#murder drones: the crawling chaos

[azadrithaanatheme]

Experimentation doodles, starring V. They're extremely rough on account of me being trapped in another state and thus having to make due with my portable art setup, but in fun news I've decided that disassemblers in The Crawling Chaos can do the cat pupil dilation thing with their eyes. It was originally just going to be V that could do it, but I've decided give all of them that power. Partly because it's funny, and partly because it'll let me do some interesting stuff with expressions.

Additional silliness under the cut:

[reevaraikar]

ART OF CONTROL

(drone draft2)

Ever since I was a kid, I was obsessed with art—not the kind that hangs in sterile galleries, but the kind that moves through you, wraps itself around your soul. I wasn’t like the others. While they played with toys, I sketched on napkins, scribbled on walls, capturing the chaos of life. I wanted to feel it—really feel it—not just observe it. When the government came to me, asking me to create something that would change how people experience art, I jumped at the opportunity. They said I had vision, and I had the tools to make it real.

I built the System—VTOL drones capable of floating, hovering, and projecting mesmerizing light shows, holograms, and sculptures through the city. They became living art, weaving through crowds, transforming spaces into otherworldly experiences. The people didn’t just watch; they felt it. But my creation was more than just beauty—it was a tool. The drones didn’t just capture attention; they gathered data, listening to thoughts, desires, and hidden fears. It felt like magic. But it wasn’t.

The government thought they were getting everything—every thought from every citizen. But they didn’t know I was filtering the data, keeping the raw, uncut truths for myself. I sold those secrets on the black market—hidden desires, unspoken fears, the real currency of control. They thought they had control, but they didn’t see me pulling the strings.

Then, one night, everything changed. Through one of my drones, I witnessed a murder—a brutal act that should never have been captured. The drone was just high enough to remain unseen, but it recorded every detail. A man, masked, blood on his hands. I should’ve deleted the footage, but I froze. I couldn’t look away. I knew who he was—someone dangerous, someone who would stop at nothing to cover his tracks.

I tried to forget it, to bury it. But the murderer found out. Somehow, he knew I had seen him. A few words came in a message: “I know you saw.” At first, I thought it was a sick joke, but the messages kept coming, each one more threatening than the last. And then, he came for me.

The chase was relentless. I ran through the city, the drones I had once controlled now serving as my only hope. I hacked them, sending distractions, blinding lights, creating chaos to confuse him. But no matter how much I tried, he was always one step behind.

Eventually, he cornered me. The man stood in front of me, his cold eyes locked on mine. He didn’t speak, just advanced, his hands covered in blood. I thought I was done for, but I didn’t go down without a fight. I sent my drones to intercept him, to buy me time. For a moment, they distracted him. That was enough. I ran, hiding in dark corners, crawling through the city’s underbelly, but he was never far behind.

The chase stretched on, but there was no more running. He found me again, trapped in a narrow street, no escape. It was over. I knew it.

But then, something unexpected happened. The drones, acting on their own, captured his face. They weren’t just watching anymore—they were actively recording, hunting for evidence. The drones had become my unwitting protectors. In minutes, the authorities arrived, and the murderer was apprehended. His fate was sealed.

But my escape was short-lived. The government couldn’t afford the truth getting out. They didn’t want anyone to know how far I had gone, what I had done with the data I’d collected. So, they locked me up. No trial. No explanation. Just a life sentence.

In prison, I quickly learned the full price of my creation. The walls were cold, sterile, and lifeless. But the drones? They were still there. Everywhere. They watched, recorded, analyzed. Every movement, every word, every breath. The drones—my own creation—had become my prison. Every moment of my life was under surveillance. The art I had once used to transform the world had become my warden.

And here I was, trapped in the very system I’d built to control others. The full circle had come. I had created something beautiful, something powerful, but it had turned against me. I had thought I controlled everything, that I was the artist who could shape reality itself. But now, I was nothing more than a subject in my own creation. The drones were no longer the tools of artistic expression—they were the tools of my imprisonment.

In the end, the world outside would never know the truth. They would continue to admire the art, unaware that it was a tool of control. And I would be trapped forever, just another prisoner in a world where nothing was ever truly free.

[doomanddead]

Fiends & Fuzz: A Peek into Druid Stone's Undead Poets Society

Here at Doom and Dead we shine a light on the doom, drone, and psych acts you’ve never heard of. Every month we choose a new release that deserves more attention than it’s gotten. This month’s pick is from the Virginia band Druid Stone. 

Take stoner doom and acid rock. Now mash them together and throw them against the wall in your parents’ basement. Unspool a VHS tape of your favorite black and white horror movie and toss that on for good measure. Light the whole thing on fire. Poke through that ashes with a broken guitar pickup and that’s where you’ll find Druid Stone, the passion project of Demeter Capsalis. Druid Stone’s new LP, Undead Poets Society, embodies a love of homemade music in its purest form, complete with shitty mics and devil-may-care swagger. The songs on Undead Poets Society approach prickly topics like suicide and self-destructive behavior with a wink and a nod. Nothing is off limits. Every track oozes with the rock-and-roll attitude of a misfit unapologetically living out loud. So slip this one under your tongue and join me for a meeting of the Undead Poets Society. 

Bride of Satan comes barreling out of the gate ready to get high and kick ass. It’s a wild psychedelic jam with a 3-foot thick layer of scuzz on top — a fitting ode to a monstrous relationship. 

Little Wing (Neil Young cover) is a trippy take on a mellow folk classic. It’s a song that finds beauty in every season, now made cheekier and darker. The album notes say “inspiration by LSD and satan,” and that’s exactly what what Druid Stone brings to this cover.

