#like I think my favorite part of it is that it implies ford only realized it was fucking weird to drink human blood mid writing in his diar

[papercutslut]

Stanford is a fucking weirdo

Stanford is a fucking weirdo and I need people to understand that so here is some examples of what I could find of Stanford being as fucking weird as possible (Both Stan and Ford's!) first reaction to thinking they killed someone was to steal the person's clothes.

Has sampled human blood? To see if it tasted better then sheep blood? AND HE DECIDES THAT HUMAN BLOOD TASTED THE BEST?

Thinks Rudolph should of just burned down his tormentor's houses in revenge.

Shaves his face by setting his face on fire.

These are literally just off the top of my head. There is probably more examples. I constantly think about this stuff. He's a fucking freak /pos

[erinwantstowrite]

I know you’ve probably answered this dozens of times (sorry) but how do you come up with ideas? I’ve been trying to get back into writing but I’m stumped

usually i go look at other media and ink about how i would put other characters into their situations. you can find a lot of AUs based on this, but there's also tropes from your favorite media that you might want to try writing.

for an AU: often times i see people draw conclusions about which characters would fit into an AU based on the character type (ex: a sunshine character acting like a sunshine character from another show), but i like to think about the situation the character is in. Say I want a Gravity Falls au for the Batfam. I could just shove the characters into the character types and it would be fun. Dipper and Tim are a lot alike with their smarts, I suppose. Or Ford and Bruce have a lot of similarities between each other.

or i could go a step beyond... Tim and Pacifica have similar backgrounds even if they don't have the same personality. Stan and Bruce are nothing like each other, but I can imagine Bruce waiting however long it takes to try and find someone he loves. I could combine these aspects into a fun au: Bruce Wayne lives in a mysterious manor in the woods. He's kind and the townspeople love him. He was raised by Alfred, a family friend, after his parents were killed in the woods. Bruce knows that his parents were killed because of the strange happenings in the town, and he follows his late father's journals while studying everything Gotham has to offer. Only, two of them are missing. Years later, his first adopted son Dick Grayson lives in the town and helps people who are afflicted by Gotham directly, and Bruce is searching for a young Jason Todd, his adopted son, who got lost in a portal. The local rich kid Timothy Drake found the one of the journals that Bruce hadn't found, and starts looking for monsters in the woods. Eventually, he and Bruce start working together.

Thus, I've expanded upon the AU with one simple shift in thinking!

for the tropes: let's use The Sea Beast as an example (wonder wonderful beautiful movie) (spoilers up ahead)

My favorite part was the growing parental relationship between the grumpy sailor Jacob and the young free spirit Maisie. Scenes where they grow closer and form an understanding of each other are fun, but I really liked the scene where Maisie brings up becoming family, and when she realizes that Jacob is turning her down, she grows upset and wishes for them to forget the entire conversation. That scene HURTS because Maisie lost her parents and thought she would find a family in the other Hunters. But she ended up learning that she could never be a Hunter since she doesn't have the heart for it. This is her last chance to find someone who might understand (at least, she believes it is) and Jacob basically implies it wouldn't work. But eventually Jacob figures out that he does want to be a parent for Maisie, and it's really sweet. I ended up wanting a scene like that in one of my fics, and now I've gotten it written into an outline. It won't be exact, but it helped me pull inspiration.

Basically: consume your media critically, think outside of boxes, and nurture your creativity. The more you understand what you're reading/watching, the easier it is to find ideas for your own story :) don't be afraid to push limits and see where it takes you

[gohyuck]

pairing: ceo!lee donghyuck (haechan) x cfo!reader

genre: slight angst, fluff, smut (that’s a first for this acc o.o)

word count: 3.6k

warnings: explicit heterosexual sex (slight dom!hyuck)... like, really, over 50% of this is just sex lol. not a warning but hyuck is implied to be bisexual in this, it’s hinted at once or twice

a/n: sm knew what they were doing, making the 127s play office in full business attire. also, i still think we should eat the rich. just saying. this is not meant to glorify billionaires. i just think hyuck is hot. also! cfo = chief finance officer. 

part of a series?: yes, 37.5% viewer ratings, my hyuck bday celebration

🎵 often - the weeknd

☀️ push and pull

“i already emailed you this month’s finance report and talked to the men from kim corp. - i think they’ll end up being major investors. my balance forecasts are done, and,” you pause in your report, your gaze meeting donghyuck’s across his desk before you continue speaking, one corner of your lip quirking up slightly. “and you have a hickey that’s a little too high for your collar to cover.”

“i - what?” the ceo of lee technologies, ltd. hisses out the last word, his brow furrowing as he processes what you’ve just said. you put a finger up, silently telling him to give you a moment, before you pull your purse off of the floor and onto your lap. it takes you less than a minute of rummaging to find what you’re looking for: a compact mirror. donghyuck all but snatched it out of your hand, and you see him visibly redden once he realizes that you aren’t pulling his leg.

“shit, (name), i have meetings all day today,” he groans, slumping backwards into his far-too-expensive office chair. donghyuck shuts your mirror and tosses it haphazardly onto your desk before running both his hands down his face in incredulity and embarrassment. his neck is bared as he does this, allowing you to survey the mark further: it’s a deep red and clear as day, likely having been brought into existence the night before. you wonder briefly who it’s from - the pretty secretary who always bats his eyes at the ceo, the diligent but meek girl who can’t keep her eyes off of donghyuck and works in hr on floor 14, the red-lipped and cat-eyed ceo of the company that operates out of the top floors of the highrise next to you? you doubt you’ll ever know. as your heart twinges slightly, you realize that you don’t want to know. 

donghyuck groans again, although it dissolves into a petulant whine this time. a chuckle falls from your lips without you wanting to let one out, and your boss glares at you because of this.

“don’t look at me like that,” you scoff, turning your attention back to your bag for a moment. hyuck watches as you triumphantly pull a band-aid from one of the smaller pockets. “here! it’s small enough to be covered by this.”

donghyuck narrows his eyes.

“is it professional for a company’s ceo to walk around with a highlighter yellow tweety bird band-aid on his neck?” he asks, quirking one eyebrow as he does. still, he leans forward, placing his forearms on his desk and clasping his hands together as he does.

“is it professional for a company’s ceo to walk around with evidence that he’s getting laid on his neck?” you throw back, and donghyuck stares at you for a moment before sighing, slumping his shoulders, and reaching his hand out. you drop the band-aid into your outstretched palm.

“it’ll be fine, hyuck,” you tell your boss and longtime friend as he picks your compact up again, using the mirror to place the band-aid properly. “it might even humanize you a little bit.”

“humanize me?” donghyuck asks, though the small lilt to his voice tells you that he’s just fishing for compliments. he knows what you mean. still, you have time today, so you humor him.

“your reputation is all ‘young god’, ‘untouchable billionaire’, ‘genius entrepreneur’, ‘national playboy’,” you point out, watching as donghyuck’s smirk grows, making him look a little bit like an overexcited frat boy. his expression directly contrasts his crisp gray tom ford suit and franck muller watch. “tweety bird might make you more... approachable.”

the young ceo thinks about your words for a moment before flipping his wrist towards himself to read the time. it’s 10:27 - he needs to get down to the main conference room. you stand as donghyuck does, letting him walk past you before you follow. the band-aid is even brighter underneath lights, you note, and you can’t help but smile to yourself at this. donghyuck places his hand on the door handle, though, right before he opens it, he turns back to you.

“you forgot sex icon.”

“what?” your eyes widen for a moment before you force your brows down, scowling at donghyuck’s statement.

“when you were naming off things that make me larger-than-life, you forgot to say sex icon.” he grins, his tone as matter-of-fact as its ever been.

“who says?” you throw back, determined not to let your friend’s ego inflate so easily. he grins before leaning towards you, closer and closer until his mouth is right against your ear. you do your best not to let your breath hitch at the proximity.

“cosmopolitan. they interviewed me for the cover last month, remember? came in the mail today. i’ll give you a signed copy of you want. courtesy of your favorite sex icon.” he tells you, and you swear his lips brush your earlobe before he pulls back, mirth dancing in his eyes. before you can say anything, donghyuck pulls his office door open, stepping aside as he does.

“after you.”

♕ ♕ ♕

the lee donghyuck that exists within his private office and the lee donghyuck that exists outside of it are two entirely different people. his posture is still easy, still open, still exceedingly confident, but the moment he steps out of his office his back straightens up, one hand going to adjust his tie and the other slipping into one of his dress pants’ pockets. he goes from hyuck to haechan, meaning fullsun, the name given to him by the media at some gala or the other a couple years ago. hyuck is your friend from college, a brilliant programmer and free entertainment for those close to him. haechan is a charismatic but cold leader, his eyes calculating as he surveys the empire he’s only just begun building.

he walks out after you, but immediately commands everyone’s gaze. donghyuck’s office is in the corner of the 18th floor - the highest floor of the skyscraper. all of the offices on this floor belong to executives - hell, your office is right next to his, your one wall with floor-to-ceiling windows adorned entirely with a row of potted plants both small and huge - but there’s always plenty of other people milling around on the floor: possible investors, lost interns, secretaries, and employees with questions. today is no exception: several pairs of eyes are directed to the ceo as you stroll out, him in tow. 

nobody says anything about the obvious band-aid on haechan’s neck. 

“i’ll see you after work,” donghyuck mutters discreetly into your ear, and you nod as imperceptibly as possible before giving your friend a parting smile. 

as you head back to your office, haechan’s secretary joins him in step, tablet in hand, to read him off his schedule. as you close your door behind you, ready to bask in the sunlight that’s filtering in, you can’t help but scrutinize the secretary’s slightly rosier-than-usual cheeks, nor the way haechan had straightened his shoulders while speaking to the other man. 

if you were one for betting, you’d put down money on the fact that you’ve probably just found the culprit responsible for donghyuck’s bright yellow band-aid. you shake your head sadly as you set your things down on your desk. 

the poor boy’s going to get his heartbroken soon. 

after all, if there’s one thing donghyuck and haechan have in common, it’s this: commitment is not in the cards. you know this better than anyone. 

♕ ♕ ♕

“hyuck, i-”

“shut the fuck up.” donghyuck hisses into your ear, tugging harshly at the front of your shirt as he backs you into the closed door of his office. the material rips away easily, buttons skittering onto his floor as he shoves his warm mouth against yours. your hands go up to snake around his shoulders immediately, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as he draws whimpers from your lips. once you part for air, you watch as he studies you for a moment. his tongue darts out, wetting his lower lip, and his eyes are beautifully hooded. 

you’re already gasping for air. you’re already drowning in him. 

“this blouse was from saks, you asshole,” you manage to get out, though you sound more like a petulant child than the indignant business executive you are. he chuckles almost mockingly, simply raising an eyebrow at this before he starts shrugging his suitjacket off, placing it across the back of the chair in front of his desk. 

“it’s your fault for wearing a $300 shirt to work,” he throws at you, no bite in his voice. you can’t help but roll your eyes as you push yourself off the door, making to follow him as he settles down into his office chair. 

“you’re one to talk - your suit is, what, $4,000 at least? don’t get me started on the fact that you’re wearing a 5-digit watch.” you make your way so you’re standing directly in front of him, shirt torn open to expose your bra and part of your stomach and the top of your skirt hugging your waistline perfectly. donghyuck sticks his tongue into his cheek before leaning forward and tugging you onto his lap with ease, smirking as your skirt flies up momentarily. 

“touché.” 

his hands cup your ass, fingertips pressing into your skin as he forces them up past your safety shorts. you rise up slightly so you’re situated above hyuck, cupping his face as you look into his eyes. he grins up at you. 

“this,” he squeezes your left asscheek fondly before meeting your eyes with his own mischievous gaze. “this is why i instituted a casual dress policy.”

“one hell of a policy, considering the ceo himself doesn’t adhere to it.” 

“i don’t need to, baby,” your heart flutters at the term of endearment, and you will it to stop immediately. “after all, i’m the boss, remember?”

“you’re a pig.” you throw back, and he only chuckles before attaching his lips to the skin above your collarbone. donghyuck laves his tongue over the fresh bruises as he dots your clavicle with them, forcing you closer to him by forcefully pushing your hips down towards his. as his lips move southward, brushing over your open chest and spilling kisses onto the tops of your bra-clad breasts, you can’t help but keen loudly and grind down on him of your body’s own accord. 

“someone’s hasty to get marked up,” your friend points out, not waiting for a response as he reaches into the large hole in your shirt - a lee donghyuck creation - and around your back, popping your bra open. your mind is too hazy to respond at first, in part due to the way he slips your bra straps down your arms, chasing them with wet, open-mouthed kisses across your shoulders before pulling the article of clothing off of you entirely. you can’t help but buck slightly against him as your breasts meet the cool air, and he takes this opportunity to wrap his sinful lips against one of your nipples, one of his hands coming up to run his thumb over the other one. 

“you’re - ha - you’re one to talk. mark? really?”

“he’s a good secretary,” donghyuck pulls his mouth off of you momentarily to speak, eyes sparkling as if he knows he’s teasing you, and you can’t help but flick your own eyes upward in annoyance. suddenly, you feel the need to have his dick in you immediately, as if it’ll fill the growing hole in your heart. you adjust yourself, and donghyuck watches, his arms wrapping around your waist to keep you steady, as you pull your safety shorts off.

he immediately drops a hand to your leg, tracing a finger up the expanse of your inner thigh as his other hand reaches up to grab your chin, gently forcing you to face him so your eyes meet. your mouth goes dry just as he slips two fingers into your wet heat, and you can’t help yourself as you rut forwards, grinding on his hand. the whine you let out has donghyuck’s eyes becoming even more hooded, almost naturally smoky, and you can’t help but gasp at the sight. 

“he’s a good secretary,” donghyuck says again, and you realize he hadn’t finished his thought earlier. you hate that he’s speaking about another person when his fingers are knuckle deep inside your sopping heat, but it’s donghyuck - your hyuck, who’d held your hair back when you puked at frat parties and who let you crash on his dorm room floor whenever it was too late to walk to your own place - and you can’t say anything about it. “but if you wanted me to yourself, you could’ve just said so.” 

your heart stops, but not before he has the audacity to wink at you. 

“we need to fuck,” you choke out, finding it hard to breathe even though his hands are nowhere near your throat. “now.” 

the desperation in your voice, the way your pert nipples are right in his face, and the way you’re humping his hand like a bitch in heat all have donghyuck groaning and rolling his head back on his shoulders. he flicks his chin towards the top drawer of his desk right behind you, and you use one hand to brace yourself against his shoulder as you lean back to pull the drawer open. this unwittingly forces hyuck’s fingers to angle deeper inside you, hitting the bundle of nerves in the back of your cunt exactly in a way that has you moaning his name long and low. your grip slips off of the drawer handle without you meaning to, and you scramble, patting your hand haphazardly around in the drawer before you come across a condom. you pull it out, slamming the drawer shut triumphantly before turning back to hyuck. he pulls his fingers out of you before you come, much to your chagrin, but you realize that you’ll be coming around his cock in no time. 

“my blouse was actually about $600,” you say, your eyes meeting his as you tear open the wrapper. he lets out a chuckle before raising his fingers - covered in filmy strings of your arousal - to his mouth and wrapping his tongue around them like it’s the easier thing in the world. you feel yourself clench. he wraps one arm around you before shifting slightly, and you realize he’s unzipping his own pants.

“i’ll buy you another one.” is all donghyuck says before pulling out his thick length, and you swallow on impulse as his bulbous tip, oozing precum, comes into your view. you want it - need it, you decide as you recall his earlier statement about having him for yourself - and you need it now. you hand him the condom, and he rolls it on with a small grunt before both of his hands fly to your ass. just as you’re about to sit down properly on his cock, fill your voids the way they’re meant to be completed. donghyuck stops you with his hands on your hips. 

you look down at him, and your eyes meet his for what feels like the millionth time tonight. 

“are you sure?” he asks, and you fall deeper in love with him even though he’s doing the minimum. you’re sure, you realize, and you nod before remembering that he has to hear you say it. 

