fueling and hopped into the cockpit.

“Computer, bring up the coordinates of the last known location of Invader Skoodge.”

[pghroads]

The Beechwood Bumps

So it's been a while!  After I covered most of the main problems that bug me that were created over the last 100 years, the city/state didn't really do anything especially crazy.  Until... The Beechwood Bumps™.

Even though our city has a million fundamental problems with its infrastructure that cause constant gridlock it seems to have turned it's sights in recent years to speeding. I suspect the approach is something like:  

1. Get a 311 call from one or more citizens  

2. Do a traffic study of said area  

3. Implement some solution

This is probably happening all over, but there were two notable projects near where I live in Squirrel Hill.  

First - on Dallas Ave, the city added basically "wiggle poles" in the middle of the street designed to slow down traffic.  

There are of course two things that make these weird 

1. It's on the uphill, where people already go slower   

2. It diverts traffic right into the area where a cyclist would be, huffing and puffing up the hill.  

Finally, they make it quite difficult to turn out of the cross streets with large vehicles, and are easily avoided by people who don't care about lines/laws anyway.  Given the random placement of these I’d bet $100 they got a 311 complaint from someone living on Dallas by Northumberland and Woodwell.

But this post isn't about that - that was just foreshadowing for arguably the most controversial traffic calming project the city has ever implemented, The Beechwood Bumps™.  For this I went beyond my normal lazing ranting, and did some "deep investigation" to understand how this happened.

What am I talking about?  Well, if you haven't been on Beechwood Blvd by the Frick Environmental Center, one day the city added a series of four very large speed humps.  The humps slow traffic from the speed limit of 25 to 15, and have cuts in them for cyclists.  

These humps are unusual for a couple of reasons - first, even though I've driven over 400,000 miles in my life all over the world, I've never seen speed humps in a through road.  They are always on private roads, side roads, cul de sacs etc... This is partly because speed humps on through streets slow emergency vehicles trying to get to where they need to be.  Even more odd, these particular speed humps slow you to BELOW the speed limit.  Third, the cuts in the speed humps allow people to partially avoid them (at the expense of cyclists), and Fourth - before the speed humps I never really considered this a dangerous speeding area, in fact I usually take this road over Shady Ave because it is a slow rolling, relaxing drive with no road rage.

That brings us to the history of Beechwood Blvd.  Beechwood Blvd is a curving scenic road between Schenley Park and Frick Park that was built right at the dawn of the automobile specifically for the purpose of giving these new car owners a place to go for scenic drives - the curves, etc.. are part of the design - it wasn't made for thru traffic as much as just a fun road to drive on.  Of course as the Squirrel Hill area built up, it's now almost entirely lined by residential housing, and the original road has been somewhat chunked up.  Nevertheless Beechwood is still a delightful place for a convertible, motorcycle or bike ride. 

Then the speed humps came - and road rage followed.  People who use Beechwood to commute seem to have a visceral negative reaction to the speed humps, using the bike cuts to avoid it.  Where before I never experienced any road rage - now I get people furiously going around the speed hump and riding my bumper.  Or you get people that practically stop at the speed humps.  Then there is the grey area - police were pulling people over for going into the bike lane to avoid the speed hump, but what rules affect motorcycles, can I use the bike cut or do I need to pop a wheelie over the hump?  The rage isn't just on the road - people took their arguments to NextDoor and Twitter and evidently there is a new public hearing on this due to the outrage (which i cannot find despite my searching, more on this later...).  It's certainly made it a less relaxing road to drive on for a number of reasons.

My main beef is the arbitrary nature of the speed humps - why the single stretch of Beechwood by the low populated Shaw Ave and Darlington Rd?  Especially when the Frick Environmental Center and an Elementary School are right near there, but no speed humps installed by those sites.  So I really wanted to dig into this - was it some councilperson or big donor’s front yard?  Why speed humps?  Why here and not the many other side streets that could use them.

Well - I did a "Right to Know" request (similar to FOIA) around the project after Dan Gilman was responding to wrath of citizens on Twitter.  He mentioned there was a traffic study so I figured sure, let's see this.

From what I could gather in my digging this project happened like this:

1. Between 1-6 citizens complained about speeding by the Frick Environmental Center (the city won't release details on citizen complaints but anecdotally i figured out someone I knew was one of these complaints - so there are indeed real citizens behind this).

2. A traffic study specifically centered on the Frick Environmental Center was commissioned

3. Funding for some of the solutions proposed in the study was secured

4. A public meeting was held around the topic

5. Something roughly 35% of the suggested plan happened 

So what does the traffic study say?  It seems like they put speed monitors on the north and south end of the Frick Environmental Center, and found an average speed of 33.2 and 33 in a 25 mph zone.

33 in a 25.

Otherwise known as basically the speed all traffic goes in most 25 mph zones everywhere (although shoutout the to record setters they found that got to 61 mph).