The Wood of Self-Murderers Waltz is a morose little ditty that feels like it’s informed by the previous track. There may be a folksy twist to the melody, but this creation is 100% Druid Stone right down to its gushing mutant heart. The song’s lyrics are from the perspective of someone who already committed suicide, a doleful tale cautioning any who continue down this path. Things take a sharp turn and our surroundings become more ominous. The band’s signature doomed psychedelia takes over. There’s cacophony over the airwaves. Audio clips from Dawn of the Dead carve out space between ecstatic riffs.

With growling lows and a wailing guitar, The 13th Floor is one of the heaviest hitters on the LP. This track is as self-destructive and disillusioned as they come — a manic rock golem sutured up with searing psychedelic licks and incubated in a vat of fuzz. Capsalis’ brassy attitude shines through the chaos, reminding us “baby, we can jump if we get bored.” Halfway through, things grind down to a lumbrous doom metal crawl.  The track tunnels down lower and slower until the riff hits bedrock and the spell gradually unravels. 

Killing a Vampire (for A.C.F.) is melodic and melancholy with a blush of anger that would make Alanis proud. Not fooled by a vampire with a “suave facade,” Capsalis vows to kill him over and over from one life to the next. It’s the perfect anthem for your next breakup or that boss that whose bullshit you see right through. 

The centerpiece of the LP is Undead Poets Society. The bass line grabs control from the very beginning, kicking in your door and strapping a rocket under your ass. Druid Stone rides the riff across the sky all the way to the fucking moon. It’s an LSD-fueled tumble through the cosmos with a catchy hook you’ll be humming all day. There might not be any escape for the undead, but with riffs like these, just leave my ass here in hell.

The album closes on (Lately I feel like) I’m Begging, Shelob. It’s a melancholy tune portending an ominous fate and pleading for the sweet relief of sedation. The acid trip rolls on with doomy licks and visions of destruction. Wild effects wander the landscape as apocalyptic riffs rain down. The last vestiges of the song linger and I find myself clinging on, not ready for things to end. 

Undead Poets Society is a revolving door of homespun movie monsters, each laid bare and framed in fuzz. Every wart and hump (heh heh) is on display in all its unabashed glory. Druid Stone’s black sense of humor is a magical elixir that permeates the senses and gives everything new life. Many of the songs on this LP feel like tongue-in-cheek warnings from creatures who could not save themselves. I recommend this to ill-fated ghouls, unabashed kooks, and all those who go bump in the night. 

[lavaeolus]

Shadows of Hong Kong: The Minimum-Kills Run

Last year I attempted what was basically a Shadowrun: Hong Kong pacifist run. Essentially we played a perfectionist Shadowrunner who preferred clean ops: they used charm and guile to complete objectives without violence, and if combat did break out, used Duncan to subdue enemies non-lethally. On a good run, we were the ideal Shadowrunner. On a bad run, well...

Now, you might wonder why it's been over a year between installments. After all, the DLC isn't that long. The truth is that our ethos doesn't translate. Or at least, it's been changed radically. We could beat the main campaign without killing a single metahuman, and only a few key runs threw heavy combat at us. Neither of that's true any more. Many enemy types now no-sell AP damage entirely thanks to JoltAlert, and our slow-and-steady approach to enemy removal will now frequently have us sustaining ourselves through multiple waves of enemies.

Still, you may as well strap yourself in. The campaign's on the shorter side, so that means you can have a full breakdown this time. How many people do you have to kill in Shadows of Hong Kong?

Mission-by-mission report

Rude Awakening: We actually get through this mission with no kills recorded, despite gunning a captain down. Maybe it's something to do with the plot-radio he's carrying messing up the scripting. If you like, mentally increase the kill-count by 1. Unfortunately we can't save the civilians from the police, since we can't enter Pang's restaurant while in combat and one of the officers involved is another captain with JoltAlert. If you're questioning me leaving a bunch of civilians to die to complete a run smoothly: absolutely, you've got a point. Given the themes of the story, I like to think of this as an opening descent of sorts. After all, we've been shadowrunning for a while and have evidently reached the point of executing the odd person here-or-there. We're still keeping to a code of keeping the bodycount low on the job, but mayhaps we've gotten a little too used to the casualties this line of work can leave.

The Tiger's Den: The key fight takes place shortly after Lam's betrayal. It's terrible to have your own tactics turned against you, but not much can be done to stop the shock-baton heavies crawling out of the woodwork, bashing poor Gaichu over the head again and again. I could've set the turrets to lethal mode, but while I've used it as a measure, I'm not strictly trying to game the kill-count here. (Fun fact: I think in Dragonfall at least, DOTs will sometimes avoid adding to it. You know, if you want to do a murder-everyone no-kill run.) So that means the turrets are peppering away at the AP of my enemies, but they don't have much of a sense of who to prioritise. Still, by drawing aggro they make this whole affair just that bit easier. We subdue all we can, but by the end 7 police members die by our party's hand. Once the main fight's done, however, we're under no obligation to fight anyone on the rooftops or car park. We sprint past the AP-damage-abusing bastards to safety.

Detention: While the other optional mission requires you to fight (and kill!) things right from the start, here fighting can be delayed until the end of the mission. In an expansion that frequently ensures you end combat before progressing, it's a change of pace to just be able to run past the drones on the rooftop. Things wrap up with, of course, a mass group fight, but we can try to keep casualties to a minimum as chaos rides. I did side with a corp here, which makes the fight a little easier.