“yes, i’m sure.” your voice is uncharacteristically quiet, but donghyuck says nothing of it. he grips your thighs, spreading them as much as he can without pushing you off the chair - he’s grateful it has no handles - before pressing his tip to your entrance. you press both of your hands into your shoulders as you sink yourself onto his throbbing dick, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you do. it takes you a moment to adjust - usually the foreplay is much longer - but once you’re ready, you start bouncing on donghyuck’s cock, setting the pace for yourself. 

it doesn’t take long for you to get to the brink of orgasm - riding hyuck has always placed the head of his dick directly against the place inside you that makes you see white behind your eyes. for his part, he shoves you down onto himself when you start tiring out, tugging on a nipple in between his teeth or running his tongue down against your skin or slapping your ass and causing you to buck against him as he sees fit. 

you’ve been friends with benefits for almost a year, now, and the sex only gets better. 

you’ve been friends with benefits for almost a year, now, and everyday, every damn day, you curse your heart more and more. you curse your feelings when donghyuck whines as he nears his high, too, and you curse yourself for spending your ability to love deeply on the one person who won’t take it as he finally takes over, anchoring you against his body while his hips snap up into yours. he’s chasing your orgasm just as much as he’s chasing his, and when donghyuck pulls you down to smash his lips against yours, forcing you to taste the red wine he’d had with dinner on his tongue, while circling your clit with one finger like a madman, you can’t help but let go completely, clenching and spasming and shaking around his length and in his arms. this is all it takes to push him over the edge, too - he spills into the condom with a beautiful, keening whine against your shoulder.

it’s only when donghyuck looks up at you after catching his breath and his face falls that you realize you’re crying. 

“(name) - sweetheart, what’s wrong? did i hurt you?”

his recognition of your state has the dam breaking, and you shake your head frantically to soothe him as your tears start falling more heavily. he wraps his arms around you immediately, pulling you into his chest as he does. donghyuck waits patiently for you to speak.

“i - i can’t do this anymore,” you start off, and you feel his arms tense around you. before he can interject or argue, you forge ahead. “i cant! i can’t fuck you and stay your friend - just your friend. i can’t sleep with you knowing that you’re the only one for me when you’re out there hunting down anyone that looks at you, i just - i can’t. i can’t...” you trail off, breaking down into sobs again while burrowing your face into his shirt. it’s expensive, you know it is, and now it’s ruined with your tearstains. you try not to think about it. 

donghyuck is silent for one, two, three beats. for a long moment, all you can hear are the sounds of your own bawling, your own quiet sniffling and hiccuping. his hand runs a soothing trek down your back.

finally, he speaks.

“i haven’t fucked anyone else in 6 months.”

that is the one thing you’d never expected him to say. 

“but... mark? the hickey?”

“that’s all it was,” he says, forcing you back slightly to be able to look at you as he speaks. hyuck raises a hand, wiping your stray tears away gently with his thumb before continuing. “for 6 months, i’ve kissed people and made out with them, but only half-heartedly. every time it’s gotten close to getting heated, i’ve had to stop. do you know why?”

you shake your head, sniffling as you do. his heart cracks at how forlorn you look, how innocent and confused you seem. he’s suddenly well-aware of the fact that he’s still sheathed inside your dripping pussy. 

“because every time i was with someone - anyone - else, all i could think of was you. you’re the only one for me, baby. i think you always have been. i didn’t say anything because i didn’t think you’d want me.”

“not want you?” your voice is strong enough to sound properly incredulous now. “you know me better than anyone else. you’ve been there for me when i’ve needed you, and you’ve asked me to be there for you when you’ve needed me. we built all of this together. you’re everything, hyuck. you’re my everything.” 

he lowers his head almost bashfully, and you know that he’s processing what you’re saying. donghyuck’s never been good at registering compliments - it’s a side-effect of always moving, always pushing forward - but you can tell that he’s savoring your words. it makes him even more endearing in your eyes. eventually, he looks up at you again, soft smile gracing his features. 

“are we good?” he asks, and you can feel your heart sewing itself together again at the genuine honesty in his eyes. he really does love you back. you nod, before leaning in to capture his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. 

“we’re good.”

bonus: 

“this is great, and i’m going to ravish you when we get home, but right now i really, really need to get this condom off and you probably really need to piss,” donghyuck says, lifting his hips to force you off of him. you swing your legs over to stand, leaning against his desk for support as you watch him tie the condom up and toss it into the bin underneath his desk. 

“when we get home?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. donghyuck stuffs his cock back into his boxers and makes sure his slacks are on properly before standing up to situate himself in front of you. he takes both of your hands in his. 

“you think i’m letting you spend a night alone when you said i’m the only one for you? not fucking likely. now hit up the bathroom and then let’s go,” he says, fishing his car keys out of his pocket. “i brought the bugatti today.”

[ironstarker]

Notes: The desire to do a Kill Bill inspired Starker fic has been in my head for as long as I can remember. It’s one of my favorite movies, so here’s a little thing that I wrote. I’d like to expand on it and make it a proper fic, but since I haven’t put out any content in a while, I thought I’d give a little teaser. I’m leaving it untitled for now, because Kill Tony doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

Warning(s): Incest (Implied), Underage, A/B/O Dynamics, MPreg _______________________________________________________________________

Once upon a time, there was a little boy. A little boy with wide, brown eyes. He liked to watch his Papa play with samurai swords, how his body would flow like water and the blade with it. The boy would sit on his mat and watch, hands on his knees, which were tucked under his body, his feet bare and toes wiggling with unspent energy. He would sit for what felt like hours watching his father cut through air, the sword whistling as he did. His Papa called it practice.

“For what, Papa?” the boy asked one day, milk dribbling down his chin.

His Papa had smiled, eyes crinkling around the edges. He dabbed at his son’s chin with a napkin, the press of it light and tender. “Someday, you’ll understand.”

Someday came sooner than he realized, and when it did, it was his beloved Papa at the end of his blade. ____________

It was a respectable little chapel out in the Nevada desert. A tiny place surrounded by barren dirt and a horizon that stretched for miles. Peter didn’t have any reason to believe that they weren’t safe. He sat in one of the pews, next to his husband-to-be, a hand resting against the swell of his stomach. The baby inside of him moved, and he smiled. Quentin turned his head to look at him and met his eyes. The alpha laughed and leaned in to kiss the boy’s cheek, whispering to him how he was so excited that in twenty-four hours’ time, they’d be getting married.

“So am I.”

And relieved. Peter was relieved. Once he was married and mated to Quentin, he could put the ordeal with his Papa behind him. He could put the mating mark on his gland behind him. It would be erased with this new alpha’s teeth, and his daughter would never know the murderous bastard that her father was. Quentin was a nice man. He lived nearby, worked at a local bar that didn’t see too many customers aside from locals and the odd person or two passing through. Everything about Goodsprings was just that — good, down to its name. The locals were kind and ready to lend a helping hand. They didn’t get too many male omegas in these parts, so Peter was beloved by all.

It was a welcome change, given the life he’d led up until this point.

“Now, when it comes time for you to kiss the bride, Quentin — you be real nice, y’hear? Don’t go stickin’ your tongue down his throat in front of everybody.”

The alpha laughed, his entire face lighting up with it. His cheeks turned a little pink and Peter smiled, leaning into the man. He reached out and fiddled with Quentin’s collar, where his tie was loose and draped around his neck. Quentin’s hand came up and settled over his, giving his fingers a squeeze. The man’s hands were soft, much softer than his Papa’s, and gave way to a gentleness that his Papa would never have understood. It was one of the first things that he’d noticed about Quentin.

Behind them, MJ and Ned were snickering to each other, muttering things that Peter couldn’t hear. The omega was having a tough time keeping a straight face. “We’ll try not to put on a show,” he promised, and he looked over his shoulder to wink at them. A little off to the side, May was watching him. She sighed and shook her head, but there was a warm smile on her face.

May had all but adopted him the minute he’d tried to make a home in Goodsprings. He came into town three months pregnant, tear tracks running down his face and his bags too big for him to carry through the Nevada heat. She’d insisted he come inside the Pioneer Saloon, an old restaurant she owned. To Peter, it looked like an old barn. When he stepped foot inside, it felt like a barn — no air conditioning, just giant ceiling fans sweeping dust all over the place. But she sat him at the bar and fixed him up a burger and fries that were so good he didn’t give a damn about its appearance. It was his Papa who cared about those sorts of things.

Now, for his wedding rehearsal, she sat behind him. She would be the only one on his side of the chapel, which was why he’d asked if they could let everyone sit together. Peter tried not to call attention to the fact that he was so alone. He made up a good front. That he was a kid escaping an abusive relationship, that his alpha had abused him and knocked him up, left him abandoned. Not long after that, he’d bumped into Quentin at the diner. Quentin was a local. He owned a ranch a little ways north of Goodsprings, but made frequent trips into town.

May said the frequency increased since Peter had shown his face.

“Are you sure you don’t have anyone you could bring with you, Peter?” The reverend’s question wasn’t meant to be unkind, but his smile faded. “It’d be good to have somebody come for you. You know, as a sign of faith before God. You don’t have any family?”

Peter’s spine straightened, “No — I mean, I’ve got May. She’s all the family I need, until…” He looked down at his belly and smiled. Despite the circumstances of her creation, he loved his peanut. She was so precious to him, had been since the moment that stick turned blue at the worst time of his life.

“We’ll make sure he isn’t lonely,” May piped up, her tone a little disgruntled and defensive.

It went without saying that the reverend didn’t approve for one reason or another. “I’m going to get some air, baby.” Peter kissed Quentin’s cheek, and the alpha got to his feet to make it easier for Peter to step around his legs. His bump always got in the way now.

As he began to walk towards the door to the chapel, which was open (another place with no central air that couldn’t stand the Nevada heat), Peter could almost hear the sounds of his Papa’s bamboo flute. He smiled as he looked down at his belly, rubbing it fondly. If there was one thing he did miss about the alpha, it was that flute. How many times had he fallen asleep to its sound? It was like a whisper on the wind. But as the wind blew and dust danced over his sandaled feet, it brought with it a warm, musky scent. Something metallic that wanted to be blood but wasn’t quite there yet.

It was his Papa’s scent. He’d know it anywhere.

Peter stopped in his tracks, the air sucked right from his lungs. His fingers went to the pendant he wore around his neck, a silver charm of a puppy with ruby red eyes. Thinking that maybe he was fooling himself, Peter found the urge to carry on. He took a step, and yet another, until he was outside the doors of the chapel.

As soon as he was outside, his Papa’s scent deepened. The sound of the flute was louder out here, and he didn’t have to look to his left to know he’d see the man sitting there in the rickety old bench outside the chapel. Peter’s mouth felt dry, like he’d swallowed sand. He turned his head because, no matter what he told himself (it varied most of the time, but often involved a mantra of, “I don’t need him. I don’t want him. He’s ruined my life. He’ll ruin my baby’s life.”), he missed his Papa. What was the harm in seeing him one last time?

The alpha was sitting there, flute in hand, playing a note. Peter’s heart thrummed in his chest as he took in the sight of the man. It had been months, that was all, but he thought he saw a few more grey hairs on his Papa’s head. The man’s goatee was perfectly groomed, as always. He looked immaculate in his suit, and stuck out like a sore thumb in this tiny town. Tom Ford didn’t belong in the desert.

His Papa’s note cut off, and he raised his head to meet Peter’s eyes. “Ciao, cucciolo.”

[red-pill-blue-pill]

You gave me a reason. Ted Logan.

(gif by @mostexcellentkeanugifs )

A/N: This was requested by the lovely @ringa-starr 💞. Sorry it took me so long! I hope you like it. I might’ve shed a tear while I was writing this but I’m on my PMS so whatever. Also, I tried to portray the illness as real as I could. If someone feels offended please tell me and I’ll change whatever you ask me to change. 

 ps: peep the Lana del Rey and the Friends references  👀. 

ps2: i didn’t proof read this so deal with my typos, wrong use of words and wrong verb tenses. 

Summary: A walk to remember inspired. 

Warnings: Angst (like a lot, I’m so sorry), illness, implied death.

Word count: 2.764

You lied in bed, your head rested on your pillow and your black hair was sprawled around like a halo that vaticinated your unfortunate fate. Your heavy-lidded eyes closed against your will and you tried your best to keep them open so you could continue watching the world that unfolded outside your window. If you couldn’t experience it to the fullest at least you wanted to watch how others did. 

This situation was common for you. It felt as if all the energy was suddenly drained from your body, like a dam gate opening and letting the water flow freely. Your limbs turned heavy, so heavy you couldn’t even lift them, and your head felt dizzy. This happened at least four times per week, sometimes even more. All your friends already knew. They had made their peace with it. It’s not like you can hide from your loved ones for so long.

-

The first time you felt something weird was going on was the year you finally became a senior. It was your first week of high school and you were happily talking to your peers. It had been an exciting summer and you were dying to tell everyone you had finally visited Italy. 

You had just gotten through second period just fine when you started to feel uneasy. You started to feel hot, your forehead was burning up and your vision clouded. All of a sudden you were lying on the floor, a circle of classmates around you and a teacher crouching down beside you asking you frantically if you were okay. You internally rolled your eyes at her questions "yes, Mrs. Ford, I'm perfectly fine, I just like falling and hitting my head." You thought.

They rushed you to the hospital and called your parents. You thought it was nonsense, you were perfectly fine, it was just a little fever and nothing else. But when they gave you the results of the physical exam your world seemed to crumble around you.

"It might be Leukemia. We still have to run some blood tests." The doctor said carefully.

Your mother couldn't suppress the cry that broke in her throat, she had always been the most dramatic one. You just stared at the doctor, slowly processing her words and trying to keep your most tranquil fa��ade. Your father kept asking questions to the doctor “Are you sure?” “What can we do?” “When will we know for sure?” you could feel the desperation in his voice.

You knew the doctor’s choice of words was an intelligent one. She was sure the diagnosis was what it was, she just tried to give your family some time to process before fully confirming it, the tests being merely procedural. 

The doctor opened the door and your parents stepped out. You turned around to look at her. “Is it serious? I mean, do I have a chance to survive?” you asked hopefully. A million different scenarios ran through your head, from the worst to the best. The doctor's face gave it all away. 

“I don’t know, as I said, we need to run more tests but we could see on the physical exam that your spleen and lymph nodes are swollen, that means it may be in stage III. I’m sorry.” Her face was full of sorrow and compassion and you felt a weight on your chest as you realized that was the way people were going to look at you from now on.

Weeks passed by and the blood test results gave away your family’s biggest fear: Leukemia stage III. That meant chemotherapy was the only hope for you, and it might not even work. Your parents were shattered over the news but you were oddly quiet, the only thing running through your mind was how you were going to tell your loved ones, how bad it would make you feel to break their hearts that way. You were a conformist person, in a good way though. It was easier to accept that you were going to leave this world than to endure all the pain and suffering of receiving chemo. You had made your choice.

That’s how you ended where you were: enduring recurrent headaches, joint pains, and continuous fatigue. It was alright, you still managed to do everything you had to. You enjoyed life. 

No one besides your friends knew you didn’t want them to. It was enough with the constant attention from your parents and friends, there was no need to add the pitiful and compassionate stares from people who never gave a damn about your existence. 

But there was this one boy, Ted Logan. You had never talked to him before but he approached you in science class asking for private lessons. It was true that you were the best of the class and he was failing almost every exam but you didn’t want to start a new friendship. At first. He kept bugging you every day, telling you how his father would send him to a military academy if he didn’t pass this class, how he would pay you whatever you wanted. 

“Okay, fine. I will teach you. Today at 6 pm at my house. Now please, leave me alone.” you finally snapped. 

He smiled and shook his head to get his hair out of his face. “Excellent!” He did his signature air guitar solo and you smiled at his goofiness.

Eventually, the private lessons became your favorite part of the day. Ted made you forget about your pain and everyday struggles. He had such a bubbly and energetic personality it was almost impossible to be sad or upset if he was around. He was a good student but with the attention span of a small puppy, almost nonexistent. His grades went up in record time and he brought you a treat every time he passed an exam as a way to say thank you since you wouldn’t let him pay the lessons.

You knew you were starting to develop feelings for him but you knew better than anyone you had to swallow them and deal with it by yourself. You couldn’t hurt another person, hurt him; the only though made your heart ache and tears well up in your eyes. What you didn’t know is that he felt the same way about you, he couldn’t hold back his smiles when you were around, you made him happy.