Okay... so the speeding doesn't seem that bad.  I would guess the average speed in the 25 mph Homestead Grays / High Level bridge is 48mph, so why speed humps here?  

Well - they sent a physical crew out as well, and "observed" that people were hesitant to cross the street at the Environmental Center, and that is basically impossible for people coming from Dallas to get there (oh boy do I know this).  So they suggested putting in crosswalks and fixing the Dallas area so it has sidewalks (currently it has a gap).  It's also worth nothing the only stretch that was slower was to an avg of 29 mph between Darlington and Shaw.  This make sense because the 90 degree turn in the road naturally slows people down.

They also said "look the road is wide, which encourages people to speed", and there were 18 crashes over a 5 year period which resulted in a total of one pedestrian injury, and no major injuries of any crash.

So let's lay out the facts:

1. One to six people complained about the area

2. The study found people go basically the speed they go on all other roads in the city

3. No pedestrian has ever been hurt seriously in the area, and there is average of 3 accidents per year (in a section larger than the study area)

4. A public meeting was announced where only a handful of people attended (I believe the way it was marketed contributed to very low awareness)

5. A plan was implemented which only partially addressed the recommendations

One particular piece of number five was that the original study was around getting access to the environmental center - and the suggested calming was for the north and south sides of the center.  However the north side was never installed, and instead humps were put near Darlington down the street (where the speeds were slower already) - why?  I reached out to a city engineer involved in the project and it turns out a speed hump on the north side of the FEC would affect the Great Race, so since they had the funds they put it at Darlington because they also felt it was hard for people coming off Darlington to get onto Beechwood - but take a look how many people that affects, around 12.

So I'm still not clear why the city decided to put speed humps here - it seems like they took the concerns of a few people over the 6,000 cars who drive this stretch every day.  

What's the problem you might say - people should slow down!  Okay - well why not put speed humps on every single stretch of every road in Pittsburgh?  Clearly that would be ridiculous.  Why this part?  Maybe the city has a list of all of the major speed danger areas in the cities and is rolling out a ton of these, but I live right near this area and it wouldn't even have made my top 10.

I personally believe these speed humps should be removed - through roads should not have speed humps.  These are not major crossing areas for pedestrians - there seemed to be no study of the potential number of pedestrians that would be impacted.  Even with the speed humps, I've still never seen someone crossing here.  

It would be great if the city had a public record of total complaints of various areas to create transparency here.  I have a hard time believing this is the number one problem area - people FLY down Ayelsboro, which is not meant as a through street, thanks to Google Maps.  People FLY down many of our other roads including Wilkins, etc...  The solution can't be to put speed humps everywhere. 

UPDATE - wow right before I posted this the city doubled down on this madness and added more poles leading up to the humps, that require you to slow down and slalom, creating a totally ugly mess of this once beautiful, scenic road.  I think they might have done this because the speed hump crossing isn’t at the actual pedestrian crossing for some reason?  (Measure twice, build a speed thing once?) The city has to be trolling us now, right?

[profbruce]

Jeff Speck on how to make your town more walkable

Noted urbanist and planner Jeff Speck shares his views on how to create a more walkable city.

Points covered include:

-Euclidean zoning (separation of uses) started by moving housing away from dirty soot-producing mills with the result that life expectancy immediately improved… (the one and only success of urban planners, Ed)

-large areas of single uses guarantee you will not have a walkable city because nothing is near anything…

-new urbanism—means creating traditional neighborhoods are walkable versus suburban sprawl, streets don’t connect so a few roadways get all the traffic and become congested

–also, we super size schools and playgrounds so every kid has to be taken there in a car; can’t even bike (safely) there

-to develop a walkable place, you can’t start with the bones of a suburb made for cars with mono cultured zones and overloaded collector roads connected by multi-lane freeways

-if you want that suburban home on a street that looks like this (see below left), Jeff says, then be prepared for its companion (on the right):

-the above is guaranteed to produce absurd results like from these non-photo shopped pics:

-mono use suburbs like the one on the left (below) generate sprawl while a neo-urbanist MIXED-USE neighborhood model looks the one on the right—

-perfectly walkable cities require transit so folks can access the entire conurbation by “walking” instead of buying a car

-block size must be 200-feet long (Portland Oregon, left hand side) not 600-feet long (Salt Lake City) for your town to be walkable… 200-foot blocks generate a two lane city; 600-feet means you’ll need six lanes to accommodate car traffic because it’s basically unwalakble

-when you double block size, you nearly quadruple fatal accidents—people simply drive faster on wider streets

-when we widen streets and lengthen blocks and make towns less walkable, you increase car trips in a form of “induced demand” so no matter how big our roadways are constructed, they will always fill up with more traffic because extra marginal trips become more feasible or, for example, it becomes possible to move even further away from work… it’s a downward spiral

-on the other hand, congestion limits demand

-2 lanes can handle 10,000 vpd so many 4-lane roadways can be redesigned and narrowed to make them more walkable without negatively impacting on the ability to move car traffic (see left hand side (existing condition) and Jeff’s redesign on the right-hand side):

-so, an overwide street like this in Oklahoma City:

becomes:

-makes room for more on-street parking (which protects the curb and sidewalks pedestrians from tons of fast-moving metal) and bike lanes too

-note, curbside trees also slow down cars 😊

-people like animals are drawn to places with good edges; ie, the public room must be contained

-must develop streetscapes where signs of humanity are abundant to create a truly walkable neighborhood; people need to be with people and be able to see people to feel conformable.