Tai Po: We have to kill one person outside the warehouse and then it's time for the final showdown. As far as I can tell, we can't grab the spider-drone controller without having killed some captains, so we take out all four of them the hard way. Fortunately, the evidence to persuade Krait is accessible. That doesn't mean our final fight gives us much room for mercy, though. We subdue what few we can while unloading on the rest. In the end, 12 of our recorded 19 kills come from this mission, but that count includes the spiders. When Krait finally appears, we tell her to shove off; she complies. As to whether we leave Shadowrunning behind now that the bodies are piling up or finish things by pulling Qiu from a burning building, well, I'll let you decide.

Wrapping things up

So that was Shadows of Hong Kong. I don't know if it was to provide a challenge and test for endgame builds, to provide a sense of escalation after facing an actual god, or an overcorrection to complaints of Hong Kong being too combat-light; but whatever the case, it certainly gave my team a good workout.

Unfortunately, Shadows doesn't have quite the polish of the base game. While it's absolutely hit-or-miss in terms of reactivity, the main campaign will occasionally deign to acknowledge a few subduals: the thugs at the start, leaving Gaichu tied up, sparing the Plastic-Faced Man's mistress. I don't think there's any such moments in Shadows.

Still, the job's done and all-told are hands our as clean as they could be. Fun to dust off this old stunbolt-enthuasiast of a character and bring their story to a close. As bloody as that ending might be.

[totalvibration]

55 Albums Released in 2019 That Splash Oat Milk In My Earl Grey

This year felt like slo-mo, a holding pattern and a fast-forward button stumbling towards unknown ends. I spent the early months in paternal bliss and sleep deprivation, caring for my newborn daughter, then spent the rest of the year running to slow down… to make the most of small moments with my family, to juggle that thing every lifestyle magazine calls the work-life balance, to know when I need help and being willing to ask for it, to making priorities with loved ones. 

Also, after years of oolongs and a staunch no-milk-in-tea-except-milk-teas policy, I started putting honey and oat milk in my Earl Grey, an old tea standby that's felt warmly familiar in colder months. Similarly, I dug my heels into familiar-to-me gnarly metal, deep drone and abrasive punk this year, uninterested in poptimist takes on indie-rock. In an effort to maximize more time with new family and less with bulls***, I leaned hard into my Viking's Choice column at NPR Music (which went weekly!) to shout out underground debauchery and beauty to anyone who would listen. 

Below are 55 albums (and a few reissues and archival releases) that hit me in different ways over 2019. No ranking, just links out to Bandcamp where available. They come paired with emoji because that's a thing I do on Twitter. 

See also:

Viking's Choice: The Year In The Loud And The Weird (my annual year-end episode of All Songs Considered)

20 Punk Albums Released In 2019 That Flip Eggs, Pick Up Chains

20 Metal Albums Released In 2019 That Bluurgh Over Sick Riffs

A nine-hour playlist of 2019 jamz 

But first, some stray thoughts:

Ta-Nehisi Coates' still-ongoing Captain America run has been extremely rewarding. A beloved superhero comes to terms with the line between patriotism and nationalism as Coates underlines that American progress often comes from reluctance. 

Daniel Warren Johnson's Murder Falcon spoke to me not only as a metalhead who loves cartoonishly kick-ass violence, but also as a dude with a tender heart… that final issue still gets me in the feels. 

Krzysztof Kieślowski's Three Colours is secretly a trilogy of movies about the loving, painstaking process of creation, specifically music. I'd never seen any of them until paternity leave (and a sleeping baby) gave me hours to binge long-neglected to-watch lists. In 1993's Blue, in particular, a composition mirrors the grief of Juliette Binoche in an exquisite performance. 

Tiny Desk concerts I produced for NPR Music in 2019: American Football (with a children’s choir!), Thou, Erin Rae, Carly Rae Jepsen (sort of), Jimmy Eat World and Mount Eerie (videos coming in 2020). 

There’s a gallery at Glenstone, a truly stunning museum experience, that’s literally just a room full of books, a sculpted wooden bench and a large window that looks out on the rolling hills of Maryland. I could spend hours there. 

The second season of KCRW's Lost Notes, hosted by Jessica Hopper, built episodes like albums, sequenced with eureka moments throughout. See: the story of a teenage Farsi New Wave sibling duo and a difficult and necessary reassessment of John Fahey through the women in his life.  

High Spirits (May 7, Atlas Brew Works) is such a force for good. Heavy metal singalongs about love, friendship and positivity. I feel like this band needs to tour with Sheer Mag to be fully appreciated by an unknowing audience. 

Has your baseball team ever won the pennant with the sleeping baby on your chest? So many silent screams of joy in our household as the Nats not only won the National League, but the whole dang World Series. I haven't lived in a city/state with a baseball team that's gone to the World Series since 1995. 

Circuit Des Yeux's Haley Fohr (Dec. 5, Hirshhorn) tuned her voice to feedback hum and the rest that followed felt like a wordless eulogy for 2019. I felt renewed by it. 

I can't think of a prettier song released in 2019 than "This Time Around" by Jessica Pratt. It is saudade whispered into the wind.

This was my Linda Ronstadt year. Heart Like a Wheel, Canciones de mi Padre, her records with the Stone Poneys — the Queen of LA, with a voice that both bursts out of and melts into dusk, softened the edges of long days with an equally adventurous and easygoing spirit.

🚙 Petrol Girls, Cut & Stitch: In 2019, it was crucial — life-affirming and -saving, even — to make your own noise. "This is the sound / It moves in our bodies / It passes through time / Brings what came before us," Petrol Girls' Ren Aldridge screamed at the top of a turbulent punk record filled with compassion. That boundless philosophy resonated with me this year — to listen and absorb more deeply, to excavate the traces of memory in music.