One day as you were going over the last lesson you caught him staring at you with his goofy grin plastered on his face. You mimicked it.

“What?” 

“You are a total babe when you talk about science.” he said and you raised an eyebrow questioningly while your face grew hot. “You always are but you are even more when you are sciencing.” 

“Th-thank you I guess.”

He reached across the table to grab your hand. “Would you like to go, like on a date with me?” 

Your eyes widened and you quickly freed your hand from his grasp. Everything you didn’t want to happen was happening. “I can’t Ted.” saying those words aloud hurt more than you ever imagined. 

“Bogus! Why?” he cocked his head to the side and your heart ached even more. 

“I didn’t tell you everything about me. I don’t wanna hurt you.” by this point tears were rolling down your face, unable to keep them in anymore. 

“Then tell me what’s wrong.” his usually happy face was now shaded with concern, you had never seen him like this. 

“I’m going to die. I don’t know when, I don’t know how, but the last thing I need is hurting another person I love. I can’t stand it.” you were a sobbing mess.

“What do you mean?” he was completely shocked.

“I have leukemia, Ted.” you said, your voice cracking.

He didn’t think twice as he stood up and engulfed you in a much needed hug. You sobbed against his chest as you mumbled I’m sorry's to which he answered by rubbing your back and whispering sweet nothings into your hair. 

-

A knock on the door startled you from your deep thoughts.

“Come in.” you mumbled putting your hand over your forehead. Fever was back again. 

The door creaked slightly as Ted made his way in your room, a big smile on his face as he closed the door behind him. 

“How are you feeling?” he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned down to kiss your cheek and you smiled.

“Suddenly I’m feeling a lot better.” You joked as you reached out to comb his hair with your fingers. “How was your day?” You moved, making room for him to lay down with you.

He rested his head on the pillow next to yours and stared at the ceiling. “It was okay. People started murmuring after you left today.” you could feel the anger in his voice. He hated when people commented about you, it was the thing that angered him the most. 

You put your hand on his chest. “It’s okay Ted. I don’t care about what they say.” 

He just stayed silent and put his hand over yours, intertwining his fingers with yours and rubbing circles with his thumb on the back of your hand. 

“I was thinking about when we got together.” you said and he smiled.

You studied his face. His profile was out of this world, his jawline was sharp and his full lips made you feel warm inside. The freckles peppered on his cheeks and nose gave him the sweet aura that characterized him. 

“I do it often.” he said as he turned to look at your face. His eyes were full of love, no had never seen anything like it. He adored everything about you and he always let you know. “I remember when you thought you were going to scare me off by telling me about your illness.”

“Yeah, how stupid was I.” you chuckled and he squeezed your hand. 

You silently stared at each other, studying each other's face and wondering if it was possible to be more in love than you already were. He slowly leaned down to place a sweet kiss to your lips. Your stomach did cartwheels every time he did it. You opened your mouth, granting him more access and he slipped his tongue in, making you instinctively grab the neck of his shirt and pull him closer to your body. His hands roamed your body and stopped at your ass to squeeze it gently. You tried to straddle him but a sharp pain shot through your kneecaps and you winced against his mouth. 

“Are you okay?” he asked after pulling away from the kiss.

“Yes, it’s just this stupid joint pain.” you huffed in annoyance as you let yourself fall against the mattress once again. That was the worst part. It had been three weeks since you last had sex and you were dying to feel him fill you up again. 

“It’s okay, babe.” he smiled reassuringly as he hugged you close to him, your head resting on his chest. 

“If I wasn’t so fucked up I’d fuck you all the time.” you mumbled against his chest, laughter making it rumble. 

“You are the best babe in all land.” he said as he ruffled your hair.

“I mean it, Ted!” you said as you laughed too. “I’m warm for your form.” you tried to put on the best sexy voice you could but it ended up making you both laugh. 

It was moments like this when you felt like all the pieces of your life fit into place. The happiness you felt was enough to make up for the years you were going to miss. A small part of you thought missing good morning kisses from Ted, moving in with him, having your own family with him, growing old by his side. It made your heart break every time so you tried to push it away for as long as you could. 

-

An ambulance rushed down the street. Its bright lights lit up the buildings and the siren echoed through the empty road. Despite the space being so reduced a lot of stuff was going on. One of the paramedics rushed with a bag of serum, another one checked your pulse and the third one put the oxygen mask on your face. Ted was sitting next to you holding your hand. 

You were staying over at his house for the night when you suddenly started feeling sick. Everything happened too fast. First you were rushing to the bathroom and then you had passed out on the floor, no air reaching your lungs. Ted didn’t hesitate one second and picked his phone to call an ambulance that would rush you to the hospital. You squeezed his hand and smiled at him. You were proud of his reaction; not everyone would have managed to stay so calm and poised in his place. 

When you arrived to the ER they called a doctor to check on you. Ted stayed by your side the whole time, talking to you, trying to keep both of your spirits up. Your parents arrived some minutes later and rushed to your side while you waited for the doctor to come. 

After a blood test and some tests a nurse came back.

“You have pneumonia.” she said and everyone sighed in relief but she kept her serious face. “Taking into consideration your medical history and your illness I’m afraid it’s going to be hard for you to recover.” 

You looked at each other, your mother’s eyes filled with tears again and your father held her as she cried. You turned to look at Ted and you caught him wiping a tear away from his cheek. His hand found yours again and you squeezed it softly. 

You didn’t want to die. Not now. Not like this. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. They told you this was going to be slow, it had to. It was so unfair.

“I don’t want to die.” you said as tears slid down your face. “I don’t want to die yet.” you cried.

Your mother hugged you tight carefully with the cables and vials you had attached to your arms. “Mom, I don’t want to go.” She cried with you as your father and Ted watched the scene, unable to hold back their tears. Until then you had always been the strong one, comforting your loved ones as they cried about your unjust fate. Seeing you so broken and fighting the idea of leaving this world was even more heart shattering.  

You had encouraged your parents to go to the cafeteria to grab a coffee so they would leave you and Ted alone. You didn’t know where to start. You still had so many things to say to him, and most of them were inexplicable. 

“Come here.” you whispered, motioning him to lay down with you on the small hospital bed. He obliged and you turned to look at him. He was avoiding eye contact knowing he would burst into tears the second he looked at you but you grabbed his face, forcing him to look into your eyes. You saw how tears slowly welled up in his and you smiled sweetly. 

“I love you so much.” you whispered trying not to force your damaged lungs. A tear slid down his cheek and you quickly wiped it away. “You gave me a good reason to look forward to my future. This illness has ruined my chance of having one but it can never take away all the love you’ve given me and all the love I feel for you.” 

You removed the oxygen mask, instantly knowing its importance, and cupped his face. His eyes darted from yours to your mouth and you leaned down, kissing his soft lips, trying to make him feel what you couldn’t put into words; the immense adoration and affection you felt towards him. 

When your lips parted you put your mask back on as he stared at you. “I love you too, babe. I will always do. You are the most excellent thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

He let you cuddle by his side as he drew patterns with his fingers on your back, his slow traces lulling you to sleep. Your parents came up an hour later to find you two hugged to each other. 

“At least she will go happy.” your mother whispered before more tears fell from her eyes as your father hugged her again.

[pjdredful]

The AV Club

Chapter 1

 "You know Evie, you've been coming to me for three months now. In that three months you've only spoken once. Just once to ask for water." Tony leans back in his comfy chair and taps his notebook with the end of his pen. I shrug lightly at it and continue playing with the frayed patch at the knee of my jeans. He gives a soft sigh and nods mostly to himself, I think, rather than to me. "I know you resent these meetings but the fastest way to get them over with is to actually participate." I give him a blank look and roll my eyes.  Tony is my therapist, or he would be if I actually spoke to him but I don't because I don't need a therapist. I'm not crazy. I let him sit in silence a little longer before I check my watch. We still have fifteen minutes but sometimes when I look bored he lets me go early. I think he's almost going to let me go when he switches it up on me. "Your mother said you're having nightmares again."

 "Step-mother." His brow goes up slightly but he only nods in acknowledgement or acceptance or whatever.

 "She says they're coming almost every night now. That must be frustrating for you." For a second I consider making a smart remark but my mother, my real one, always said if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. Which is why I'm quiet about 85 percent of the time. It's not like anyone would believe anything I said anyway so I usually just skip over communicating entirely. "When I was about your age I had some pretty weird dreams too. I'd wake up in a cold sweat, confused, scared, and angry all rolled into one. The worst part was, I didn't think anyone would understand because I wasn't entirely sure I understood."

 Ten minutes to go. I flick my eyes toward him and try to keep from looking as bored as I feel. So what if he had nightmares? I'm pretty sure they weren't scenes of the end of the world and everyone he ever loved dying in a violently bloody demon apocalypse. The truth is when I say it like that I can't really blame Jo-lynn for thinking I'm a whack job and forcing me to complete my legally mandated therapy sessions. You wake the house screaming about the end of the world enough times it's bound to make even the most rational of people look like a maniac. Tony gives it a beat and looks at the clock over my shoulder before giving a resigned nod. "Okay well its a few minutes early but I can see you're still not ready to talk." He closes his blank notebook and rests it on the edge of the coffee table very deliberately. He's not the first therapist I've been dragged to over the years, and even though I don't talk to him, he's actually kind of the best. The most patient for sure but even patient people have limits. He offers me a slightly tired smile and clasps his hands between his knees lightly. "I get that you don't want to talk to me because I'm the person your step-mom picked. I get that you think this is all a bullshit waste of time and I'm an idiot, and I might be. But I'm here if you do want to talk about what's on your mind."

 A bullshit waste of time. I couldn't have said it better myself and I can't help but chuckle a little. He smiles back at me probably thinking we've made some progress here. Maybe we have. I've smiled even less than I've spoken. "You're not an idiot." He gives me a slight nod and I continue. "But this is totally a bullshit waste of time. I'd say sorry about it but you still get paid, talking or not, right?"

 He leans back in his chair again and rests his chin on his fist. "Well we're talking now, so I guess I'm earning my pay."

 Hm. He has a point. I roll my eyes at him but I'm not really bothered. "Time's up, Doc. Good talk though."

 Tony stands and opens the door to the hallway out of his office. "You know I'm not a doctor right?"

 I'm almost all the way through the door when I snort. "You know I'm not a psycho right?"

 "Evie…." I wave it off because psycho is one of those no no words now. "Now wait." He puts a hand out, not really touching me but letting me know he wants me to listen. "No one thinks you're a psycho. No one thinks you're crazy or out of control or anything like that.” God. His face is so earnest.

 I give him a look and wait a beat. “Well I dunno the judge at my hearing seemed to think I’m very out of control.” That was all just a misunderstanding. Honestly. I’m not on drugs! Okay. Well. At the very least I wasn’t on drugs when I got arrested.

 Tony just grins at me and nods his head a little as if accepting that yes obviously someone thought I was nuts. His quiet chuckle fades and he shrugs a tweed covered shoulder. “Your mom just thinks you need someone to talk to about the things you feel."

 He almost freaking had me. Almost. "Step-mom." It's too late to fix and he knows it so I wink and slip my earbuds in as I stroll down the hall out to the waiting room. Sandra the receptionist waves to me as I slide out the patient exit door and head for the bus stop. I skip through my mp3 player until I reach my favorite song by The Decemberists. Los Angeles I'm Yours plays just loudly enough to drown out the sounds of most traffic as I sit at the bus stop waiting for the number 18. I'm not thrilled about having to see Tony twice a week but the truth is today is the closest I've come to wanting to talk about it. The nightmares, the demons, the monsters, the devil, and my AP biology midterm. All of the horrible things that keep me up at night. I'm so deep in thought that for a second I don't realize that a shit brown 1988 Ford Taurus is idling roughly at the curb where the bus stops.

 My bestfriend Nat pokes his head out of the passenger window and whistles to get my attention. "Yo…crazy face! Get in!" I shake my head with a laugh and run to the car, hurrying to beat the bus just pulling in with a nasty honk at Nat and his brother. I fling myself in to the back seat, squishing into a warm, soft body with a slight blush.

 "Hey Lirae." She gives me a smirking smile because it's pretty much the only kind she knows how to give. I pull my seatbelt around and fumble for a second looking for the part to click into before I realize that Lirae is sitting on it. And still watching me with that serene calm that lets me know that she's purposely sitting on the seatbelt thing.

 "Problem?" I fidget a little before letting go of the seatbelt altogether. Forget it. I'd rather be flung to my death through the windshield. I can feel my face burning as she chuckles and bumps my shoulder with hers. Lirae’s usually on but currently off again boy toy makes an annoyed tsking sound and a really nasty beer burp. She turns her head to give him a disgusted look. "Gross Orson. You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

 "No. I kiss yours." She elbows him in the gut hard enough to make him choke out a breath before she reaches across my body to pull my seatbelt back over. I go still as a frightened mouse and try not to think about how close we all are in this tiny rusting deathtrap and how warm Lirae's hands are at my hip as she buckles me in.

 "Can't have our girl getting hurt can we?" Uhhh. My brain has momentarily stopped functioning at the softly whispered comment. Orson is watching her very closely and I know that he's going to make my life miserable. He's the one friend of my super small circle that isn't really a friend. More like a tolerable associate. I wouldn't talk to him at all if it weren't for Lirae bringing him to the AV Club. Once he was in he kind of just took root. Like a really annoying weed.

 "So what's the diagnosis? Is Evil Evie still cray cray?" There it is. I roll my eyes and don't even bother to hide the smile when Lirae elbows him again. "What? The kid is a train wreck, we all know that already."

 Nat turns around in his seat as much as he can and nods at me. "Don't listen to dickwad there. He's just in a bad mood because Coach chewed him a new asshole at practice." I'm not that girl you know? The cheerleading, team sport loving, school spirit having All American Girl. That's just not me. For one thing I'm not even sure how football works. And for another I'd much rather date the prom queen than the prom king. Plus there's that whole thing where the weird paranormal shit that only happens in movies and TV seems to always happen to me. I don't mean to imply that I'm a cosmic joke and a walking magnet for the weird and terrifying. I mean to outright state fact. I am a living, breathing, magic and mayhem magnet. All that scary hoodoo crap you think can't be real? It is.

 So no. I'm not the girl that hangs with the pep squad or the popular kids. Orson however, well. He's the top jock and he acts like it too. I smile at Nat and shrug. "Like water off a duck's back." Nat chucks me under the chin playfully and turns back in his seat as we cruise along toward the clubhouse. See? Tony shouldn't feel bad, I don't talk even to my friends. "What are you guys doing here anyway? I thought we were meeting at the clubhouse at seven." It's not quite six yet but any change of plan that keeps me off the public busses is okay by me.

 Mo looks at me through the rearview mirror and shrugs. "We were at The Harbor." My brows come up a little at that. The Harbor isn't a place for boats and beaches in our town. The Harbor is a very seedy bar where you can acquire just about anything if you have the money and don't sweat the small details. Like, where said purchased thing came from, or even knowing the name of the person you bought it from. Needless to say The Harbor is the last place a bunch of teenagers should be. And yet…we know it well. At least I know it well. Well enough to get arrested for being underage in a bar I had no business being in. My punishment? Mandatory rehabilitative counseling. I wasn't there to drink but when I told the undercover officer that detained me that I was there to see a man about a stone he just assumed I actually said I was there to see a man about getting stoned. Like I said. Misunderstanding.

 "Any news?" I try hard to keep the hopeful note out of my voice. Everyone in this car knows my deal. Average dorky high school student by day, metaphysical super magnet by night. Well. That part is really a 24 hour deal but since most of the paranormal crap is powered by moonlight I get a reprieve. Just in time for those oh so thrilling biology classes. This weird dark attraction has been my curse since my eleventh birthday and there hasn't been a damn thing I can do about it. In short I'm just like Mo and Nat, Orson and Lirae. Well. Possibly not exactly like Lirae. I'm not sure there's anyone quite like her. But what I mean is that I'm just as normal as the next geek. I can't see or hear anything different than any other human, all I can do is 'sense' the darkness. It's more of a gut instinct which is so much more difficult to explain to a rational human being. Hey a demon thing is in town. Oh how do I know? Because I can feel it. What does it look like? Well I'm not sure really since I only ever see things like that in my horrible puke inducing nightmares. Yeah. This is my life.