Prof Bruce

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[miairviin]

Icb liebe dich, Berlin

Happy Belated Valentine’s Day to all! Yesterday was the start of my second intra-European adventure: Berlin, Germany!

I arrived later last night and met up with a couple of my friends from Greece who had arrived earlier that day. After successfully navigating Berlin’s public transportation system, we headed to the hostel. From there, we went just a few doors down to a restaurant called Aufsturz for some authentic German food. My first meal was jägerschnitzel and Berlin truly came out swinging in regard to its culinary wonders. The jägerschnitzel was thin breaded pork with a mushroom cream sauce over a bed of German noodles. It was the perfect meal for someone who had just gotten off of an airplane.

The next day, the four other girls who came to Berlin with me woke up at 9 am for a free walking tour the hostel helped set up for us and some of its other guests. We began our tour in the city center of Mitte at the beautiful Brandenburg Gate, a place I had been looking forward to visiting since I first booked my flight. This gate has had a very long and very tumultuous past. It has come to represent a changing Berlin. The gate was one of many just like it, and they were all commissioned by the Prussian King Frederick William the II in an attempt to make Berlin “the Athens along the spree.” This explains why so there are so many elements of Greek architecture throughout the city. There have been two world wars, including Hitler’s dictatorship, bombings, battles, and political demonstrations galore. All of the other gates have since collapsed, but not the Brandenburg Gate. Though it has undergone a few alterations, the Brandenburg Gate stands tall, a symbol of pride and resilience which has come to define Berlin.

Our next stop was the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. I knew that Berlin was a city that was rich in history, but I was not prepared for the beautiful ambiguity of this particular site. The artist who designed the memorial refused to give an explanation as to what the meaning of the 2,711 cement blocks of varying heights set up in a grid could be. In fact, the memorial takes up an entire city block downtown. That is how much importance the German government has placed on educating the world on its history. Our tour guide encouraged us to walk through and draw our own conclusions, to decide what message it was trying to send to us. As I meandered through the blocks, I felt so many different things. The blocks began short, just below my waist. There was even a humble bouquet of flowers resting on one of the first few blocks a visitor must have left. But within a few seconds, the blocks were high above my head and I could not see to my left or to my right, only forward. You were always visible from the outside of the memorial to the passing foot traffic, but in the memorial I felt anxious. Within a few minutes, I lost my group and it was just me and the seemingly endless rows of cement blocks. Though terrifying and at times frustrating, this really gave me time to consider my tour guide’s challenge to decipher the meaning for ourselves. I decided that the memorial was trying to tell us about the Jewish people during the Holocaust. Even if the lesson only lasted a few minutes and came nowhere near the intensity of the real Jewish experience. Much like the memorial’s blocks did not begin tall, the Holocaust did not happen over night. It was a gradual process of dehumanization beginning with boycotting jewish shops and ending with genocide. Though at times it felt like the Jewish struggle was invisible, it wasn’t. Other Germans knew, other countries knew, and other people knew of the atrocities being committed against the Jewish people and yet no one ventured into the grid to help. When you’re in the memorial, it’s easy to get lost, to lose your friends, to lose your bearings, to feel anxious. I cannot pretend I am able to even imagine the anxiety and fear that was felt by sisters separated from brothers, children from parents, and wives from husbands during this incredibly dark and irrationally evil time period. Our tour guide added to my analysis by saying that there was a quote describing the Holocaust as a bureaucratic duty rather than a truly insidious endeavor carried out by insidious people. Perhaps it is harder to rationalize this idea of someone being so brainwashed by their government they are willing to sentence millions to death in the name of patriotism. Either way, I felt as though it was an interesting point to include, especially in today’s growing political unrest. The memorial is just one of the many ways Berlin has refused to let its dark past define the city. Rather, history is embraced alongside the present and the two combine to form the ever changing Berlin.

Our next stop was a perfect example of how Berlin has handpicked what history it has decided to preserve and what to ignore. In a humble car park, about eight meters below our feet was the bunker where Hitler killed himself after realizing the war was lost. Just outside the bunker, children and old men fought to protect a dying Germany but not because they still believed in it; because they were literally fighting for their lives. Conversely, Hitler, who was on a wild cocktail of drugs, was busy committing suicide because he knew, like everyone else, the Germany he was fighting for was long gone. It was interesting to see the Berlin reaction to dealing with this bunker was to turn it into a functional space: a car park. Again, this is one way Berlin has selected the history they want to breathe life into and remember forever versus the history that deserves nothing from us. If not nothing, than a car park.