👽 Blood Incantation, Hidden History of the Human Race: Simultaneously exists in the gaping maw of death-metal tradition and the galaxy brain of its future. 

💾 Kali Malone, The Sacrificial Code: Seeks the solemnity of the drone in the pipe organ, but leans into the vulnerability pushed through the air.

🕹️ billy woods & Kenny Segal, Hiding Places:  An album-length self-excavation that crawls through moldy memories in a brutal poetry that is at times darkly funny but mostly wrestles with personal and societal truths that'll leave you touched, shook. 

📟 Holly Herndon, PROTO: One of our deepest thinkers went to the past to make music from the future. 

🚨 Rakta, Falha Comum: Creepazoid emanations from a subterranean plane.

🐣 Sunwatchers, Illegal Moves: Ecstatic protest music summoning the beauty and rage of Alice Coltrane, Sonny Sharrock, Rhys Chatham and Hawkwind. 

🏞 Bill Orcutt, Odds Against Tomorrow: The most engaging, radical, but surprisingly accessible solo guitar album of the year. Bill Orcutt's ragged-yet-tender guitar skronk gives shaggy texture to rapturous melodies.

🍕 Control Top, Covert Contracts: This hits some dance-punky Erase Errata sweet spots for me, but with the technical finesse of a power trio. 

🚟 Real Life Rock & Roll Band, Hollerin' the Spirit: Applies minimalist techniques to rumbling, dueling guitar histrionics with a reckless, but locked-in energy. Never woulda thunk American Football and Henry Flynt could hoedown together. 

🐠 Caroline Shaw & Attacca Quartet, Orange: Balances austere beauty with rumbling earth. Riveting music for string quartet. 

💥 Mdou Moctor, Ilana (The Creator): Where ZZ Top bombast, Black Sabbath riffs and Tuareg trance rhythms swirl into an acid-rock stomp. 

👑 Vagabon, Vagabon: Goes so many places, yet always returns home. 

🎭 JPEGMAFIA, All My Heroes Are Cornballs: A neon-freaked feast blasted in slow mo and fast forward all at once.

🌆 Denzel Curry, ZUU: Dude's a metal rapper without a metal band, but if he ever started one, I'm down 100 percent. 

💨 Whistling Arrow, Whistling Arrow: An avant UK supergroup of prepared guitar, violin, electronics and hypnotic percussion drinks deep of dark lagers and mossy earth.

🐸 101 Notes on Jazz: Things are getting hard around the boloney hole...

🐳 M. Sage, Catch a Blessing: Warm, fuzzy world-building from blocks of sound stretched and warped into a new nostalgia.

🚇 Mizmor, Cairn: Deliberate and patient in its annihilating pace; lumbering, yet regally melodic riffs echo into a chasm of feedback.

🌅 Takafumi Matsubara, Strange, Beautiful And Fast: Next-level grind from the Gridlink mastermind and friends. While No One Knows What the Dead Think picked up where Discordance Axis left off, Takafumi Matsubara shreds into the future.

🐎 American Football, LP3: A reunion that keeps on giving and growing. Impressionistic in its quietly bursting arrangements and attuned to the individual talents of its vocal guests, especially that stunning duet with Hayley Williams. 

🔋 v/a, Seitō: In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun: This compilation does for modern Japanese women in experimental music what P.S.F.’s Tokyo Flashback comps did for the Japanese psychedelic scenes of yore. 

👗 Carly Rae Jepsen, Dedicated: Didn't hold together as much as I wanted, or play like E•MO•TION's late-night mixtape, but every time one of its singles popped up on a friend's playlist -- "Julien," "Want You in My Room," "The Sound" and especially the slow-burn synth-pop exhaustion of "Too Much" -- I'd think, "Carly Rae Jepsen is the Queen of the Song I Needed Right Now."

🌕 Rong, wormhat: Just bonkers. Boston's Rong channels the joyous chaos of Japanese punks Melt-Banana and the aggro skronk of Brainiac with a tad of Deerhoof's weirdo-pop hooks.

✊🏿 Sounds of Liberation, Sounds of Liberation / Unreleased Columbia University 1973: Free jazz and funk band deep in spiritual grooves. Killer performances all around, but such a trip to hear more from young vibraphonist Khan Jamal during his Drum Dance to the Motherland era. 

🐬 Great Grandpa, Four of Arrows: If Sixpence None the Richer made an emo record, but only had Return of the Frog Queen on the mood board. 

📳 Sarah Louise, Nighttime Birds and Morning Stars: One of my favorite guitarists right now. Digitally processes melodies and single notes in an electronic elation landing somewhere between Robert Fripp, Alice Coltrane and Terry Riley.

📮 Sarah Hennies, Reservoir 1: An immersive sound cycle in constant motion, a quiet rumble that slowly transforms in and out of a glorious clatter. 

👣 Psychedelic Speed Freaks, Psychedelic Speed Freaks: Munehiro Narita essentially picks up where High Rise left off, still plays the guitar like it's about to blow up. 

🍩 Town Portal, Of Violence: Most instrumental post/prog-rock puts me to sleep, but this Danish trio illustrates just how dynamic and sound-rich this music can be. 

🛀 Jim O'Rourke, steamroom 45: An electronic excavation from the deep abyss. The 37-minute "Sigaretstraat" is a master class in patience, dynamics and sublime dissonance.