 I watch Mo's lips curl in a slight smile even though he doesn't say anything. I'm hoping that means good news for me and bad news for my nightmares. He pulls off the main road taking a little used dirt switchback track. Orson, Lirae and I bounce around in the back like sacks of laundry, grabbing on to any surface that will keep us stationary as the car rolls over the rutted and uneven path.  Mo banks a curve that throws Lirae's body in to mine hard enough to make my head smack the window. I'd grumble but I'm too terrified to move because I'm pretty sure there is a boob on my arm. Lirae rights herself by pushing off my knee with a grunt and I breathe. I can feel the heat of her hand still on my knee right through my jeans. Probably it’s the closest I’ll get to being groped by another human being again in my life. I make sure to avert my gaze toward the window to hide the creeping red flush up my face. Maybe if I don’t move, she won’t either. As the car skids to a stop in front of the dilapidated shack we call a clubhouse I curse my ineptitude in all things romantic.

 "Hey Mo, grab the equipment while me and Orson get the cooler out of the trunk." I look up at Nat's tall, broad shouldered back as I extricate myself from the backseat of the car. He turns his curly blonde head to catch me giving him the curious side eye and smiles innocently. Well if I wasn't suspicious of him needing 'help' with the cooler before, that too casual innocent look certainly seals the deal now. I open my mouth to ask why he needs help but Nat cuts me off "Hey you and Lirae kick on the generator. I think there's still a full gas can in the shed." Okay he's being weird. I stand there a little confused when Lirae rests an elbow on my shoulder to watch the boys wrestle the extra-large camp cooler out of the trunk of the car.

 "He's being weird, right?" My thoughts exactly. I glance at her with a grin and shake my head.

 "When isn't he? C'mon it's getting dark already." I really don't like being outside of the clubhouse when it's dark out. Not because of monsters and ghosts but because there be wildlife in them there hills. What? Raccoons are terrifying! Lirae follows me but not before reaching out quick little hands to tickle my ribs.

 "Watch out! The raccoons will get you." Asshole. I slap at her hands and squirm away with a little squeak of protest. I'm a little more glad for the dimness of dusk than I was a few minutes ago because at least it hides my blush as she laughs at my responses.

 "Laugh all you want but probably you're the one they'll eat first when the Critterpocalypse comes." I pull out my phone to use as a flashlight when I duck under the low door frame of the shed. It used to be a child's playhouse sitting a few feet away from the main shack so it's a little cramped with the generator and two people. As usual if it could happen, it does, and always to me. I make a small disgusted sound and try to wipe the cobwebs from the side of my face. Fantastic. "Ugh. Gross. Here, hold this will ya?"

 Lirae takes the phone from my hand and directs it at the generator for me. I take a tick to check the fuel gauge just to make sure before I yank the ripcord a few times to turn the motor on. It sputters to life with a roar and the sound of music floats back to us on the warm breeze. I can just see Lirae's full lipped mouth curve into a smile in the dim light from my phone. "You're a mess."

 I stand still as she steps in closer to pick the thick gauzy web out of my hair. "Thanks." I clear my throat, suddenly a little unsure and super uncomfortable. Maybe it's the gas fumes. They're making me feel all fuzzy headed and belly floppy like I just got off a rollercoaster. Or maybe it's just being this close to Lirae, alone, in the dark. She pulls the last web away and we're just standing face to face. Her hazel eyes look black in the shadow and suddenly much closer than they were a second ago. So close I can see her heavy lashes fall closed as we lean in closer for a kiss. The second, the absolute second, I close my eyes finally deciding to do something, anything, Orson's voice breaks the silence and causes me to jerk back.

 "Hey fucker, answer the phone. Hey fucker, answer the phone. Hey fucker, answer th…" I glare at my phone in indignation. That little shit changed my ringtone for his number!  Lirae sighs and tips her head back with an unhappy laugh and answers it. I'm too embarrassed to realize at first that she hadn't moved an inch at the sound of his voice.

 "What?" It's clipped and to my ears a little frustrated but that could be hopeful thinking on my part.

 "Hurry your sweet ass up the beer is getting warm." The beer is in no way getting warm. It’s just that Orson is a dick.

 Lirae ends the call and hands me back my phone with a slightly annoyed look. "Hm. Saved by the bell." I want to comment but I don't have anything really to say. Other than sorry. Which judging by the look on her face is not the appropriate response. When I can't come up with anything helpful she lets out another sigh and leaves me standing in the dark of the shed. All by my lonesome. Great.    

By the time I make my way in to the clubhouse everyone is settled on the mismatched furniture we've managed to squirrel away here. I take a beer and my usual seat in the bright yellow bean bag chair that Orson's little brother meant to throw out.  There's a rip in the seam at the back. Not enough to spew little balls of polystyrene filler but enough to make it sound rude every time I sit in it. Everyone snickers a little and I roll my eyes. "So. What happened at The Harbor?"

 I glance at each of them but they all turn their attention to Mo. Despite being brothers Nat and Mo don't really look alike. Aside from the curly hair they're as different as two people could be. Mo is built more like a swimmer, sinewy and thin, his shoulders slump a little from years spent in front of a computer screen. Heavy lidded dark eyes spark with anticipation and I'm immediately caught in the expectancy of the moment. "I got a call from Manny while you were at your appointment. Warrow is back."

 Warrow. Oh man I hate that smelly guy. He has a bad habit of trying to grab my ass every time I have to talk to him. "Where was he this time?"

 Not that it matters much. Like I said. Don't sweat the details and everything is okie dokie. "Nepal. And he brought you this." Mo holds up a blackened stone with what looks like patches of rust colored mud caked to it. "He said and I quote 'To chase 'way night horrors so that me sweet lassie c'n dream of my…"

 "Okay gross I don't even need to hear the rest." I reach out a hand and take the stone. It's warm in my hand and a little heavier than I thought it would be. It smells like dust and something earthier that I can't identify. Up close it looks like a turd but if it's a magic turd I guess that's okay.

 "So what do you think? Is it the real deal?" It's hard to say so I shrug at Nat, still eying my magic turd rock.

 "I dunno but we'll see what happens tonight." I tuck it away in my pocket before finally cracking open my beer to sip at it. I'm not a big drinker but I need something to do right now to keep my focus from drifting back to what almost happened in the shed. "How much did he ask for it? Was it a lot?"

 Everyone goes quiet except Orson. He chuckles and stretches his muscular dark skinned arms over his head. "He didn't want money." I look at Nat and Mo who are suddenly and very determinedly looking everywhere but me. That only leaves one person who will tell me what's going on. I look at Lirae and even she looks a little uncomfortable as she plays with her own fingers. Why do I feel like I’m going to hate whatever is going to come out of her mouth?

 "You owe him a future favor of his choosing." Yup. I hate it. Oh God. Knowing Warrow this future favor may involve nudity, lewd and illegal acts, drugs and or alcohol and dark magics. Not necessarily in that order or combination. My horrified expression makes Orson's chuckle turn in to a barely choked back guffaw. "Don't freak! We totally specified nothing sexual or illegal. Promise."

 I must still look a little freaked out because she moves off the floral patterned loveseat she was sharing with Orson to sit on the floor next to my chair. Somehow this makes it all mostly better. "Well, I guess if this works it will be worth it. I don't know how much more Jo-lynn can stand." Lirae reaches up to tug one of my braided pigtails playfully and I guess that means she's done being irritated with me.

 "So what's the plan Evil Evie? We looking for boogiemen tonight or what?" More like or what. While terrifying and more than a little gross and overly graphic, my nightmares haven't been anything really solid. Just images of what could happen. I haven't been getting the 'feeling' that something wicked has wandered in to our town. Or if it has it's doing an amazing job of hiding itself. I shrug a little and shake my head.

 "I don't know. Aside from the dreams it's been pretty quiet. After the poltergeist last month it's like everything has just…gone away." Normal people would look upon this with relief and possibly hope for a better tomorrow. I look at the silence with dread bordering on hysterical anxiety. Evil for lack of a better term, doesn't die, doesn't get tired, and most certainly doesn't forget. The last six years have proved that time and time again to me. Everyone looks disappointed but no one seems to share my apprehension.

 "More time to drink!" Orson high fives Nat as they simultaneously chug their beers. My night has definitely taken a down turn.

[authorscarlettstclair]

Anora & The Dead Girl

I lean forward in my seat and stare at my reflection in the car mirror, assessing my work. I took my time putting makeup on this morning, choosing a brown shadow that makes my eyes look more yellow than green, and black liner. My dark hair cascades over my shoulders. By the end of the day, it will be mostly straight, too heavy to sustain the curls it took an hour to fix. I practice a smile, checking to see if any lipstick transferred to my teeth, but also testing to see if I can manage to make it look real. This is my chance at a new beginning, and as long as I'm careful, the past won't bleed into the future.

I glance at Mom. Even now she keeps her gaze forward, hands tight on the steering wheel, navigating the rented Ford Focus around another bend in this hopeless road. Mom doesn't want the past to follow me, but I can't help feeling guilty. I'm the reason she has to start over, too.

You'll make so many friends, a voice rumbles in my head. If he were still here, it's the kind of encouragement my poppa would give. I smile at the thought and straighten in my seat, clasping the round coin at my neck—my poppa's coin. It will be easier to let go of the past if I make friends.

Another bend and Mom turns down a white concrete drive, flanked by a set of red brick pillars. A black plate with gold letters identifies this as Nacoma Knight Academy—my new school.

Sweat beads on my forehead, as if the sun has moved inches from my face, and I know something's not right.

Oh, no.

My stomach feels like it's full of wasps as I focus on the building ahead of me. Balconies outside the third and fourth floors are enclosed with black bars, making each one resemble a cage. A girl hangs by her neck at the center of the building, four stories up. I follow the rope with my eyes, finding it tied to one of several stone spindles jutting from the top of the roof.

My fingers dig into the leather seat, and there's a familiar prick in my palm as hysteria crawls up my windpipe, into the back of my throat. I swallow the scream, glancing at Mom, realizing the momentum of the car hasn't slowed.

She can't see the dead girl.

Of course she can't. My mouth tastes bitter at the thought—that's why we're in this mess. Mom can't see the dead, and from the one conversation we've had about it, she also believes anyone who claims to see the dead is a liar.

A bead of sweat trickles down my face, tickling my neck and I release my breath. I can do this, I remind myself. The dead are everywhere, and I took precautions as I was getting ready this morning. My perfume has a hint of rosemary, the evil eye dangles off a zipper on my backpack, and there's a bag of turmeric powder in my blazer pocket. Small things, but they should keep the souls at a distance. Soul, not ghost—I don't like that word. It implies transparency. The dead I deal with look as human as the day they died: solid, fleshy, and like the nearly decapitated girl hanging by her neck over the doors, they wear their deaths.

This is just a reminder of the rules I set for myself—and the reason I need them.

Rule number one: ignore the dead.

But as we approach, I can't take my eyes off her. How hard must she have fallen? She'd been a student at Nacoma Knight Academy. Her uniform is similar to mine, except instead of a blazer, she wears a knitted sweater—longer, with two pockets on the front—and a skirt that falls mid-calf. While I don't think she's one to cause me trouble, she's been here a while and her presence is a vortex, sucking my energy. It makes me jittery, like I've had too much caffeine.

Mom brings the car to a jerky halt. I stick my hands out to stop myself from colliding with the dashboard, only to realize the bell has rung. Students dressed like me and the dead girl race to buildings across campus. Several move in and out of the doors beneath her feet.

Suddenly I regret my choice of accessory—a pair of purple and blue nebula tights. Personally, my favorite pair of the hundreds I own, yet nothing screams geek like space tights. I could have waited a few months to introduce these to the student body.

I don't move to exit the car. Once I'm outside, I have to worry about screwing up again. I'm the new girl, and people will want to look at me, talk to me. I'll have to make sure they're actually alive. Sure, I want friends, but I also want to become transparent, blend in so well with the crowd I'm hardly noticed. I want to be normal. If I can't manage that, I'm not sure what is next for me: another school?

Probably not. Mom is done moving.

"Any more signs that you're seeing things," she threatened on the drive to Oklahoma, "And I'll commit you."

She's already been researching psychiatric facilities in our new state—I found them saved as bookmarks in her phone. Bringing up seeing the dead was the biggest mistake I'd ever made, but I was warned and I didn't listen.

Mom must have noticed how pale I looked after her threat because she had reached over, patted my leg and said softly, "They helped your poppa."

If that were true, he wouldn't be dead, I think, rubbing the face of my poppa's coin.

"Anora, stop grinding your teeth!" I jerk, startled by Mom's sudden command. It's the first time she's met my gaze since we got in the car this morning—the first thing she said other than put on your seatbelt.

I let go of the coin, its heavy weight settles against my chest, and I relax my jaw, unaware I've been clenching it. Mom sighs, which seems to soften the flicker in her eyes. She reaches to brush a few strands of hair out of my face.

"Honey, I know this all happened so fast, but this...this will be good for you...for both of us."

She smiles so I smile back, only to make her feel better. It is damage control, something I put myself in charge of since our transplant to this windy state is my fault.

It is always my fault.

"Would you like me to walk you to the door?"

Mom isn't smiling now and she taps the steering wheel with her fingers. I'm probably making her late for her interview.

I lift my backpack from the floor, stifling my impulse to take another deep breath. I need to say something reassuring. Something like, That's alright, Mom. I'll be fine. Don't worry. I love you.

Instead, I say, "No, Mom. That's all I need on my first day."

"Fine." She answers in that clipped, short-tempered tone she's been using with me for the last two months. "I'll pick you up after three."

I get out of the car, close the door and she drives off.

Then it's just me, the school, and the dead girl.

Well, crap.

A sign to the left of the sidewalk identifies this building as Emerson Hall. I turn in a circle. Now that I'm outside the car, I feel like I've been transported to another dimension. All traces of the outside world—the street we drove up and the black fence and gate—are lost amid acres of land and trees. Even the wind is different here—quieter, like it is trapped under a glass dome, exiling street noise.

I drag my gaze back to the dead girl hanging at the center of the building like some sacrificial god. Even now, this spirit is draining my energy, making me dizzy, and the longer she hangs there, the worse it'll get. If I want to get through this day—and every one after that—I'm going to have to ignore her.

Easier said than done.

I give Poppa's coin one last squeeze, slip it under my shirt, and march into Emerson Hall, avoiding the girl swinging over my head. Right now, I have to find my new normal, and part of that is pretending I am normal.

Inside, several students stand in line at a counter waiting to speak to one of three women behind a glass panel. I hang back at the entrance for a moment, surveying my surroundings, mostly waiting to see if there's an energy suck—an indication that there are dead nearby. When I'm sure everyone in the lobby is alive, I choose a line and wait. A couple of students turn to stare, but I avert my eyes, looking at anything else—the plastic plant in the corner, wooden chairs pushed against a dirty white wall, black and white photos of buildings and long-dead or nearly-dead people.

A television behind the glass runs breaking news, the screen is splashed with photos of a deadly plane crash, deliberately taken down by its co-pilot. Officials make guesses as to the motive and the only thing I can think is that there are now one hundred and fifty more people bound here on Earth, murdered. My stomach clenches tight. Mom doesn't like when I watch the news. She thinks I take it all too personally.

What she really means is she thinks I become obsessed, and I guess she's kind of right. There are certain stories I invest in, and I'll follow every piece of news released on the subject.

This one is no different.

I watch the news until it's past time for my first class, and no one else is left in the lobby but me.

A woman with blond hair and a pink blazer smiles at me.

"Can I help you?" Her voice sounds robotic, filtered through the round metal intercom.

"I'm new. I don't have my schedule—"

"Oh! You must be Anora Silby!" She retrieves a folder from her desk and hands it to me via a small opening at the bottom of the glass barrier. "Inside you will find your schedule and your student handbook."

I open the folder and stare at the materials. My schedule sits on top. I have already zoned in on my first hour: trigonometry...a.k.a. Hell.