We continued on to places like Checkpoint Charlie, where West Berliners were eventually granted access to the East. There was a part of the Berlin Wall standing outside a cafe we stopped at. Berlin has a subtle tribute to the old wall in the form of a narrow strip of cobblestones running across the city along the same line where the Berlin Wall once stood. Another example of a memorial in plain sight are the golden stumbling stones that make appearances all over Germany. These stumbling stones became a part of Berlin when a citizen independently began installing golden plaques in between cobble stones on the sidewalk. The stones are meant to signify the last known residence of Jewish families that were taken away during the Holocaust. Each stone is engraved with a name, a year of birth, and if known and applicable, the location and year of their death. The head rabbi of Munich refused the installment of these stumbling stones. Her rationale is that people will step on them and that would be incredibly disrespectful. Our tour guide offered the interpretation that they force you to stop, and bow your head to not only to read the information on the stone, but also in reverence. It’s chilling and disorienting to think that today I was walking the same street as someone who decades ago, was being torn from a life they knew intimately and thrust into a world of terror and uncertainty. It’s impossible. Absolutely impossible.

We ended our tour, and stopped in for some more authentic German food. I dined on a sausage in curry ketchup and for dessert, apple strudel, a Berlin experience just as high on my list as the Brandenburg Gate. It was DELIGHTFUL. The cream was sweet, the apples were crisp, and the dough was soft. I know I will think of that dessert often. I can only hope I can find something like it back home when I return to the states.

We ended our night with a stroll along the East Side Gallery which displays murals commenting on social and political themes on what was once the east side of the wall. If it wasn’t for the cold, I could have spent hours walking along this open-air art gallery. Each mural had so much to say, and I felt so lucky to listen to whatever message the artist was trying to deliver. I also felt grateful they were able to share it with me. For so long, east Berlin had been subjected to communist rule where any misstep outside the party norms could mean death. Here, artists were able to express so many things from love to the disdain of racism to history to female empowerment to intersectionality to the need for environmental consciousness. The East Side Gallery had no shortage of conversation pieces or thought provoking images.

I close this entry with icb liebe dich, Berlin because there are no other words. I love you, Berlin is the only thing on my mind as I write this. The energy of the city is so youthful, so vibrant, so bold. Just like it’s food, people, architecture, and history. The energy is tangible here, racing through the streets like a pulse and heartbeat. Everyone seems to be moving, but moving towards something great importance. There’s a purpose. They’re here for a reason. I cannot wait to see what tomorrow brings in this truly mythical place.

[igshar]

Chapter 0 - Amelia Brandt

The first chapter of my novel! Because I love the 70 people who follow me still even though I never ever post anything lmao. You guys are the best, so have a free sample of the first meeting of Amelia and Lucille and all the weirdness that surrounds such things.

The cylinder of a six-shot revolver broke open, shattering the silence of the evening as two emerald eyes checked the bullets loaded into the weapon: three were forged of dead-man’s blood and the others glowed a subtle shade of blue. Her feet clacked along down the sidewalk, boots falling heavy on the concrete. The night was dark; the moon a thin sliver in the sky. She spun the cylinder and clicked it shut, testing her aim as she walked. A twig cracked behind her and she wheeled about, aiming the weapon dead ahead, steady despite the sweat beading on her forehead. She could see nothing in the dim lights of the streetlamps, not even beneath that one that flickered half a block down. She dropped her arms and turned back to walk forward, further. “Where are you, Greg?” she mumbled under her breath, eyes scanning the area. Drumming her right hand’s fingers on her hip, she spun the gun in her other hand and holstered it, dropping thumbs to hang on her gun belt. A heavy groan escaped her lips and she looked skyward, watching the clouds float to cover up the waning crescent. She plucked her phone from the front pocket of her jacket and woke it up, staring at the blaring digits, indicating it had been two hours since the phone call saying to meet him here in ninety minutes. “Irritating,” she said, shutting off her phone screen and dropping it back home.

When she looked back up, she found herself staring down a man in a hooded sweatshirt, walking straight toward her. She blinked and waved, “Hey, is that you, Greg?”

The figure sped up, walking a bit faster. She took a step back, pulled out her gun, and aimed. “Stop right there, cocksucker! I’m not afraid to shoot!” Her static posture and narrow gaze betrayed truth in her words.

It stopped, then, and threw up its hands, hissing, “Relax, Amelia! Put the gun down!” He threw back the hood, revealing a pale white visage with two red-sclera eyes set within. Visible red veins wormed from his eyes, through his cheeks. The man grimaced a bit, flashing his sharp canines.