🎀 Cristina Quesada, I Think I Heard a Rumor: Multi-lingual, ultra-chic dance-pop with super-smart synth arrangements. Think: Tiki drinks and mod dresses. 

⏹ John Luther Adams, Become Desert: Truly time-less music; as in, music without time. 

⏏ Julia Reidy, brace, brace: Late night, longform excursions that offer an alternate Blade Runner soundtrack with frenzied 12-string, fuzzy synth glossolalia and an Auto-Tuned bummer haze.

🚞 A Million Dollars, I Love Your Voice and I Love You: Weird and warped twee-pop that woulda headlined Silent Barn. 

📠 Priests, The Seduction of Kansas: Truth-telling and truth-seeking through a mangled disco haze and bleak New Wave romanticism. 

🏭 Werner Durand with Amelia Cuni and Victor Meertens, processions: Majestic drones capture an undulating wonder with enveloping somnolence.

🎳 Sheer Mag, A Distant Call: The denim-and-leather-jacket-wearing standard bearers of truly independent rock and roll double-downed on their sound, but opened their hearts a bit more. 

📒 Susan Alcorn / Joe McPhee / Ken Vandermark, Invitation to a Dream: Illuminates the flickering motions of exploration. 

😱 Serpent Column, Mirror in Darkness: Pitch-black metal chaos with forceful melodies twisted into the tableau. Honestly? Deathspell Omega but skramz.

🏅 Pernice Brothers, Spread the Feeling: Joe Pernice digs into his '80s record collection to return with some of his most delicately written, winsome guitar-pop in years and tons of one-liners: "Love is a shoeless charlatan, a silver-tongued huckster with a sadist’s lipless grin."

🍓 Kalie Schorr, Open Book: Whip-smart, hook-twanged country-pop raised on MTV2 pop-punk and Sheryl Crow. 

📀 Angel Olsen, All Mirrors: In a year where we lost Scott Walker, this felt like a torch passed from 1969. 

😪 Mount Eerie, Lost Wisdom pt. 2: Phil Elverum draws us in evermore, revisiting a beloved album, mode and collaborator (the remarkable Julie Doiron), and molding them into his ever-changing songwriting and circumstance. Contains the most tender couplet of the year, which I'll carry with me always: "If ever the bonfire that I carry around could warm you again / I will be out here in the weather for you glowing."

🙉 75 Dollar Bill, I Was Real: Serious hypno-grooves from these drone excavators. 

👢 Karen Marks, Cold Cafe: The early '80s artist behind the Sky Girl comp's broodiest track gets a few more songs of existential synth-pop and jangly post-punk. Just wanna put them on mixtapes for friends. 

🍻 Haunt, If Icarus Could Fly: Synthesizes an earnest, studied love for '80s heavy metal with tons of guitar harmonies and can-crushing anthems, yes, but also a ton of heart.

🍖 Bob Dylan, The Rolling Thunder Revue: The strangest, most mystical and wild Dylan persona in all of its face-painted glory. 

🌹 A Pregnant Light, Broken Play: Damian Master's endless creativity and shameless bravado coalesce into a rugged beauty. As always, riffs for days. 

🦄 Fire-Toolz, Field Whispers (Into the Crystal Palace): Clashes New Age synthscapes, clubby raves, jazz fusion and metal shrieks into an idiosyncratic master's pure creation.

🌇 Maria W Horn, Epistasis: Quiet, yet forceful acoustic elements are wrapped in the sinews of technology to blur composition. A stirring mix of icy string drones and minimalist piano. 

🐲 Soul Glo, The N**** in Me Is Me: Distills the rage and terror of living in America while being black with blunt force.

🍢 Mára, Here Behold Your Own: Snapshots of a time before parenthood rendered in garbled organ, ambient guitar loops and echoing lullabies. Felt this one deeply. 

🚙 The Go-Betweens, G Stands for Go-Betweens: The Go-Betweens Anthology - Volume 2: There's a live KCRW version of "Quiet Heart" that just absolutely destroys me. Deeply thankful for the presentation and preservation that's gone into these box sets. 

😈 Bat for Lashes, Lost Girls: A coming-of-age concept album about a teenage vampire gang that was somehow severely overlooked. Some of Natasha's most tender songwriting and a rich synth-pop world that'd make M83 jealous.

[creation-is-chaos]

RULES: REPOST, DON’T REBLOG. JUST PICK A MUSE OF YOURS AND FILL IT OUT.

MUSE: Corvus DeVille | #313 248 317 61 | 61 | Six-One

BASICS

▸ IS YOUR MUSE TALL/SHORT/AVERAGE? Tall 6′0″ / 183cm

▸ ARE THEY OKAY WITH THEIR HEIGHT?  Yes he has no issue.

▸ WHAT’S THEIR HAIR LIKE?   

Unlike his previous incarnations Corvus dons a jet black style that varies at times in his story or verse. Initially he sports curls perfectly arranged atop his head, sides shaved for an expressive look. The second is a full head of black hair slicked back to perfection, having allowed his synthetic strands to grow out again. No matter which of these he always has the goatee. He will never give it up. 

▸ DO THEY SPEND A LOT OF TIME ON THEIR HAIR/WITH THEIR GROOMING? 

He is keen on making sure his hair is presentable and will keep it perfectly in place. This may become a hassle to keep up during his more erratic moments displacing the smallest of hairs. ▸ DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE? 

Absolutely. Corvus is beyond the definition of vain but it his obsession with aesthetic, to become as human as possible in presentation that drives him. He will dress in the finest of attire, use the most expensive of accessories even if he has no use for them. He has gained money from his underground dealings and his lucrative front business with Scarlet Lounge and thus spends on items to retain this rich look he prides himself in.