"Be sure you are aware of curfew."

"Oh, I don't live on campus."

"Curfew is countywide," she advises. "No one's to be outside after midnight."

"Why?"

It takes the lady a moment to realize I've asked her a question. She blinks.

"It's always been like that. Since the twenties. You know, after the murders."

"No, actually...I don't know," I wave my folder around to remind her I'm the new girl.

"It's nothing to be worried about," the lady assures me. "There haven't been any murders since then. The curfew's just in place as...a precaution. It's best if it's obeyed."

She says it like a warning, like she thinks I'm one to break the rules. I can understand curfew for campus, but why is it countywide?

"Would you like a guide to help you find your classes?" Her voice brightens, her smile intensifies. It looks fake, and I get the sense I'm not welcome anymore.

"Uh, sure."

It'll be nice to have a map of this place in case I get lost trying to avoid the dead. The lady disappears from view and I take a closer look at the pictures on the wall. I'm partly hopeful I'll see a picture of the girl outside in one of the photos, but I don't find her. The images are mostly of buildings on campus in their prime. Gold plates beneath the frames indicate the year they were built. My favorite is Rosewater—that sounds calming.

I run my fingers over the cold metal, tracing the name.

"You must be Anora Silby." The voice is energetic and warm, but it startles me. I tear my hand away from the plate as if I've been caught stealing and yelp, twisting to find a boy standing beside me. He has striking blue eyes and sharp features. My gaze drops to his lips, which are initially pulled into a smile until I face him, then it falters.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

I study him for a moment—lively eyes, faint color in his cheeks, and...warmth. He's definitely alive. I guess I stare too long because he clears his throat and says, "Can I help you find your classes?"

"Oh...um...the lady was getting me a map."

A smile stretches across his face again, brightening his expression. "I'm your map." He extends his hand to me, keeping the other in his pocket. "Shy."

I stare at his hand, confused—did he just call me shy?

"Excuse me?"

He chuckles under his breath. "It's my name—Shy Savior."

"Oh." My cheeks flame and I want to hide. I fumble as I cradle my folder in my arm and reach for his hand. "Anora Silby...er...I guess you knew that."

"Yeah," he breathes, and then quickly adds, "But that's okay. You have a nice name."

He doesn't move his gaze from mine as he shakes my hand firmly, and it is a little unnerving, especially since the pigment of his eyes is so concentrated—seriously, he has to be wearing contacts.

"Um, are you going to let go of my hand?"

"Sorry." He drops my hand and snakes his behind his neck. "It's just...have we met?"

I laugh. "No. I think I would remember you, Blue Eyes."

Shy smiles and turns the faintest shade of pink. "You just feel so familiar."

"I hope I'm familiar in a good way."

God. I'd have to say that, wouldn't I?

I'm breaking my second rule: Absolutely no boys.

"Yes." He narrows those gorgeous eyes and my resolve weakens. "Yes, only in a good way."

I inhale and hug myself, feeling self-conscious.

"Mr. Savior, I think it's about time Miss Silby made it to class," the lady in the pink blazer advises from the counter.

Shy turns and smiles at her. "Yes. Sorry, Mrs. Cole." He looks at me, clearing his throat. "So, what's your first class?"

I'm glad the distraction gives me a reason to look away from him because my cheeks are on fire. I open my folder to look at my schedule. I'd seen it a few minutes ago but now, I can't remember anything.

"Um, Mr. Val, trig ... in Walcourt?"

Shy laughs.

"What?" I lean away to get a good look at his face, but he just shakes his head, eyes focused on my schedule.

"Nothing—what's your locker number?"

Forty-four.

Shy directs me out of the lobby, down a hallway flanked with a large trophy case and a couple bulletin boards covered with flyers for homecoming.

"The lockers, dorms, and cafeteria are all located here in Emerson," he explains. "It's a little inconvenient, but you just have to make sure you have everything you need for your first four classes before lunch," he pauses and nods to my locker, then the one next to it. "That one's mine."

I smile at him and it feels like I'm falling into a trap. "I guess I'll see more of you, then?"

"Yeah." He grins, showing his teeth, and runs a hand through his blond hair. I like the way his eyes crinkle at the sides when he smiles, all things I shouldn't notice about him, considering my rules. "Yeah, you will."

The sunlight blinds me as we exit Emerson and I blink several times to adjust my vision before turning to watch the girl overhead. She sways ever-so-slightly, propelled by nothing but the memory of the day of her death. Shy has stopped, too, and watches me, following my gaze to the bars.

"It was to keep people—"

"From jumping," I finish quickly. "I know."

He doesn't smile back, and he studies me. The intensity of his eyes makes me feel like he can see every layer of me.

"Why don't they take them down?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Aesthetics, history, a precaution. The windows in the dorms don't open, either."

"History?"

"This place used to be an asylum before it was a school. Back in the twenties."

Oh, that isn't good.

I look back up at the bars and then around. So far so good, I haven't encountered any other dead, but that doesn't mean they aren't here.

"Do you live on campus?"

He shakes his head. "No, thank God."

"That bad, huh?"

He sort of laughs but it sounds more like a snicker. "I already spend more time here than I like."

As we cross campus, I conduct another sweep of the grounds and notice a thin layer of decay has settled upon the landscape in the form of weathered brick, buckled sidewalks, and rusted pipe rails. These are flaws in its beauty—cracks the past has slipped through. The dead are a part of that past, and I want to fix it. The urge tugs at my heart, twines with my veins and bursts from my palm. The sharpness is startling, and I squeeze my fingers into a fist, knowing no good can come of it, no matter my intentions.

Worse, I'll leave my mark on everything.

It's like fixing a china doll after her face has shattered—you might find a rosy cheek and an eye, but nothing prepares you for the chips in the already-broken pieces or the glue that never stops oozing from those cracks.

"Are you a senior this year?" Shy asks. His voice startles me, and though the question grounds me, I want to tell him he doesn't have to keep up conversation just to be polite. Still, I answer.

"No, a junior."

"Good. At least you don't have to start your last year of school in a new place. Where are you from?"

"Chicago."

"Why did you move here?"

The question makes my stomach churn.

"Things...got complicated." A weak response, but an answer. I'm relieved when Shy nods and doesn't ask me to elaborate. "What about you?" I ask quickly. "Have you always lived here?"

"My whole life."

Surprising. Somehow, I can't see this being the only place he's ever lived. His smile seems sad, too, and I wonder if he feels trapped like I feel trapped.

We approach Walcourt, which is shaped like a rectangle with large square columns running the length of a cement overhang, and ugly white pipe rails zigzag to the doors. Inside, the place smells like must and mold. The white floor looks yellow under fluorescent lights.

We walk midway down the hall and Shy's eyes capture mine before he nods to a door on my right.

"That's Mr. Val's class. Just to warn you...he's a bit of a prick."

So that's why he laughed earlier. Great. Shy steps back and then twists toward the door. He knocks and doesn't wait for a response. I hear a deep, stern voice.

"Mr. Savior. What can I do for you?"

"I apologize, Mr. Val. I'm showing a new student around campus."

Shy opens the door a little more and now Mr. Val is visible. He has a thick, brown mustache, brown hair, and wears a brown suit. He stands behind his desk, a piece of chalk in his hand, mid-lesson. I meet his gaze last and find him staring at me, eyes as black as a night without stars. I can already feel his disappointment in me, like he's set the Earth on my shoulders and watched it roll off into space.

The only thing that makes me feel any better is that he looks at Shy the same way.

"This is Anora Silby."

"Ah." He places his chalk in the metal holder, dusts off his hands, and reaches for a clipboard on his desk. "Yes, Miss Silby. Come in."

Shy takes up half the doorway, but I brush past him. Heat rushes to my face, and I can't figure out if it is from being on display in front of twenty students or from the slightest bit of physical contact with Shy.

"You're excused, Mr. Savior. I'm sure if Miss Silby needs your services, she will find you."

The class snickers. I glance at Shy as he mouths the word "prick" before closing the door. I nod—a grin growing on my face.

"Miss Silby." My smile quickly fades, and I snap my head toward Mr. Val who clears his throat. The students behind me laugh again. "It's a good thing Mr. Savior isn't in this class. It already seems he is proving too much of a distraction."

Mr. Val hands me something that looks more like a work manual than a syllabus, and a massive trigonometry book, then directs me to one of the only seats left in the classroom—front and center. As I take it, I notice a girl with long dark hair staring daggers at me. Our eyes meet, but her expression doesn't change. The only reason I'm okay with it is because she's actually alive. I can deal with living bitches—but not dead bitches. There's a difference.

I pull out my notebook and try to catch up on what I missed in Mr. Val's instruction, and look through the syllabus. As if I need any more confirmation that my time at Nacoma Knight will be trying, I find that we have quizzes every day.

Sighing, I glance up to find the dead girl from Emerson Hall outside the window peering in. Her head dangles to the side, partially decapitated. Blood covers the collar of her sweater, drips from her nose and the corners of her eyes. My whole body suddenly feels prickly, like I've been wrapped in a blanket of spiders, their tiny legs skittering across my skin.

As if she senses my gaze, her sideways eyes snap to mine and her colorless lips pull away from her teeth in a crooked, black-blood smile, and I know that she's come to search for me.

I look away and focus on my desk, but the dead girl's gaze heats my skin like the sun.

Please let her lose interest in me.

If she doesn't, I have a one-way ticket to the psych ward.

[shewantedtobeasecretgirl]

3. Pleased to meet you a. k. a. androids, reserved groupies, gentlemen and rude boys (Part One)

„Mom, are you asleep?” I whisper as I sneak in her room.

“Not anymore…” she sighs. “I’ve hoped since you turned five that one day you’ll realize how unnecessary this question is…”

“Sorry… I…I go back to sleep…” I feel suddenly guilty for waking her up in the middle of the night.

“I’m just kidding, come here, sweetie!”

I slip under the cover on the other side of the bed and crawl next to her. I can’t understand how she can still sleep in this large bed. Effie and I have maintained the habit of sometimes visiting Mom’s bed when we want to feel like children again, which is maybe pathetic and implies the urgent need of a psychotherapist but makes me feel safer than anything. I smell Dad’s scent on the pillow, which is probably only the cruel product of my mind as the cover of it got washed at least two hundred times since then. I swallow a salty teardrop to prevent myself from crying.

“Mom…”

“Hm?”

“I can’t sleep…”

“Of course you can’t sleep. If you could I would start worrying if you got kidnapped by aliens who put you through a brainwashing or replaced you with an android.” she remarks sleepily.

“Thanks… do you even know what androids are?” I slap back.

“Who do you think I am? Of course I know. Mr. Taylor is a huge sci-fi fan so every time I visit him he makes me check the whole building since he’s convinced that aliens are hiding in his home. Once he even got me to crawl under his bed, of course I didn’t find any aliens. But what I did find were his denture for which we had been looking desperately for almost two weeks. As for androids, he suspected me being one as well since I bought him raspberry yoghurt by chance instead of the strawberry-flavored sort which is his favorite. So please, don’t question my knowledge about androids.”

“And how can you be sure that I’m not an android who’s trying to trick you by saying she can’t sleep?”

“I give up… You’re worse than my clients…” she yawns.

“But at least I can change my own diaper without help…” I snicker, which makes her snort too.

“So what’s the matter? You’re already stressed out by the possible events of the next few months?”

“I don’t know. If something happened to Effie while I’m away and I couldn’t help her, I would never forgive myself.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty for leaving us. Actually, I’ve never told you but I’m as much concerned about you as about Effie’s health.”

“About me? But I’m okay, I’m healthy, I have a degree…”

“But you’re lonely and you live like a recluse. I’ve never heard you mentioning any friends from New York, you don’t see your high school friends anymore, you don’t have colleagues who you could go out with…”

“But Effie is actually my best friend, and…” I cut her off.

“I’m happy for having such wonderful daughters who are inseparable but you should start building your own life too…”

“Oh no, it’s about the “find a husband” thing, isn’t it? I can’t believe…” I sigh.

“No, ford God’s sake, no! I just think you narrow your world to your work and us and I don’t want you to feel later that you didn’t collect enough experiences…”

“With guys?”

“With everything! You don’t go out, you don’t travel anywhere, you don’t date but you’re 24. These supposed to be your most memorable years, don’t waste them, you’re can finally drink legally without any grey hairbreadth!” she nudges me encouraging. “But that’s why I’m glad you accepted the job offer. For the record, Effie agrees with me on that, she’s pretty much psyched about the whole thing and at least her brain is full of these thoughts instead of…”

“I know, she doesn’t leave me alone with her daydreaming�� But those people seem to be quite different than me… I don’t know any of them but Karrie… They are probably surrounded by party faces who dance on the table or smoke one joint after the other. Not to mention the job part of it…”

“Why do you try to convince yourself about having made a wrong decision? You haven’t even met “those people” yet! Besides, I’ve known for some time you want to do something surprising, something that is out of your comfort zone. When you came out of your room after the conversation with Karrie, I saw on your face that this was it! But for some reasons you play your compulsory hesitation this time too…”

“Mom?” I interrupt her, not because she’s not right but because I know she can’t help me to get rid of this feeling. “How did you know it?”

“I’m your mother and mothers know everything. Or, I’m an android who can read in peoples mind. Or, both of us are androids and we were programmed by the same person, which created a special connection between us. But androids need to spend some time in sleep mode too…”

“Okay, I get it… Good night, Mom!”

“Good night, my android roadie!”

***

“Carefully with the old bag, my dear!” Granny moans while I’m trying to help her to get out of the car. Mom stands already at the trunk to hand her enormous backpack to Judy. It‘s almost larger than Judy although she sorted its content at least three times to reduce it to the most necessary clothes and personal belongings. Anyway, she’s to spend her next months with guys who share their stuffs and have worn the same shirts probably for months so it was easy to convince her about keeping her luggage as modest as possible. With a few necessary precautions…

Judy looks paler than usual and this effect is multiplied by the dark shadows around her eyes. She spent the last two weeks with preparing for her new job and to stay true to herself she took it very seriously. After the interview she literally panicked and begged me to call Victor, my former high school classmate who works at Rock Candy so that he would show her the basics of a sound system and the tasks of a rock band’s staff. She hung out there after work almost every evening and in the remaining time she was listening to Ten and the tapes with unreleased songs that Krisha gave her until she learnt them to the last note. She got labeled as a nerd by her classmates for reason, her perfectionism made her immediately worrying about the possible expectations of her new employers. But it’s kinda cute how tenacious she tried to become a perfect monitor engineer in two weeks with the same enthusiasm as she studied for being the valedictorian of her class. She can’t do anything in a low-key way.

As we enter the main hall of Sea-Tac Airport I notice that the check-in counter of Judy’s flight to Cleveland has already been opened. Get it over with fast, I don’t want to get too emotional. It’s inevitable, though, Granny will start crying anyway and Mom always cries when Granny cries and so on…

“I’ve got something for you, Sis!” I turn to Judy. I almost forgot about it, the other thing was on my mind all evening...

“Do I want to know about it?” she asks pretending to be desperate.

“It’s very funny… You don’t even deserve it. I’ve changed my mind, I keep it.” I shake my head reprovingly.

“A present? But you needn’t have…”

“It’s a very useful present, if I were you I’d take it…” Mom winks at me.

“So… I think you’ll know for what purpose… ” I place a small package onto Judy’s palm.

As she opens the little box wrapped in paper and recognizes its content her face lights up immediately.

“A mini tape recorder! Effie, this is awesome!” she captures me in a rib-breaking hug.

“But there’s a rule! I want to hear the newest stuffs while you’re away. There are more tapes, we can manage somehow that you always have one with you for recording your ideas. As I receive a tape I copy it and send it back to you, okay?”

“I don’t want to get them lost, we have to figure out the exact method… I don’t know if I’ll be able to find time to record my ideas... or if I’ll have ideas at all, I count with busy days… But if I won’t, I still can use it to that groupie thing!” she raises her eyebrows quickly a few times referring to our recent conversation.

“I’m sure that surrounded by so many musicians you’ll have more ideas than ever…”

“Just don’t forget to eat, sweetie.” Granny warns her. “When you’re busy, you tend to forget to eat. Didn’t you forget your sandwiches at home, did you?” Granny’s biggest fear before travels is that we’ll starve to death so she always makes sure if we have a detailed plan about our meals at least five days in advance.