Amelia released the hammer and held the gun up. “I almost shot you, Greg.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn’t be so trigger-happy.”

“And maybe you shouldn’t pick a meeting spot on a dark street at midnight.”

“It’s not that dark.”

“Like half the lights don’t work, and half of the others flicker on and off every few seconds.”

He looked around, confirming her words. Scratching at his chin, he grumbled, “Whatever, come on.” He motioned with his head and turned around, trotting back the way he came.

Amelia tucked her weapon away and jogged to catch up. “You’re making this seem a lot sketchier than it is. Why are you wearing that?”

“People here know me, Amelia. And you, too. You should be wearing a disguise…”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s the middle of the night. Nobody’s gonna run into us except maybe the cops.”

He nodded. “Right. That’s pretty true. I’ve just gotten really used to night time. This is like noon for you, for me,” he said with a chuckle. “And winter means longer nights. The best time of year.”

She smiled. “You seem to be getting accustomed to your lot.”

“Hard not to. Been turned for…” He held up his fingers to count. “Almost seven years, now. Any progress?”

“None. I looked a little, but can’t find anything about turning you back. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve already helped more than you know.” He led the girl off the sidewalk and through some underbrush to a large, rusted warehouse set in an otherwise vacant lot on the edge of town. He rapped his knuckles on the door and said, “Here we are. This is the place I was tasked with bringing the cargo.”

“And the cargo is… a girl, you said?”

“One who needs your help, yeah.”

Amelia nodded, folding her arms before her. “Right.”

Dropping to a squat, Greg pulled the door to the warehouse up, holding it for Amelia to slip inside, which she did, followed shortly by the vampire. It slammed shut behind them. “Alright, I told her to wait ahead in the back room.”

“Lead the way.”

Greg nodded as he unzipped his hoodie, slipping it off. Beneath that, he wore a black vest over a white button-down with a red-and-black striped tie tucked into the former. He was a stark contrast to Amelia’s more casual light brown soft leather jacket over a black thermal undershirt and leggings tucked into matching brown boots. She followed along behind her friend for a time, their footfalls screaming metallic echoes into the hollow space. He paused at a door and tugged it open. “Ladies first.”

Amelia laughed. “No.”

Greg rolled his eyes and slipped in ahead of her. “Still don’t trust me, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. You’re not special.” She froze just inside the doorjamb, staring dead ahead. There, sitting on a lone chair in the well-lit room was a woman with charcoal-grey skin and a pair of glowing yellow eyes that flashed orange the moment Amelia entered. She wore jean shorts and a tattered black tee with her feet bare against the stone floor.

Tucking black hair behind her ear, she blinked. “Is that her, Grigori? Is that really Amelia Brandt?”

As if the outfit and skin weren’t enough to draw her eye, this woman also sported a pair of orange horns, jutting from her forehead and a long, thin tail with a spade at its end, which swished forth and back as she spoke.

“Yeah, that’s me,” replied Amelia, letting her left hand fall back to the stock of her revolver as the door shut behind her.

∞     ∞     ∞     ∞     ∞     ∞     ∞     ∞     ∞     ∞     ∞     ∞

Amelia Brandt sat alone in a house, feet kicked up on the coffee table as her body was sunken deep into the soft cushions of her sofa. She licked the spoon clean of ice cream, emerald eyes transfixed on the screen as she caught up on her favorite show. Finding time to watch it was difficult, to say the least, with her schedule. Tonight was an exception. Tonight, she had plenty of time to watch her show in peace. That was, until her phone started wiggling its way across the hardwood table, vibrating violently as if mocking her and her inability to ever take an evening off. She leaned forward, setting her tub of ice cream aside and checking the phone. Grigori Rasmus. Her brow furrowed and she paused the show, holding her phone up. “Greg? This is unexpected. How’re things going with Greight?”

“Great!” he said with a chuckle.

“Now I remember why I don’t call you.”

“Hah. I’m on a delivery right now, driving back home. Was wondering if you might be in town?”

She drummed her fingers on the table. “I can be. Do you need me for something?” She was definitely not dressed to go out. Tonight was a relax-and-watch-shows night.

“I don’t, no. My cargo does.”

Her eyes widened. “Elaborate.”

“So my current job is to deliver this girl to a warehouse near Aisor. She claims she was sent topside by the devil to kill you. I personally…”

“Pass.”

“I didn’t finish!”

“I’m not gonna meet someone who wants to kill me, Greg. I get enough of that from real jobs.”

“Can I at least finish her pitch?”

Rolling her eyes, Amelia dropped onto her back on the sofa. “Yeah. Sure. Go for it.”

“Right! So she was sent here to kill you. I personally believe her. She also said that she needs your help, so she asked me to introduce you to her. Apparently the devil had her seek me out, since I have direct access to you or something. He’s offering to cure me if I help her kill you.”

She narrowed her gaze. “He’s starting to play dirty, then.”