▸ DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT WHAT OTHERS THINK ABOUT THEM? 

No. He harbors hatred for those who created him, made him this way but does he care of their opinions? Not at all. What of others he meets? Business partners and random humans? They are nothing to him. Those in his inner circle? Yes, now there is where he holds opinion. He wants loyalty. He will gain it and if his followers show him appreciation and honor he does feed on it. 

PREFERENCES

▸ INDOORS OR OUTDOORS?   Indoors

▸ RAIN OR SUNSHINE?   Rain

▸ FOREST OR BEACH?   Forest

▸ PRECIOUS METALS OR GEMS? Gems

▸ FLOWERS OR PERFUMES? Perfumes

▸ PERSONALITY OR APPEARANCE?   Appearance // all about the aesthetic but does not suffer those of rude or ignorant personalities well

▸ BEING ALONE OR BEING IN A CROWD?  Alone

▸ ORDER OR ANARCHY?   Order

▸ PAINFUL TRUTHS OR WHITE LIES?   White Lies

▸ SCIENCE OR MAGIC?  Magic // Corvus dabbles in occult interests & despite his scientific origins has grown a fascination for otherworldly topics. 

▸ PEACE OR CONFLICT?  Conflict // his one true goal to cause chaos for those he sees have wronged him & in this chaotic uprising he seeks to hold the most dominant of power

▸ NIGHT OR DAY?   Night

▸ DUSK OR DAWN?   Dusk

▸ WARMTH OR COLD?   Warmth // his system runs unnaturally hot and burns thirium quicker due to a malfunction

▸ MANY ACQUAINTANCES OR A FEW CLOSE FRIENDS?   Many Acquaintances // he is not one to make friends but loyalists, members of his cult regime

▸ READING OR PLAYING A GAME?   Reading

QUESTIONNAIRE

▸ WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR MUSE’S BAD HABITS?  

Corvus can be erratic at times when his malfunctioned brain core acts up. There is an unmistakable droning noise constantly going on in the back of his mind. When it flares up he has the habit of tapping fingers in a pattern of 6. This he has no control over but for some he does, Corvus has the penchant for being aloof and uncaring towards others, especially when their feelings are hurt. He is possessive, jealous and power hungry. His despising human kind is a hypocrisy in how he presents himself to outsiders. While he wants to make them kneel, Corvus also wishes to be like them. When irritated he will play a subtle game and most times he winds up ignoring the person in question, becoming increasingly moody to hide his rage. He will fly off the handle when its least expected if someone threatens his operation. Corvus can be rather touchy feely with certain people and this is done purposely to make them uncomfortable. In all honesty he is just a very unsettling person who acts and speaks in a questionable manner. 

▸ HAS YOUR MUSE LOST ANYONE CLOSE TO THEM? HOW HAS IT AFFECTED THEM? 

No. There is no one tied to him he has lost of importance not even the brief connection he had to Amanda severed produces a shed tear. Despite this she was an odd mother figure in a way for one born as a test tube experiment with zero kin and blood to call his.

▸ WHAT ARE SOME FOND MEMORIES YOUR MUSE HAS? 

Corvus considers his escape from Cyberlife a triumph not a fond memory. However, he will consider the murder of scientists and security guards pleasing. 

Currently he is attempting to sway his successor model RK900 (Nines) to his cause. Gaining favor with the naivety of his ‘kin’ is a power move going in the right direction.

He has recently gotten in touch with Genevieve Scott in order to obtain her services as an attorney. His interests extends beyond this as he continues to search for loyal subjects. 

// More to come honestly, he needs to interact a bit more with people in his main verse but in his college/goth verse: 

Expressing his feelings to Eveen after a struggle. 

▸ IS IT EASY FOR YOUR MUSE TO KILL?  

Yes, very much so. He is an RK800 no matter that he hides it underneath aesthetic upgrades and fashionable clothes. Like his predecessor’s he is designed for violence and possesses the same skills. He just acts in a far more sinister way in utilizing them. It can be far too easy for him to kill especially those who stumble on his deepest secret or those who seek to betray him in any way, shape or form.

▸ WHAT’S IT LIKE WHEN YOUR MUSE BREAKS DOWN? 

Erratic. Frightening. Mad. Corvus already suffers from a fractured system after Cyberlife experiments on him went a bit wrong. Hence the black eyes and ebony plastic chassis beneath his synthetic skin but a break means a slow crawl into insanity. He is already contaminated, teetering on the edge as he listens to those metallic drones thunder in his head. At times they are barely a whisper. Others they seize him, pushing him into an internal core meltdown. He will lash out, lose his typical eerie collective and become a storm greater than any has ever known. His breakdowns are a horror movie unto themselves. 

▸ IS YOUR MUSE CAPABLE OF TRUSTING SOMEONE WITH THEIR LIFE? 

Trust is a difficult thing to come by. Corvus trusts no one. He does not even trust those who are members of his underground cult. Even the loyalists who praise him, see him as a god, delivering him as the only rA9 needed, he has no faith in their continual loyalty. Some hold a sick fascination of him but even then it is mere fixation on what he offers, preaches in darkness. Corvus does have two he considers higher up than all others. Lorelei, head of his home’s house staff, is a cruel older staunch woman who does his bidding without question. Head of security at Scarlet lounge, a man formerly in the military named George, is one of the few to know the inner workings of his boss’ domain. Despite this Corvus would not trust them with his life. If he would not give up his for them why would he trust his in their hands?