“Granny, if I wasn’t able to get food when I’m hungry, I would have already died due to natural selection!” Judy gently strokes her shoulders but when Granny begins to share her advice and warnings, nobody can stop her.

“And be cautious with those men! Don’t let yourself get drugged and seduced!” Here we are; the Granny Show has started. I think my favorite part comes right next… I glance at Mom and I can see she’s trying to repress her laughter, just like me. By the way, Granny is always right…

“Those men? Granny, they’re just guys in their twenties!”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about young lady!” Granny pokes Judy in the chest with her index finger. She leans closer to her and keeps pestering her more quietly. “Judy, my little star, it’s so embarrassing to ask this but someone has to do it… Do you have ‘that thing’ in your bag, don’t you?” Oh my God, this episode is better than I’ve thought.

“That thing? What is ‘that thing’?” Judy asks back suspecting she doesn’t want to know the answer.

“ ‘That thing’… you know… if it still happens… you have to take precautions, young men are so irresponsible nowadays… You know, I watch TV a lot, I’ve already heard a lot about that AIDS disease…” I see that Judy realized in the meantime what Granny was trying to say but she wants to trap her with the topic she came up with.

“Granny, I’m more and more confused. Please be more specific!” Judy plays the uncomprehending, innocent little girl. Mom turns in the direction of the departures board but the shaking of her shoulders reveals her.

“Judy, my dear, I’m talking about… you know…” Judy keeps waiting with an amused smile for her uttering the end of the sentence. “Condom!” she whispers in horror and at this point Mom, Judy and I erupt into a loud laughter, which makes her more embarrassed than the word she’s just said.

“First of all, I don’ think I would need ‘that thing’. I’m supposed to work with them, like ‘work’, literally. But if I still would, it’s rather the guy’s responsibility to be prepared. Aaand, if he’s not prepared but I can’t resist the temptation, there are bunch of ways of having fun to which you don’t need ‘that thing’. I’m sure you’re being a widow with one daughter and two granddaughters, there’s nothing new for you, Granny.” Judy grins, which makes Granny get close to fainting. Of course I know that Judy’s cheeky remark about sexual alternatives was only meant to freak her out, I’m sure as hell she would chicken out if someone tried to get so close to her that she would need ‘that thing’. But Granny is always right… And I took the precautions, Granny, even if you think you’re the only responsible adult in this family…

“Sorry Granny, I adore how much you’re concerned about me, I just can’t shut my big mouth.” she embraces her. “But I think I should go…” Judy is still wiping the teardrops of laughter from her eyes. Or are those already different kinds of teardrops?

While Judy is standing in the cue, I exchange a bitter look with Mom. Until now I was focused on Judy’s exciting perspectives and ignored the fact that I would miss her. Fuck, I’ll miss her a lot…

After finishing the check-in process she kisses and hugs all of us in a suspiciously short time and before we could get really touched she sets off with quick steps for the security check. Before entering the security zone she turns back for a second, sends an awkward wave to us and disappears in the crowd immediately.

***

“Sir… excuse me, sir… EXCUSE ME!” I have to repeat the same sentence more times, as usual. People at public places usually can’t hear me when I’m speaking to them, or even if they can, they misunderstand what I’ve said, which often leads to miswritten names, misheard numbers, wrongly taken orders.

“Oh, sorry… Good afternoon, Madame, may I help?”

The receptionist of the hotel turns to me distracted, as if he had woken up from a deep dream.

“As far as I know, I have a reservation for this night.”

“Your name, please?”

“Camden, Judith Emilia.”

“A moment, please… would you repeat it?”

I can’t believe that.

“Camden. C, A, M, D, E, N.” I spell and I can hear my voice getting sharper.

“Sorry, I can’t find your name in the book.”

“It’s maybe a group reservation. I’m a crew member of Pearl Jam.” I explain.

Suddenly his expression changes and his lips form a patronizing smile.

“I’m afraid, in that case I can’t help you, Miss Camden.” he closes the book with a quick move.

“How do you mean…?”

“Well, you’ve been the fifteenth female person today who claims being a stuff member of Pearl Jam.” he emphasizes the word “female” in a mocking tone, which makes me clear what he’s thinking about me. I feel my cheeks reddening. This damn blushing… Even if I don’t have any reason for feeling embarrassed…

“Look, I’m not like those female guests, I have my contract in my bag, I have every single document…” I try to get him to open the book again.

“I’m sorry Miss Camden, but our main principle is discretion, I have to follow strict rules, I’m only allowed to let in persons who arrive with the band or with their manager. You don’t need to show any documents, I can’t help you, I can’t make any exceptions.” he rejects my attempt.

I stare perplexed and frozen at him. But I decide not to beg him and every single brain cell of mine starts searching for a plan ‘B’. Should I call Krisha? She gave me her office number… But if I called her, she would think I’m a loser with the problem solving skills of a pupil in the second grade… The crew is probably not here; Karrie told me something about an afternoon sound check… Yes, this is it! Krisha gave me a list with the names, addresses and phone numbers of the clubs where the band plays the remaining shows of the US tour. If I called the club, I could ask if they’re still there and maybe I could join them…

“Thank you, I really appreciate you efforts, good bye!” I tweet to him and leave the lobby almost cheerful, relieved by my idea. The receptionist gazes puzzled after me, probably the other female persons weren’t so happy after getting thrown out…

I slam into the first phone booth, throw my backpack on the ground and tear off the thick folder from its backside. After a short search I find the number I need and I dial it impatiently. After a few ringing I hear a bored male voice on the other end of the line.

“Peabody’s Down Under…”

This time I’m more cautious.

“Hello, I’m Krisha Augerot from Curtis Management. I would like to talk with Karrie Keyes, from the Pearl Jam crew, it’s very urgent. Are they still rehearsing?” I try to sound impressive.

“Yes, they’re still here, I’ll look for her, hold the line, please…”

I hear a deep boom from the background, the band probably started playing in the meantime.

“Krisha? Hi, what happened? Is everything okay?” Karrie breaths heavily, she must have hurried to the phone.

“Calm down, Karrie, it’s just me, Judy!” I snicker.

“Judy???”

“Yes, don’t ask anything… I had problems with the check-in at the hotel so I decided to use an alias…”

“Problems? Alias?”

“Yeah, the receptionist took me for a groupie or what…”

“Hahaha, you? For a groupie?” she giggles. I feel somehow a little bit offended, although as I look down at myself I have to acknowledge I’m not the archetype of band chasing butterflies. My braids, my glasses, my long, brown and loose dress which ends where my docs begin…

“Hey, the world needs reserved groupies too, they’re also valuable members of society!” I defend myself. “Anyway, the thing is that I can’t check in so I thought I joined you at the club. Is it far from the hotel?”

“No, only a couple blocks away, a few minutes on foot. I tell you how to get here, listen…”

***

I’m standing in front of the stage and watching them play. Right after the last chords of “Even flow” Stone walks to Eddie shaking his head.

“You fucked up again at the beginning of the second chorus. You fucked up at the same part even during our first show, which wasn’t a big deal because we played for survival but we’ve already played this damn thing for one and a half year…”

“Because Dave’s fuckin’ cymbal noises drive me crazy, I can’t focus on anything… And that damn smoke kills my throat…” Eddie slaps back nettled glancing angrily at Dave.

“Hey, you’ve forbidden me to smoke on the bus, which I’ve accepted so I would appreciate if you didn’t want to crucify me for having a few cigarettes anywhere else…” Dave joins the quarrel in a sharp tone.

“A few cigarettes? You fume like a fuckin’ smokestack!” Eddie yells at him.

“Interesting, nobody complains about the suffocating sweet smell of Jeff’s incenses. I’ve already given up counting my allergic reactions to them, I’m basically suffering during the journeys, over and above my wrists hurt like hell. But my problems don’t seem to be as important as those of the others…”

“Hey man, at least I try to do something for our living conditions! That fuckin’ bus smells like a polecat hole, the ape house in the zoo is a rose garden in comparison to that!”

“A hole of alcoholic polecats, to be exact. Mike, you should do something with your messy shirts, they smell of vomit… And if you think that we haven’t noticed that you’re basically hiding a whole bar under your bed, you’re wrong.” Stone targets Mike this time.

“Hey, they’re for sterilization…” Mike tries to explain himself.

“If you don’t want to produce little McCreadys during the tour, just cut your balls off or wash your feet wearing socks!” Stone misunderstands his words intentionally. “Anyway, has anybody seen my guitar tuner?” he asks out of character.

“A missing object again? Seriously Stone, you should see an expert, this level of obliviousness is already pathological. I’ve got fed up with the whole band’s searching for your shit…” Eddie attacks him.

“I wouldn’t be oblivious if I could sleep more but I have to babysit Mike every single night, I get into the bed basically in the morning, I need intravenous caffeine, it’s no wonder I’m insane…”

“Hey, nobody asked you to babysit me!”

“Nobody asked me, but I don’t want to be executed by the furious crowd after we announce we canceled the show since we had left our lead guitarist dancing naked in front of the McDonalds in the last town.”

Everybody shouts with everybody. The roads glance at each other helplessly, they shrug and with that move they basically decide not to intervene. As I turn back I see a short and slim young girl staring the guys on stage with a scared face. She carries a giant backpack – as much as I know about the laws of physics she should fall back from its weight. She might be the new girl…

“Aren’t they supposed to be friends? What if they were enemies…” she asks with a questioning expression.

“They’re just sick of touring… Imagine spending months with the same people, even if they’re your friends… You would probably want to kill them in the cruelest ways…” I step to her.

“I hope this verbal crowd fight won’t get physical. If the singer and the bassist teamed up, the drummer might have a chance to survive but those two bags of bones…” she shakes her head.

“Yeah, the coroner would have a hard job while collecting their residues with a spoon… maybe a mop and a bucket could help…” I grin.

“But the relatives might be able to identify them from their teeth…”

“Or from their internal organs… like ‘oh my God, that liver looks familiar, he had his father’s liver!” we both snicker. In the meantime the guys begin to play ‘Porch’ and as Eddie counts in she clicks with her tongue a few times. “That’s too fast… If the drummer doesn’t take back from the pace the guitarists’ hands will ignite…” Okay, she must be the new girl… “Okay, what’s that guy doing?” she asks when Eddie starts performing a reduced version of his usual climbing show on Jeff’s amplifier to jump back on the stage. As he touches down he loses his balance, ends up on the ground and stays there rolling back and forth. “Is he performing scenes from The Exorcist? I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to eat roads for breakfast…”

“Hahaha, I don’t think so!” I giggle, and I decide to delay a bit revealing who I am. I like this girl. I can finally talk with someone sincerely, she’s objective, she doesn’t know who I am and I’m fed up with polite and diplomatic lies which are addressed to Eddie Vedder’s faceless girlfriend.

“If I hadn’t listened to their songs earlier, I wouldn’t understand a word from the lyrics…” she remarks during the last chorus.

“And do you like their lyrics?’ I ask curiously.

“Uhm… A little bit too much of fucked up childhood and family issues, or at least for my taste but it’s definitely a good point that they’ve broken up with the infinite permutation of the girls-cars-drugs combo… Although the singer should take care of his voice, his tone is very unique but he basically yells. On one hand, it sounds flat and on the other hand I guess he’ll have voice problems within one month…”

If you knew… Eddie overstrained his vocal chords a few times in the last weeks. He would have needed a break after the European tour but they didn’t have much time to recover before the next one in the U.S.

“Maybe I can convince him about it.” I smile because the song ends in the meantime. “I’m Beth, Eddie’s girlfriend.” I offer my hand.

“What? Shit… I thought you belong to the club’s staff! I didn’t mean to…Sorry…” she shakes my hand confused. “Anyway, I’m Judy, Karrie’s second cousin.”

“I know; you’re the new girl everybody talks about. And you don’t need to apologize, I appreciate honest opinions… But I think it’s time you introduced yourself to the others!” I push her gently towards the stage.

[donutpwns]

Journey to the Roots Part 4

Part 3 - Part 5

When he was twenty-five, he’d been forced to make a deal with a high ranked member of a drug cartel that had shared his cell in a Columbian prison. They’d helped break him out of the prison and set him up with a new false identity and all he had to do was be his schmoozing, showman self to get a few things on a plane and into America. Stan had done it; prison was hell no matter the country. He remembered vomiting from the stress and the fear in the tiny toilet of the air plane. He could still feel the cold metal of a gun pressed to his side as he handed off the package to his contact in the states.; could still feel the white hot blast of pain to his face that had led him to waking up bound in the sunbaked trunk of a car. The way his jaw had ached and his stomach had cramped as he swallowed hard plastic and his own blood but kept biting. That all too familiar moment where you’re pretty sure you’re going to die and all the romance of the idea has fled. Stan had defined that as his quintessential rock bottom, the worse always implied when he assured someone that he’d had it. The pinnacle of fear.

But shit if this didn’t feel a thousand times worse.

Ten years. It had been ten long, long years since he’d last seen his brother closing the curtains on him. How many times had he tried to call Ford only to lose his nerve? How many times had he punched in all but the last number before his shaking hands slammed the receiver back down? Too scared to reach out to his brother, even when he’d finally escaped that trunk and made it to a new town where no one knew any of his names. Too scared to even look at the photo that was now folded up in his wallet at times.

He believed what he’d told Mabel, about the other person needing to love you enough to forgive you, but that didn’t make him want it any less. He’d been a stupid teenager and while he regretted what had happened, felt bad for ruining Ford’s shot at something better, he refused to accept that he’d deserved what he’d got. Looking at Ford’s house, while more than a little hermit-esque, he was sure Ford had been enough of a success without his big fancy school. Their parents must be awfully proud; though Ford never really spoke with any of the family. At least, that’s what Shermie had said the one time Stan had seen him in the last ten years.

Speaking of Shermie…Mabel is staring wide eyed out the window, face pressing up against the glass. Once this was all done, Stan really needs to reach out to his older brother. Properly meet his nephew; let him know that he’s a good kid and gonna do great things. He likes his future great niece and will admit, only to himself, that he might actually miss the knucklehead when she’s gone back home. But hey, he only has to wait a couple of decades to see her again. Stan’s good at waiting. He’s been waiting ten years to see Ford again, what’s that a few times over for someone that was actually happy to see him?

He’s making his way around the car to help her force her door open over a snow bank when the door to the house opens. Stan freezes with his hand on the door handle; he feels like a deer in the headlights. Which is pretty accurate, given there’s his brother with a crossbow pointed at him.

“Good to see you too, Bro.” He calls over to him because what else is there to say? He resumes pulling open the door for Mabel and steps aside to let her out. He almost laughs at the yelp she lets out when she jumps into the snow, white going up nearly to the edge of her skirt. “Wouldn’t suppose you have a time traveling kid that matches mine?”

“Grunkle Stan?” a boy pokes his head around Ford’s legs. He’s a lot paler and more noodly looking than Mabel, but the resemblance is otherwise uncanny. He’s got this stupid smile on his face when he meets Stan’s eyes; once he spots Mabel though his whole face lights up. Ford tries to grab him as he shoves past him, fumbling that stupid crossbow, but he’s too slow. “Mabel!”

Mabel lets out another one of those god awful shrieking squeals and starts kicking her way through the snow towards her brother. “Dipper! Oh my gosh! I knew you’d be here!” once she’s close enough she practically leaps, tackling the boy so they both hit the ground, sending up a puff of loose snow. “I missed you so much you dork!”

“I missed you too, you dummy!” they’re still on the ground, collapsing into laughter though what’s funny who knows.

Stan watches them with a fond smile before looking awkwardly over at his own twin. To his surprise Ford is watching him and another guy with, wow, the world’s biggest nose standing beside him. Unable to stop himself, Stan lifts a hand in a half-hearted wave. So. What was he supposed to do now? Was Stan supposed to go or…?

The kids are still laughing in the snow. Stan shoves all of the confusing Ford Feelings to the back of his mind and makes his way over to them. “Hey, c’mon, you knuckleheads. Mabel’s already sick, let’s not—”

“HAHAHAHAHA!!!”

“STANLEY GET BACK!”