“If you can’t figure it out, it’s impossible. No way do I believe the devil. Don’t worry.”

“So the girl is tasked with killing me and wants you to get the two of us alone in a room together?”

“Three of us. Anubis thinks I’ll help her.”

She scratched at her cheek and rolled over, staring at the frozen television. “What does she need my help with?”

“Wouldn’t say.”

“That’s not suspicious, at all.”

“So what should I tell her?”

“I’m not gonna walk into a trap, Greg.”

“Alright, hold on a sec. She’s riding shotgun.” She heard shuffling and then his voice, a bit quieter. “Sorry, Lucille. She said no. She’s worried you’re tricking her.”

“But I’m not!” came a shout from an unfamiliar voice.

“Wait, hold up!” Amelia shouted, sitting upright in a hurry.

“One sec,” Greg said, before his voice became louder again. “Did you say something? Had the phone away from my ear.”

“What’s her name? You said her name.”

“Lucille. Why?”

“Lucille? Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“I’m in.”

“What? Say that again? I thought I just heard you completely change your s–”

“I’m in. I’ll take her case. Send me time and place in a text. I’ll be there.”

“Sure. I’ll have Lucille text from my phone. Driving and all.”

“Yeah, you’re supposed to be a law-abiding vampire, Greg. A lot has changed since we last saw each other.”

He laughed and said, “Alright, I’ll see you soon, Amelia. And thank you again.”

“I don’t do it for the thanks.”

“I know.”

“See you. I gotta go get ready.” She hung up and clicked off the TV. Exhaling, she looked down at her hands. “Lucille…”

∞    ∞    ∞    ∞    ∞    ∞    ∞    ∞    ∞    ∞    ∞    ∞

“Yeah, that’s my name,” the gray girl responded, pushing to her feet. Amelia clenched the stock, finger resting alongside the trigger.

“Stay right where you are. I’m warning you,” Amelia hissed, looking from the girl to the vampire and back.

Greg groaned and rolled his eyes. “Come on, Amelia.”

Lucille held up both hands and nodded. “Will you really help me? Can you really help me?”

Amelia stared her down. “That depends on whether or not you’re serious about wanting it, and this isn’t a trap.”

Lucille nodded. She reached for her ear and plucked from the lobe a small ruby gem, set into an earring. Tossing it to the floor between the two girls, she explained, “That’s my contact with my dad; called a chatterrock.”

“Your dad?” she asked, relaxing her grip on the gun. “You mean Anubis?”

The girl nodded again and Amelia released her gun, exhaling and instead folding her arms before her chest. “Okay, got it. So what do you need help with?”

Lucille blinked. “Can I move, now?”

“Yeah.”

She shuffled up to Amelia and held out her hand. “I’m your biggest fan, miss Amelia.”

The girl furrowed her brow and shook the woman’s hand. “Thank you? Why would you be my fan?”

“Because you’re awesome. I’ve heard lots of stories.”

“Like what?”

“Well…” Her yellow eyes scanned the woman up and down as her hand retracted. “It’s hard to believe them, now, seeing you in person, but…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Amelia grumbled, tugging her arms tighter.

Lucille reached out and poked at Amelia’s arm. “I mean… you’re so squishy. How did you beat ten werewolves when they wanted to eat you?”

“Well, I–”

“And you’re supposed to be the only human to ever kill a spirit, but you’re so…”

Amelia blinked. “That was…”

“Baphomet.”

“Yeah, that was his name.”

Lucille furrowed her brow and took a step back. “It’s just odd. I pictured you to be different. Like… lots different.”

“Yeah, I figured. Probably imagined me prettier and without glasses.” She adjusted the frames on her nose.

“No, I was gonna say I pictured you taller.”

Amelia felt her face flush a bit and she shrugged. “Can’t help my height. You’re only a couple inches higher up there than I am, either way!”

“Still taller,” Greg chimed in.

“You shut it, vampire!”

He chuckled. “Sorry, sorry.”

Amelia tugged her jacket tighter around her shoulders. She blew a lock of brown hair out of her face and stared up at the demon before her. “So, anyway…”

“Ah! Right! My dad sent me here to kill you, but I don’t want to do that. You’re always nice to monsters like me.”

Greg cocked a brow and said, “Oh, you’re gonna strike a nerve.”

Amelia cut across, “You’re not a monster, Lucille. Monsters kill people and do bad things. I go by a mantra of person until proven monster. So far, you’re the former.”

Lucille looked down. “Oh, well…”

Just then, there was a rumbling sound.

“Shit, that’s the front door,” Greg hissed. “I’ll go stall for time. You two get out of here. That’s probably the devil’s hired muscle.”

“How did they find us?” Amelia pondered after Greg left.

Lucille kicked the ruby on the ground. “I think he can track our chatterrocks.”