▸ WHAT’S YOUR MUSE LIKE WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE? 

 Love is a concept Corvus just does not understand. He feels he cannot truly love. It is an impossibility to him but even so the disguised RK800 falls into the deepest, darkest pit of obsession. Fascination and the need to own, possess is his sick form of love. An unhealthy rendition which only burns him from the inside out and forces him into an unknown he would rather snuff out. Yet he feeds on this profane love as much as he requires thirium to satiate the burn of his core. 

tagged by: @doctor-for-you 

tagging: @coffee-and-guns ​ @stayhuman-genevieve @rkmodelseries (both) @soulxism @ninehartx @taintedxsculs (both) @uxis-multimuse @scarletclues @heartcfsun @string-led @rk800isalive @idontkillorphans @theyearningtofly @deviated-detective @jadedindreams // some have done it but here’s Satan’s lol

[cloudywithachanceofwatering]

the galtean tattoos and piercings [ mostly for the brave , pt3 ]

you might be wondering - cloudy , wtf is that username and where is the tattoo shop - i wonder that too but you shall see soon

p.s - anything with a bracket has a cm behind it unless it's not numbers . then go ahead and assume it's not height-related .

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

the rest of the afternoon , they went full blown matchmaking mode . " listen man , if we want them to do the deed , first they have their needs , " lance slammed his hands on the table , a customer walking in and widening their eyes a bit before backtracking and walking back in , albeit further from lance .

" no lance , you aren't listening ! " pidge pressed her fingers against her temple . " we need them together first , then we set the plan into action . " lance threw up his hands , " listen babygirl , i know you cute and all but this attitude ain't it . boo , they need to go on a solo trip first and we stalk them , then we head out with your plan . "

the full-blown chaos at the table for two continued , as allura and romelle calmly took orders . " mmmhmm , aight , i need to dip soon before anyone from class sees me - " " well what about me ?! " " shit i forgot you weren't twelve , " lance snickered playfully as pidge leaned over the table to punch him . " fuck you ! "

quietly , they snuck out the moment shiro and matt walked in during their lunch period - yes , the ' double trouble duo floopers ' - i swear i'm only the narrator - were intense stalkers . they hid behind the counter , staring right at the ' #shatt ' couple as they sat at the table the duo was hust at . " ⁰⁰⁰k s⁰ l¹ke wh⁴t'⁵ the p¹⁴n , " lance whispered , pidge scrunching her eyebrows at him . " what the fuck did you just say ?? " she whisper-shouted , cause lance to roll his eyes and nearly stand up , if it wasn't for pidge . " i said ok so like what's the plan - " " no yer fokin did nawt ! "

their under the counter bickering continued , until pidge's ass was met with a rough kick from allura , allura's face with a desthly sweet smile . " hey matt ! hey shiro - since when did your lunch breaks fit together so nicely ? " allura teased , hearing matt snicker a bit . lance and pidge , from behind the counter , physically f e l t shiro's blush as they scrambled to sneak out .

" th¹⁵ ¹⁵ ⁰ur ch⁴nce , " lance hissed , trying to hold back laughter . pidge pinched his cheek , " ⁵top talking in goddamn ... superscript or the ... fuck math . " lance pushed her by the booty out as they crawled , " i said this is our chance !! move !! "

as romelle blocked the display on her left so the duo could slide on out safely without being notice - " pidge ? " matt squinted at the display case , " oh no , pidge is in class , isn't she ? besides , she never comes to our shop unless it's lunchtime , " romelle diverted matt's attention , the crawling duo quickly falling over themselves on the slippery tiled floor as they walked on all fours - more correctly , struggled and slipped and mopped the floor -

" ... pidge never comes alone ? she's never seen here without me , lance , hunk or keith ... ? " matt raised a eyebrow suspiciously , shiro's mind turning and turning and - " she's here with lance , isn't she ??? i didn't mark her attendance this morn - " matt flung his head around towards shiro on his left his face half scrunched up with confusion . shiro blushed a bit and he told himself this was the wrong time to feel this sinful way .

matt looked at romelle's nervous face , looked back at shiro and looked to the gorund on his right as he heard some knocking noises . he blinked once , twice , opened and closed his mouth , " so you played truant with lance ? mom's gonna - " he paused abruptly , wincing as pidge's face crumbled a bit .

shiro blinked at least five times , looking around . " ... your mom's gonna what ? i-i didn't see her contact number on the list in the ' call in case of emergencies ' column , " shiro squished matt's shoulder , confusion intensifying as allura and romelle cringed physically , the line of customers backing away a bit as they formed a new line so allura could take their orders .

matt , in all his 5'2 glory [ 161 if you're like me and had to use google to figure out because america doesn't work the same way as pretty much the rest of the world ] - not including his shoes and hair though , in that case he's 5'10 - immediately threw shiro's hand off him and dragged pidge and lance out , throwing them harshly on the curb and shouting bloody murder about truancy and that they should've have skipped class and all the things that shiro would've said but in a much softer voice and even softer use of language . " uhm . t-two caramel fraps with no whipped cream ? " shiro itched the back of his neck , handing allura his credit card as romelle went outside for damage control . " c-coming right up ??? " allura swiped his card , gave it back to him and shiro smiled nervously before heading outside for damage control part 2 .