He hears Ford’s shout about half a second before he feels the pain. He jumps back on instinct; when he lands his left leg gives out from the stabbing pain and he lands flat on his ass. Sticking out of his calf is a long, silver knitting needle, with a spreading circle of red staining his jeans. He stares at it before looking up at Mabel. What the actual fuck?!

She’s staring at him with a grin so wide it looks painful, especially coupled with her cheeks appled by the cold. And her eyes—one eye, the right eye; it looks like a cat’s eye, pupil slitted, and almost seems to be glowing a sick infected yellow color. She’s got Dipper’s hand in her own and he’s wearing a matching grin, only it’s his left eye that’s wrong. They stand together, hands never unclasping.

Stan tries to scramble back away from them, laughing nervously, “Hey, sweetheart! What’s going on? C’mon, it’s me, your favorite Younkle Stan!”

They throw their heads back and let out another laugh in sync and, okay, Stan is over this creepy ass Shining shit already. “WOW, I FORGOT HOW DUMB YOU WERE BACK THEN. NOT THAT YOU’RE NOT AN IDIOT IN THE FUTURE TOO! HA!” their voices sound off, distorted and just…different.

A bolt fires into the snow between where the twins stand and where Stan is on the ground. They all look at where Ford is loading another bolt into the crossbow while stepping down from the porch. Stan realizes that if it wasn’t for the bags under his eyes and insane scientist hair, his brother might actually look cool. When the bow is reloaded he aims it at the kids and growls, “Bill!”

Thank Moses the other guy, who is still on the porch, looks as confused as Stan feels.

The twins tilt their heads in Ford’s direction, grins stretching impossibly further. “FORDSY! GOOD OL SIXER! OOH THIS IS DEFINITELY MY FAVORITE VERSION OF YOU! HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN FOR YOU? NOT LONG ENOUGH FOR YOU I’LL BET!” The twins laugh Bill’s laugh together. Mabel starts tugging on Dipper’s cheek with the hand not holding his while she continues, making the skin painfully red. Does he not feel that? Do neither of them feel the cold? “OOH, ARE YOU GOING TO SHOOT ME?! GO AHEAD! I AM DYING TO KNOW WHAT PAIN FEELS LIKE WITH TWO BODIES! WELL, I WON’T BE THE ONE THAT DIES, BUT SEMANTICS, EH, SIXER?”

That’s Stan’s name for Ford.

Ford hesitates a few feet from them, crossbow wavering. He meets Stan’s eyes briefly before scowling back at the two kids. Dipper has started tugging on Mabel’s hair while the two of them say ‘ow’ in laughing tones. “How—I did the ritual!”

“SEE, THAT’S THE PROBLEM WITH YOU, FORDSY. YOU SEE WHAT YOU WANNA SEE!” Dipper shakes his hand, long brown strands falling from his fist. Each of their non-fucked up eyes are streaming tears down their cheeks, Stan notices. “YOU WANNA BE THE SMARTEST ONE IN THE ROOM SO EVERYONE ELSE IS AN IDIOT. WHICH THEY ARE, SO GOLD STAR THERE, BUT SO ARE YOU. THAT’S WHY YOU’RE SO EASY TO TRICK. YOU’RE TOO SMART TO FALL FOR EASY LIES SO YOU FALL FOR ALL OF THEM! AIN’T THAT RIGHT, STAN? THIS GUY KNOWS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.”

Having both yellow eyes on him is very unsettling, but Stan still hears the words. Number one rule to big cons: always let the smart ones lie to themselves. You give them a seed of something they want and they’ll make it blossom with their own rationalizations and justifications. Stupid people needed a story, a show, smart people needed to think it was their idea all along. If they don’t want to ask questions, they won’t.

Stan knew a thing or two about half ass cons.

Mabel lifts the hand holding Dipper’s and reaches into the sleeve, pulling out the knitting needle to match the one sticking out of Stan’s leg. Stan swallows around the lump in his throat as she touches it to her own throat. That yellow eye is open so wide; whatever is going on has to make them numb to feeling. Ford had said the name Bill earlier; was this what Mabel had been warning him about? Was this what Bill had done to Ford? The thought of it boils his blood because his brother is an ass but no one messed with the Pines family, not if Stan had a say in it.

Stan shoves past the pain in his leg to stand; he wants to pull the needle out but he doesn’t know how deep in it went, there’s a good chance it’s staunching the blood loss. He reminds himself that he’s had worse, reminds himself of the trunk, and convinces himself that this is no big deal. Time traveling niece and nephew apparently possessed by a conman demon. Alright. Stan can deal with this.

“Hey, uh, Bill, right?” he gives his best show grin, shoving all the anxiety and fear and general ‘what the fuck is my life right now’ to the back of his mind. There will be time for that later, there’s always time for everything later. “While I agree that my brother can be a dumbass, why don’t we put the knitting needle down?”

This time it’s Dipper that speaks while Mabel moves the needle to his throat. “AND THEN THERE’S THIS DOOFUS. LISTEN HERE, STANIEL, YOU WANT NO PART OF THIS. ALL YOU’RE GOING TO DO IS MAKE THINGS EVEN WORSE FOR EVERYONE, BUT HEY, WHAT’S NEW THERE?” Mabel twirls the needle between her fingers in a way that makes Stan think of when Ford and him would play board games as kids.

Stan’s jaw aches as he forces his grin to remain in place. He just needs time to think, just needs time. “Hey, you don’t know me.”

“OHOHO, I KNOW YOU MORE THAN YOU THINK. GIVE ME THIRTY YEARS AND I’LL KNOW YOU BETTER THAN YOU KNOW YOURSELF.” The twins wink their yellow eyes together. Did that count as a wink or a blink? The look back over to Ford again, “YOU STILL WITH US, SIXER? I’M SURE YOU’RE DYING TO TELL YOUR BROTHER TO GET LOST TOO. GET IN ON THIS!”

“Trust no one.” The look in Ford’s eyes is wild and he’s raising the crossbow again with no hesitation.

Stan swears and sticks a hand out towards his stupid idiot of a genius brother, “Shit, Ford, stop!”

----------

He’s not sure what he expected Stan to look like, if he ever saw his twin again. Sure, he expected the resemblance, identical twins and all, but…Stanley had always been the larger of the two of them. More muscle, more girth, more personality. Alpha Twin since the summer that he gained a fraction of an inch on Ford. Quick to make a fist or a joke, Stanley was larger than life, larger than their dead-end Glass Shard Beach, larger than a foolish dream to sail the world.

He didn’t seem so large climbing out of his run down old car, shoulders hunched as he moved to open the door. His clothes were filthy beneath a new looking jacket; his hair was long and probably as greasy as Ford’s had been that morning. He was still making jokes, though, which infuriated Ford beyond the surreal feeling of seeing him in the flesh. How could he be taking the situation so well? How long had he had the girl? Surely not the same amount of time Dipper had been with Ford; he refused to believe Stan could have accessed the situation and made his way here in such a short time.

He was so focused on puzzling out what to do with his own twin, he’d almost completely forgotten about the two kids that were rolling around in the snow. Hadn’t seen the flash of the needle, the glint of yellow eyes, with enough time to warn Stanley.

His brother certainly didn’t seem so large on the ground.

It shouldn’t be possible: he’d performed the ritual! Sure, there was traces of Bill but the boy said he’d been possessed once before so—but how was Bill possessing both children? Even Bill had his limits. He couldn’t possess without an agreement, and surely he couldn’t possess more than one person at a time. Bill was powerful, insane and conniving, but even he had limits and rules. It didn’t make sense! It was a trick! Another trick!

“SEE, THAT’S THE PROBLEM WITH YOU, FORDSY. YOU SEE WHAT YOU WANNA SEE!”

Was that the trick? He wanted to believe Dipper was his family? Someone so eager to help him; that respected his work on top of a mystery he could drown in. Could Bill have fooled his tests? He’d left the boy alone in his house for hours, what could he have done? Had he seen the portal? No, no, Ford would’ve noticed him going to the basement. Right? This was a trick, another trick. Bill had gotten Fiddleford back in his house and now Stanley here. It was a trick, to force Ford to do what he wanted.

They weren’t real. The kids weren’t real. They were part of the trick. It wasn’t real. None of this was real, it was a distraction, a trick. Stanley is talking with Bill because he doesn’t see, he’s being tricked too. His brother was stabbed and is talking to Bill and Ford has to stop it.

“YOU STILL WITH US, SIXER? I’M SURE YOU’RE DYING TO TELL YOUR BROTHER TO GET LOST TOO. GET IN ON THIS!”

Trust no one.

He levels the crossbow at the boy and pulls the trigger.

The bolt goes wide as he’s tackled from behind to face plant in the snow. He glares over his shoulder at Fiddleford who is currently trying to grab Ford’s wrists. Ford pulls away, stretching to try to grab the crossbow. “Damn it, get off, Fiddleford! You don’t understand! They’re not real! It’s a trick! I can’t let him get in!”

“Calm down, Stanford!” Fiddleford is a weedy man but, Ford remembers vaguely, spent his childhood wrestling hogs on his family’s farm, and puts up more of a fight than you’d expect. “I don’t know what’s going on, but they’re just children!” a knee digs into his back, Fiddleford’s hands pressing down hard on his shoulders.

“HAHA! YES! FIGHT FIGHT! BATTLE OF THE—HEY, BACK OFF, I’LL—HEY!” there’s an echoing scream followed by a sickening sound.

Ford gets his palms flat on the ground and tries to buck off Fiddleford. He has to stop Bill; he can’t let him hurt anyone else. This is all his fault. Stanley’s hurt and Bill is right there. He gets enough leverage to roll them, slamming his elbow against his former friend’s jaw in the process. He pins Fiddleford with a hand to the chest while he reaches for the crossbow and tries to avoid a punch aimed at his face.

“Hey, can you pause Nerd Death Match for a sec?” Ford looks up at the question; Stan has a limp child under each arm, leaning to put his weight on his uninjured leg. Both kids are covered in snow. Ford spots the glinting silver of the remaining knitting needle on the ground next to a pile of…oh, disgusting. There’s another puddle of sick not too far from the first. Stan is breathing heavy; oh that’s a lot of red staining his jeans and the snow. “They puked and passed out as soon as I pulled them apart. So that’s a thing. Big nose, help me get them inside? Or Ford, if you’re done trying to shoot our niece and nephew.”

Ford scowls as Fiddleford starts shoving at him, climbing off him. He brushes the snow off his front. “Stanley, you don’t understand the situation! They aren’t—”

“Yes they are, shut up. You can explain everything once we have them inside and I’ve had a chance to take care of my leg. I have a ton of questions about this Bill guy.” Stan’s tone is stern and exhausted. Ford notices for the first time the bags under his brother’s eyes. “Now will one of you please come and take one of these kids? I just drove sixteen hours straight and have been stabbed and they’re heavier than they look.”

Fiddleford moves around him to take the girl—Mabel?— from Stan, cradling her to his chest. Ford sees a trickle of red coming from her right eye and down her cheek. He sees the same on Dipper’s left cheek when Stan limps past him. Oh, right, his leg. Ford hurries on his heels into his house. “Stanley—”

“Shit, Ford, you live here?” Stan scoffs and Ford feels personally offended, as if Stan has any room to judge Ford’s living conditions wearing clothes that filthy. Stan turns and pushes Dipper’s limp form into Ford’s arms; Ford nearly drops him at the sudden weight. “Hold him for one second.” Then he’s behind the couch and kneeling.

A strangled noise escapes Ford when Stan lifts the back of the couch, dumping all the books onto the floor. He’s not entirely sure what books were on that couch but some could’ve been important. “Stanley, honestly, there’s no need—” Stan takes Dipper back; is Ford going to be able to get a full thought out at any point?

Stan and Fiddleford place the kids at opposite ends of the coach. Ford groans out a sigh before moving to grab his penlight from his study. When he comes back, Stan is seated on the coffee table and taking a small pocket knife to his jeans around the needle. He slits from the puncture down to the bottom of his pants then proceeds to roll the fabric up. The bleeding seems to have slowed a considerable amount and from what Ford can tell, the needle was in enough to stick back not too deep. His sock and shoe are soaked in blood.

He checks Dipper first, pulling both eyes open and shining his penlight in them. The pupils react normally and both are the usual brown if not bloodshot, though the sclera of the left is filled with blood from a burst vessel. He’s got smeared blood under his eye that Ford can’t help but wipe away with his sleeve. Mabel is much the same, only it’s her right eye that’s red and bloody. Both of their breathing is heavy but regular, same as their pulses. Ford thinks about what Stan said, about them collapsing when they’d been separated, and looks for something to use as a separator for them.

“Uhh, Stanley, was it? Are you sure about that?” Fiddleford speaks behind him and he turns to see Stan holding the flame of a lighter up to the blade of his pocket knife.

Ford blanches; Stanley cannot be serious! “Stanley, there’s a hospital in town, we can just—”

“Nah.” He interrupts him again; Ford is going to strangle him. “Hospitals are bills and, more importantly, questions. This is fine.” The blade is black by the time he sets the lighter down. Ford himself winces when Stan grabs the needle. Then, in a single fluid motion, the needle is out and the blade it against the small puncture wound, Stan echoing the hiss it makes against his skin. The smell of burning meat hits Ford’s nose and he nearly gets sick.

Fiddleford goes white and slumps to the floor. He pulls his knees up to his chest and holds his head in his hands. “I knew I shouldn’t a’come here. Two hours and already so much I want to forget…eyes, eyes watching…” he dissolves into mumbles, though Ford thinks he hears “beast with just one eye” mixed in there.

Ford clears his throat, eyes locked on where Stan is burning himself. The skin is an angry red when Stan pulls away the knife, a sealed but puffed out circle in the middle. It disturbs him that Stan even knows how to do that. “Uh…” he swallows, “Fiddleford, maybe you could, um, get my brother some bandages from my bathroom?”

“What? Oh. R-right.” Fiddleford nods and looks grateful for the excuse to get out of the room for a minute. “I’ll, uh, be right back. W-with bandages.”

He stares at Stan who is purposely not looking at him, staring instead at the children. Unable to find a suitable separator, Ford just sits himself on the middle cushion between then. That gets Stan to look at him briefly before putting his focus on Dipper. Ford’s not sure what to say at this point. He’d planned how to ask Stan to take the journal away but not how to tell him anything else. He’d never planned on Stan finding out about Bill; never planned on Stan finding out about anything. Bill was supposed to be his burden to bear alone. His sin to atone for. But now his brother did know, and Fiddleford, and the kids if they were in fact real. Which, now that he was given a chance to calm down from the mania, he was coming back around to the idea of. If not, he had a knife in his boot and a gun tucked under the cushion he was sitting on for emergencies, and Stan apparently had a knife too.

“So, uh. This Bill guy.” Stan is the first to speak, it turns out. He’s rubbing at the skin above his wound. “That’s what that was, right? Cause I understand very little about what’s going on but yesterday that kid appeared in my car and told me she was from the future and you were in danger from a guy named Bill.”

Ford fidgets, tapping his thumb to each of his fingers. “She told you about him?” he looks over at the girl; she’s shifted onto her side and curled up, one foot stuck out until it’s nearly touching Ford’s thigh. Her face is starting to return to a more normal color now that she’s out of the cold but she’s still shivering. “It’s…very complicated, Stanley. I’ve made a lot of mistakes and apparently you’ve been dragged into them.”

Stan reaches a hand out and, for a second, Ford thinks he’s going to squeeze his arm or something like that. But no, he touches Dipper’s forehead instead, pushing the boy’s hair out of his face. Ford’s not sure why he’s disappointed; he’s still very angry with his twin and if he’d had a choice Stan wouldn’t even be here. “Well, we better figure out how to clean up your damn mess, Stanford, before you get these kids killed.”