“Right. Well, let’s head back to my place, then. We’ll discuss your case more, there. It’s more comfortable than this old warehouse, anyway.” She snapped her fingers and a wooden door appeared before them, in the middle of the room. “After you.”

“What?” Lucille squeaked.

“Go through the door.”

“Where does it lead?”

“My home.”

“Oh, okay. Why don’t you go first?”

“When I go through the door, it closes behind me. So…”

“Okay, okay. Got it.”

Lucille’s fingers wrapped around the handle and the latch clicked when she turned it. The door was easy to push open, and functioned just like an ordinary one, except when Amelia followed behind, it slammed shut on its own, locking the pair of women in a wide open living room. Hardwood floors, sofa, coffee table, perfectly domestic. Amelia tousled her hair and dropped her hands to her hips.

Lucille looked around in awe at how peaceful everything looked and felt. Cozy, warm, and quiet.

“Welcome to the Shack. Make yourself comfortable.” She lazily motioned to the couch as she walked off toward another room. “Need a drink?”

“What do you have?”

“Water, soda, iced tea… I’ve got no liquor in the house.”

“I think I’m fine, thanks,” Lucille said, dragging herself toward the couch. Amelia vanished through an open doorway and the girl flopped face-first onto the soft cushions.

“And be careful not to break anything!” she shouted, “Most of the stuff here is antique!”

She picked herself up and found a pillow stuck to her face! Tugging the ruined fluffy square from her horns, she panicked and stuffed it behind the seat she was on, looking around for something to busy herself with. Laptop on the table, television with no remote in sight, perfectly positioned chess set… her eyes finally settled on the shelf hanging over the television.

Her yellow eyes scanned left to right along it, checking out the various little figurines. There were crudely-made clay models of monsters and creatures from mythology coupled with exquisitely carved and painted pewter statues of same. She pulled down the model of a demon. A hulking brute with huge horns and orange lines painted into its gray skin. Its face had similarly orange eyes and open mouth. Pure terror in tiny stone form.

“Boo.”

Lucille leapt out of her skin, the little demon flying in the air as the shelf rattled. An ornate hourglass set upon the shelf wobbled. Amelia caught it with her free hand as Lucille fumbled to catch the little figure, setting it back in place as she clutched a hand to her chest.

“My mom made the pewter ones. The clay ones were by her great-grandma or something. Super old. I got you some water.” Handing over a water bottle, she smiled.

Lucille took it, cracked the top, and drank a swig. “Thanks,” she mumbled, shuffling a step away from the woman.

“Do you want a tour or…?” Amelia stepped away to set a guitar down carefully on the sofa. She drank from her own bottle, downing over half of it in just a few moments.

“Yeah, I guess a tour would be nice.”

“Right! So this is the Shack.”

“You said that already.”

“It’s been my family’s home for give or take thirteen, fourteen hundred years, maybe longer. It’s nestled safely away from all sorts of danger, warded against pretty much the entire gamut of terrible beasties, and has a door that only responds to those who bear our blood in their veins.”

She nodded, looking around the room some more. Her eyes settled back on the figurines.

“It’s kinda boring living alone, so we gotta do something to pass the time. Mom carved statues, I play guitar. Anyway, this is the living room. Nice comfy sofa for lounging. Over this way–” she grabbed Lucille’s wrist and tugged her along toward the way she had gone before. “–is the kitchen. There’s a table for eating, stove and oven for cooking, fridge for storage.” She nodded and smiled. “And that’s the back door,” she said, motioning to the glass sliding doors across the room. “It’s not a portal like the front one, it actually just opens into the backyard. We’ve got swings and a fence and a patio with a grill.” She shrugged and walked back toward the passage. “Behind this door,” she tapped on it, “are stairs to the basement. It’s got some nice wards, and it’s where I stash all my excess ingredients for more advanced witchcraft. Up these stairs, you’ll find the toilet, shower, and beds. Mine’s last on the left, yours is last on the right. Try not to snoop, too much.”

She shuffled back toward the front door, pulling open a closet to hang her jacket and kick off her boots. Making her way around the sofa, she plopped her bum down onto the sofa cushions and pulled the guitar up from the floor. With her sock-hugged feet kicked up on the table, she settled in and began to tune the instrument as Lucille looked on from the entry to the kitchen. “Why is it called the Shack?”

A shrug responded. “Dunno. My mom told me that’s its name.”

“Where is your mom?”

“Dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s been seventeen years. I’m good. Take your shoes off and relax. I won’t bite.” She smiled at the demon and patted the couch beside her.

“Right,” she mumbled, doing as she was told. Her bum hit the couch, causing Amelia to bounce a bit. She mimicked her host, feet up on the table.

“That’s more like it,” she cooed, strumming out a chord.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Depends what kind.”

“Why did you trust me?”

“I don’t trust you. I just believed you.”

“Why did you believe me, then?”

“I’m a glass half-full sort of person.”

“But, I’m a demon.”