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[undulated-raptor]

Blade Runner 2049 Non-Spoiler Review

Let me begin by saying that I absolutely love Blade Runner. It is one of the few movies, with The Godfather and Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, where no matter how many times I watch it, I remain practically silent. I grew up seeing Blade Runner on random lists of “Greatest Sci-Fi Movies of All Time”, etc. Needless to say, I was practically indoctrinated into loving the movie, before I ever even saw it. When I finally did, I bought the special Blu-Ray 30th Anniversary Collector’s Edition, with the The Final Cut, both the Original Theatrical and International Theatrical Cuts, and the 1991 Director’s Cut. I watched them all. Back to back to back to back. Personally, my favorite is the Original Theatrical, but I see why people prefer different ones. Again, the most important thing to remember about film is that film is subjective. While there are some objective rules about what is good or bad, most of critique is subjective.

So, this brings me about to watching Blade Runner 2049 last night. Again, I had been ridiculously excited about this movie since it was first announced, and my excitement only built when following announcements came, like Denis Villeneuve being named as Director, Ryan Gosling taking the main role, Harrison Ford’s return as Deckard, and especially Roger Deakins as Cinematographer. With each trailer that came out, just more and more excitement, to where I could hardly contain myself. My sister and her family came to visit over the weekend, so I didn’t take the chance to watch it until Sunday night. Now, Blade Runner 2049 officially has a 2 hour and 44 minute run time, according to IMDB.com, which from what I’ve read, seems quite a daunting task to most movie-watchers. It definitely, to me at least, did not feel anywhere nearly that long. I’ve read several other reviews and listened to several podcasts that have already talked about it, and it seems to be the general consensus that it felt too long and bloated, that Villeneuve was able to just pack in as much as he wanted without restraint, making a too long, boring, movie. I completely disagree. Not only did the time fly by for me, but I was fully wrapped into the movie from practically the first shot (the opening of an eye, a brilliant callback to the original film) to the very end.

Another major complaint that I’ve read online is several writers criticizing Blade Runner 2049 for having a “woman problem”. Now, a lot of what I’m about to say could probably be discounted by most people holding up that argument, seeing that I am a straight white male, but I think that that doesn’t provide nearly the bias that others claim. For me, there were some problems with female representation, but not necessarily the complaints they’re referencing. (The article in question is titled “Blade Runner 2049 Has a Woman Problem”, read from http://movieweb.com/blade-runner-2049-woman-problem/). The first claim this article makes is that Blade Runner 2049 fails the infamous Bechdel Test. For those that don’t immediately recall, the Bechdel Test is commonly used “standard” for testing to see whether movies have deep female characters, based off of three criteria: (1) the movie has at least two women in it, (2) who talk to each other, (3) about something besides a man. If we use this test, I will admit. Blade Runner 2049 does have multiple female characters, and some do converse with each other, the third part is never fulfilled. However, despite the article’s claims that the women in the film fall into male fetish archetypes, I disagree. Robin Wright, as Lieutenant Joshi, shows actual empathy toward Ryan Gosling’s K, while retaining a toughened exterior. Within the world of the story, this makes sense, seeing that she is a Lieutenant within the Los Angeles Police Department, a position which demands a certain amount of toughness. Also, yes, she does drink whisky several times throughout the movie. As did M. Emmet Walsh’s Bryant in the original film, who has a very similar relationship with Deckard as Joshi does K. (Note: If I remember correctly, Bryant doesn’t actually drink in the movie. It is, however, heavily implied that when he pours the two drinks in his office, both drinks were not meant for Deckard.) The article also mentions that Joshi sexualizes K, which I see not as a fault of Joshi’s character, but rather a well-made choice that highlights more complexity, not only of the relationship between Joshi and K, but of the world of 2049 Los Angeles altogether.

The article also briefly discusses the other three main women of the film, Sylvia Hoeks’s Luv, Ana de Armas’s, Joi, and Mackenzie Davis’s Mariette. Luv is described as “a tough-as-nails femme fatale in heels, coldly flirtatious, deadly murderous”, which she is. Believably so. Having seen the original as many times as I have, Luv reminds me an awful lot of a more advanced version of Daryl Hannah’s Pris, a cold, calculating killer. It is also mentioned that Hoeks kisses Gosling’s K in the climax, which the article calls “laughably improbable and out-of-nowhere ...straight out of an S&M dungeon.” Again, I have to disagree with the writer. The kiss, which is delivered at a pivotal moment of the climax, has, to me, a sense of the departing embrace between respectful enemies. (I can explain more, but I want to stay as far away from spoilers as I can for this writing. My next one will most likely go more in depth). Switching to Ana de Armas’s Joi, the article refers to her as “a purchasable housewife style AI program whose greater yearnings all revolve around her devotion” to K. However, I think this claim misses the most important point of Joi, in that she is supposed to be nothing more than a caricature. Joi is an AI program, one early in the eventual evolution of holographic entities. Thinking within the world of the film, the complaint that she is not more fleshed out would be similar to complaining that a Nexus-1 or Nexus-2 Replicant was not fleshed out. They aren’t because they are the early stages. This is even addressed within the movie, as Mackenzie Davis’s Mariette tells her “...inside you, and there’s not as much there as you think.” Speaking of Mackenzie Davis, I actually agree with the article in that the movie “criminally underuses… [her] as a “hooker with a heart of gold,” a movie trope so tiresome and old school it’s almost nostalgic.” Again, I actually agree with this sentiment, and I think it’s one of the very few actual problems I had with the movie.

The next main problem that the article discusses is that Harrison Ford was brought back, while his co-star from the original Sean Young was left behind. Her character, Rachael, is in the movie, though off-screen. It is established rather early in the film that her character died seemingly shortly after the events of the first movie, during childbirth. This revelation is the driving force for the rest of the movie, as K is trying to find the child, due to personal curiosity, while Jared Leto’s Niander Wallace sends Sylvia Hoeks’s Luv to tail K, then bring the child back to him, feeling the need to make Replicants that can produce their own offspring. Rachael’s presence is felt throughout the movie, and even through CGI de-aging, she does make an important surprise cameo in the movie.

So, I’ve realized that I started this as a conversation/review of Blade Runner 2049, and have spent most of my time rebutting an article that I only somewhat disagree with. This may have not been the way I wanted to go about doing this, but it also let me get out some of my first and heaviest thoughts about the film. Now, we go on to my just rambling about a film I absolutely loved, but do have some issues with. First, something I wasn’t overly fond of. I know Villeneuve is a brilliant director, and very few people can tell a story like him and Roger Deakins. That being said, I was left a bit confused by the amount of nudity within the film. I’m not sure necessarily that it was gratuitous, and I’ll feel more certain about that after a second or third rewatch, but it was a bit overwhelming at times. (Particularly a giant holographic nude Joi, though I see why that scene in particular is important.) However, in dealing with nudity, this movie has one of the craziest and most interesting love scenes that I have ever seen. *Mild Spoilers Ahead, But Only Kind Of* There is a scene where K brings home Davis’s Mariette so that he and Joi can be together, physically. In doing so, de Armas’s holographic Joi “syncs” with Mariette, but the sync is slightly off. As such, while they are beginning to kiss and undress, Mariette and Joi seem to phase back and forth, as well as their hands are slightly differently placed on K. Like I said, it was crazy to watch, but definitely interesting. (Also note: very minimal nudity during that scene, almost as if Villeneuve is careful to point out the purity or innocence of this, compared to the lewdness of the streets.)

Overall, I absolutely loved Blade Runner 2049. For those of you looking for an answer as to whether Deckard is a Replicant or not, don’t worry. You don’t get an answer. For those of wondering if K is a Replicant, don’t worry. They tell you he is almost immediately. For those of you that may be worried that the studio made Gosling do a voiceover narration throughout the film, don’t worry. They didn’t. (I love the Original Theatrical Cut of the first movie, with Ford’s narration, but I  definitely think it was for the best that it was not done for this movie). Also, this movie plays out a bit more of just a regular Detective Story rather than more of the classic Film Noir that the original did, but it pays tribute to the original perfectly, without drowning itself in nostalgia or sequel teases. To sum up, I think that if you enjoyed the original, or if you just want a movie that’s different from most things you see, definitely give Blade Runner 2049 a shot. Hopefully you’ll have a better movie-going experience than I did. Side Note: there were two 15-16 year old girls that sat directly in front of me, there only because “Oh my god! Ryan Gosling is so hot!”, who were on their phones almost the entire time, and I still absolutely loved this movie.

P.S. - I feel I can’t talk too much about the main cast without ruining potential spoilers, so expect a much more in-depth spoiler-filled review coming later this week. I might even go watch it again, to reply and possibly counter some of my own arguments I made here, who knows?).

[theconservativebrief]

Every week, critic at large Todd VanDerWerff and internet culture reporter Aja Romano get together to discuss the latest episode of HBO’s sci-fi drama Westworld. This week, they’re discussing the second season’s eighth episode, “Kiksuya.” Spoilers follow! Proceed with caution if you haven’t seen the episode!

Todd VanDerWerff: “Kiksuya” could have — and probably should have — gone so, so wrong.

For as much as I admire Westworld’s attempts to depict a kind of uber-struggle for respect, autonomy, and self-definition that represents every oppressed person in the history of humanity, by using the hosts to stand in for all of them (and often explicitly coding them as such), there have been plenty of times when the show has tossed these balls in the air and then had no idea what to do with them, just barely catching them on the way down instead of starting to nimbly juggle.

When you mix that with the idea of an episode about the Native American “Ghost Nation” hosts, performed almost entirely in Lakota, there are so many places where the whole enterprise could absolutely shatter into tiny pieces . That’s before I even start in on some of the episode’s creative decisions, like the fact that it’s basically an episode-long flashback ostensibly delivered as an expository monologue to a young child (who is actually an ancient host, but you know what I mean).

Yet when you consider that Westworld’s primary storytelling mode is, “Here is what’s happening and why,” it’s not surprising that an episode that is mostly exposition works as well as this one does. I wouldn’t call “Kiksuya” perfect, but it does fill in some gaps in the Westworld timeline, occasionally too conveniently — see also that encounter with Logan out in the wilds of Westworld. It also offers a couple of terrific scenes, including a nighttime meeting between Akecheta (Zahn McClarnon) and Ford (Anthony Hopkins) that takes place amid a gruesome tableau of Ghost Nation hosts frozen in place and has more of the horror and eeriness of the “creation meeting the creator” feeling the show strives for than almost any other scene of its ilk. I even liked the sense that Ghost Nation had adapted the circumstances of what happen to hosts after they die into its mythology.

All told, it’s a little languid and could have lost 10 minutes without too much trouble. (There are a lot of gigantic landscape shots, which eventually grew repetitive.) But “Kiksuya” has the visceral emotion that the series often lacks, and McClarnon is a terrific leading man. This is probably my favorite episode of the season so far, which I would not have expected going in. What did you think?

Lots and lots of wide shots… HBO

Aja Romano: I definitely agree. McClarnon is a superb actor and this episode could have fallen flat in multiple moments, but I felt like it was all held together by his dawning realizations and the tremor of understanding in his eyes.

The moment in the scene where he meets Ford, when Ford orders him to analyze and he realizes that he can’t fight his own programming, is as close to pure horror as Westworld has ever gotten for me, and the writers (Carly Wray and Dan Dietz) get there mainly by reliance on character and emotion. That’s a strong choice, and shows just how much they had to work with in McClarnon, because the narrative of this episode otherwise gives us more of Westworld’s tendency to really drag out explanations and plot reveals. But ultimately, even when I noticed the lagging pace and the redundancy of the exposition, I just didn’t care because I was enjoying the characterization and the emotional impact of the story so much.

I think where this story loses a little bit of momentum is in how it ultimately connects with its two contemporary tentpoles — Emily’s love/hate relationship with her father, and whatever the hell is going on with Maeve. Akecheta’s encounter with Emily felt anticlimactic and cryptic, and it didn’t tell me anything new about either character. (She’s definitely a hybrid, though!)

I feel like the reveal that he was attempting all along to protect Maeve’s daughter, not steal her, is too easy, sidestepping some of the the complicated implications of how season one habitually framed his actions as threatening. And it implies that Maeve may have somehow had racial biases programmed into her reactions to him, which is a huge thing to hint at but gloss over.

Of course, his framing of the narrative could well be false, especially given what we see of Maeve at the end of the episode. I’m not entirely sure what to make of their exchange, mainly because I’m not sure what he gained from it. She gained a new ally, and he gained the chance to explain himself. But it didn’t seem to move the plot forward at all. What did I miss?

Take my heart with you when you go. HBO

Todd: I guess the implication here is that Maeve and Akecheta now form an axis of power devoted to escaping the park before “the deathbringer” (Dolores) destroys everybody. As story development goes, this isn’t bad, but it relies too heavily on us thinking Maeve might really perish, a victim of Delos’s disinterest in preserving anything but her rogue code, and I just don’t think for a second Westworld is going to unceremoniously kill off its second lead.

One of the things that frustrates me about “Kiksuya” is the way in which much of it seems to exist solely to prove to skeptics that much of the story was planned out from the beginning. That made for some gorgeous imagery — Maeve confronting the maze in the dust chief among those images — but the way that Westworld can feel a little schematic, like assembling a piece of furniture where it’s not quite clear how everything fits together until the end, is heavily tied to this sort of planning. I haven’t quite been able to escape the idea that the show thinks its core audience is everybody who reads the Westworld subreddit. And, honestly, maybe it is.

Still, I have to agree that the episode came as close to being a horror tale as Westworld ever has, rivaling even some of the darker moments for Dolores in season one. Akecheta’s journey to the underworld in search of his disappeared love was weird and gorgeous and mythic, one of the few times this season that the mash-up of very old stories and very new technology has hit its true potential to reveal the messy underside of both aspects of the show. When he came across her frozen, empty body, standing amid so many other decommissioned hosts, boy, McClarnon makes every single second of that revelation play. It’s horror and myth and tragedy all at once, hitting the sorts of heights I wish the show was able to attain more often.

There’s been a lot of speculation that Ghost Nation would tie a lot of this season’s mysteries together once its backstory was revealed, and I guess “Kiksuya” sort of does this. Now that we know the maze is something Akecheta and those he “woke up” are deliberately spreading and that he’s come to think of his “tribe” as encompassing all awakened hosts around the park, certain aspects of the series make more sense. And I love that he’s the one who first came up with the idea of a “door,” when he saw a massive construction project and realized he lived in the wrong world. I just wish the maze felt to me like something more than a cool image, that it felt like an actual symbol for something deeper than a riddle.

But that’s all quibbles. The idea that the world is wrong has always been a potent one on this show, and season two has drifted from it just a tiny bit. I’m glad it had such centrality here, and even if I’m not sure why Maeve and Akecheta are teaming up, I’m glad they are. Somebody has to stop the Deathbringer. We’ve only got two episodes left, Aja, so where do you think all of this is headed? And is there any way to redeem my onetime favorite Dolores?

Aja: I think if we keep thinking about the mythology of Westworld, we end up where we started, enmeshed in cyclical pathways, probably with a giant inferno in the bargain, given how much fiery foreshadowing we’ve been treated to this season. Given where we seem to be headed — a giant cast reunion in the Valley Beyond — my speculation is that the question of Dolores’ redemption might be answered through the maze itself.

At this point, the only thing that could really redirect her course is to be faced with a direct threat that requires her to join forces, with the other hosts or the humans or both. And we know that at the center of every proper Grecian labyrinth is a proper Grecian minotaur. It seems to me that the best method to bar the way out of Westworld, introduce an escalated conflict for season three, and give Dolores a chance to redeem herself, is to unveil the bull at the center of the maze in the final act — whether it’s Ford 2.0 or something new.

Of course, this could also be a feeble attempt on my part to play Westworld’s game of catering to its subreddit. I hope not, because the lovely thing about an episode like this one is that its emphasis on character development reminds us that the emotional and socially conscious core of Westworld is much more rewarding than the endless gamification of its story about gamification.

Season two has been steadily leading us toward an intersectional awareness of systems of oppression, in which we see characters like Akecheta — and Lee, whose abrupt tearful apology to Maeve I didn’t wholly buy, but which seemed in keeping with the episode’s theme — becoming aware that their problems aren’t solely their own.

That intersectionality is almost certainly going to end up manifesting physically in the final episode. Whether Dolores gets on board or not, it seems fitting if, ultimately, we learn that the only way out for the characters we’ve met along the way is to wage an even bigger power struggle against a monster yet unseen.

Original Source -> “Kiksuya” is Westworld season 2’s best episode so far

via The Conservative Brief