“And I’m a witch. Let’s call it even,” she hummed, in tune with the last few string plucks.

Lucille nodded and shut her mouth, holding her arms across her chest.

“Anyway, back to your case.”

“My case?”

“You asked for my help. I’m helping you. That makes you my client, and it makes this business arrangement your case. Just terminology I like to use. Makes it seem more professional.” She nodded.

Lucille wasn’t quite sure she liked the word “seem” being involved there, but she relented with a curt nod.

“What sort of help did you need? There’s no way to turn a demon into a human, if that’s what you’re after. You wouldn’t believe how many spirits ask me for that sort of help.”

“No, I need you to help hide me.”

Amelia paused her strumming and shifted to face the woman more directly. “Alright. Hide you from what, exactly? Or, who, I guess? Anubis?”

She looked down.

“I’ll level with you – I’m not the best person to shack up with if you wanna hide from Annie. I’m his number one target, right now. Smack dab in the middle of his crosshairs, lately.”

“Because you killed Baphomet?”

“Mostly because of that, yeah.” She tapped fingers on her guitar. “Baphomet and Aine. Those are the names of the only two people I’ve ever killed. I think it’s pretty good for being eight years in the game.”

Lucille nodded. “Why did you kill Baphomet?”

“Revenge. I’ll tell you the whole story another time. Tonight, let’s talk about you.”

“No. Don’t people usually do these things, uh, no questions asked, or something?”

“Not me. We’re dealing with some seriously dangerous stuff. I need details.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it. I just need to stay away from Anubis. He let me come topside, and I never want to go back. Okay?”

Amelia stared into the woman’s eyes, hummed a little, and then started plucking strings with her fingers, playing the notes of a song. “Deal. I’ll do everything in my power to stop him from getting you back. Other than that, I have a proposition for you.”

“What’s that?”

“Would you like to be my partner?”

Lucille’s gray skin flushed orange and she began to stammer.

Amelia looked at her and cocked a brow. “I’ve been hunting alone since my last partner left, and I could really use someone to watch my back. You’re a freaking demon, so I figure… if you’re up for it, that is.”

“Oh!” That made more sense. She exhaled a sigh of relief. “I could give it a shot.”

“Excellent. There’s just a couple ground rules you need to follow, if you wanna work with me.”

“Of course!”

“First,” she held up one finger and furrowed her brow. “We’re not hawks. We don’t kill.”

“Hawks?”

“It’s what people call the Nightstalkers, for short, since they used to wear these stupid hawk masks. Their mission statement, according to them, is: To save humanity through the systematic eradication of the corrupt, monstrous creatures that lurk in the night. Basically, they kill monsters to help people.”

“Right. That sounds like an extreme measure.”

“It is. Last resort. For you, that means that, no matter what, I need to give explicit, direct permission for you to be allowed to kill someone – or something – that we end up fighting with.”

Lucy nodded in response. “I’ll trust your judgment going forward.”

“Good. Second rule: I’m not the boss, outside of the first rule. My judgment is not infallible. Pretty clear, since I’ve got two dead on my conscience. Don’t be afraid to speak up if you think I’m wrong or you have a better idea for something.”

She nodded, a bit unsure about that one. Lucille had never really considered herself a particularly smart person…

“Third, we’re gonna be traveling the world and staying in motels of questionable repute. I always spring for the cheapest option. That’s usually a room with just one bed. Since you’re literally made of fire, I’ll sleep under the sheets, you’re over at least one. Boundaries.”

“O-Okay.” That one went way over her head. She’d have to just see that to get it. Her brow furrowed as she agreed.

“And lastly, trust is earned around here, not freely given. I’ll be packing contingencies for if you turn on me, so don’t be stupid.”

“I’ll do my best to earn your trust, then.”

“Good luck,” Amelia exhaled, fingers plucking at strings.

“You don’t think I can do it?”

She laughed. “I don’t.” Her emerald eyes flashed to the demon. “In fact, I’m so confident that, if you ever successfully earn my trust, you’ll also get a voucher, from me, redeemable for anything you want, so long as it’s within my power to give.”

Lucy cocked a brow. “Deal.”

“Now, I’m gonna stay up for a bit and play. Music calms me down.” Her hand split from the strings to roll the wrist in a circle, stretching the strained joints. “You’re welcome to stay and listen.”

“Okay, I will.”

The guitar sat lightly in her lap, each strum helping her tightened muscles relax. Her left hand’s fingers slid easily along the frets, her eyes fluttering shut as she let the vibrations of the strings course through her form. She exhaled, long and low, transitioning from random chords here and there into a light, lilting melody that reverberated within the heart of the wood-bodied instrument. It was soon accompanied by her voice, singing about her desire to be wanted and needed, and how her life had been a series of failures up to that point. It was a slow, almost haunting melody. Above all, though, Lucille thought Amelia had quite a lovely singing voice.