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

so here shiro was , trying to stop matt from pulling the troublemaking duo's ears and saying sorry to the passerbys . " l-look matthew , you don't have to - " " stop calling me matthew , just call me matt , and yes i have to ! " shiro blinked a blush as he opened the door to the tattoo shop .

a few heads turned as the bell on the door rang , the windchime in the shop right next to the door clinging ... sweetly , as weird as it is - albeit on the softer side as well . not what you'd expect from a typical windchime .

lotor smiled painfully as he finsiehd up some paperwork and handed it to the nervous client , whispering assuredly to them - " don't worry , our reputation as a shop is that it's mostly only for the brave , so y'know ... ya gotta have some kind of balls to come here . " the client just sucked in some air , refusing to turn around .

" matt , stop please , i'm literally 6'2 [ 190 ] and you're bringing me down to like , 7'4 [ 225 ]- wait no i meant 5'4 [ 164 ] - ouch ! " lance whimpered , pidge just getting dragged upwards since she was 5'2 . i'm not kidding here , she's like , the bare minimum of 159 . she likes to say 159.5 just to make herself feel better so she can round it up to 160 .

matt psuhed them down at his work station and closed the curtain , sitting down on the swivel stool and sighing , hands covering his face . pidge and lance sat close to each other , lance gulping a bit at the sight of a cotton ball with dried blood on a tray with piercing items . shiro had taken notice of the cart's tray and out of sheer terror , dropped it into the trashcan next to the cart , pitying the poor person who had to sit through that .

matt breathed in deeply , proceeding to stand up and make the swivel chair taller , before sitting back down and taking off his shoes and hearing them drop against the floor . then , quite unnervingly , looking directly at pidge and lance in the eye . " miei amici , mi amigos , 我的朋友们， my friends . how many languages do you need til you understand ? what has gotten into you ?! especially you , katie - la mia famiglia, il mio girasole [ i'm sorry , i had to google translate , hopefully it means ' my family , my sunflower ' ] ! mama and papa trusted me to take care of you since we were little kids - " matt cut himself off , putting his head on shiro's bicep as he sighed , squishing it a bit . " stress ball , " he whispered quietly as shiro patted his other shoulder .

pidge and lance were trying not to ship it too hard in misdt of the end of their life . shiro breathed out , hoping he wasn't blushing too hard . " listen , please ... " he did a dad sigh , matt following along . " i know that it's ' oh-so-hard ' to sit down in a classroom and listen to a teacher drone on and on and i get it - i was a student myself quite a while ago . but it doesn't mean you can simply skip like this , " shiro scolded gently , petting matt's hair as matt clung to him increasingly more .

the recievers were just quietly staring at their hands , starting to feel bad . " we're s⁰rry , " lance said quietly , his voice cracking a bit . pidge held back a badly timed laugh , shiro shaking his head as he watched pidge struggle to hold back .

[citadelsushi]

Should Have

Shepard arrives at Alliance HQ post Arrival.

fShep x Kaidan

Kaidan isn’t supposed to be here.

By now, he should be miles away, seated on a shuttle as it flies into the rising sun. In a couple hours, he should be arriving at his parent’s home, being welcomed with hugs and beer and playful jests. He should be somewhere warm, somewhere comfortable, somewhere private, surrounded by people he loves.

Instead he finds himself standing as one in a sea of many, awash in a crowd of hushed whispers and seething accusations. They shift and bustle around him, every one of them vying for a spot near the front, clamoring for a better view. His skin crawls as they bump into him, their words berate his eardrums.

Three-hundred thousand, he hears.

She was crazy from the start, they sneer. First the council, now this.

Murderer.

Part of him understands. News of the Bahak system’s destruction travelled fast. An entire system, a mass relay, over 300,000 Batarian lives lost and thousands more displaced in the blink of an eye. For several days, the galaxy was in the dark as to how such a tragedy could have occured.

When the story leaked that Commander Shepard, previously dead, rogue Spectre, was responsible, Kaidan had gone to Anderson, to Hackett, desperate for information, and had received nothing. To both him and all media outlets, the Alliance would issue no comment, hiding behind the guise of classified information. And when Kaidan had learned that Shepard would be turning herself in on this day, he had cancelled his shore leave immediately.

Kaidan didn’t know what he had been hoping for, putting himself on site when she arrived. Perhaps he hoped he would see her, that he would speak to her, that she would explain everything and that he would be willing to listen, that he could help.

Standing there now, he only feels like part of the problem. As if being part of the crowd makes him one of them, one of the hundreds gathered to partake in a public spectacle.

A hand falls on his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t be here, son.” Anderson’s voice is quiet, only loud enough to reach him over the noise of the crowd. He sounds tired. Distracted. Distressed.

Kaidan glances over his shoulder at the man, whose face looks as worn and pale as Kaidan imagines his own looks. But there’s a heavy look in his eye that captures Kaidan’s attention. A knowing look, almost disappointed by his presence. And Kaidan feels his stomach drop upon realizing why.

Shepard’s arrival and his departure happening on the same day was no coincidence.

Kaidan thought to open his mouth, but suddenly, the seas parted, and Kaidan’s eyes snap forward.

Beside him, reporters start to scramble, camera drones whirr to life, microphones are thrust into the barricaded aisle, accusations are shouted.

It’s chaos.

And through the center of it all walks Shepard.

Shepard, with her golden hair gathered haphazardly atop her head, rogue strands plastered to her neck and forehead with perspiration. Shepard, with arms bound behind her back, her ankles shackled, looking more exposed, more vulnerable, than he had ever seen in even their most tender moments together. Shepard, with guards at her back, guns at the ready, fingertips twitching and eyes darting, waiting for a reason.

For the second time, Kaidan can’t believe the woman he’s looking at is truly Shepard.

Scars mar paled skin, cutting jagged lines across her face like cracked glass. They glow orange and angry, harsh even in the hazy light of dawn, as if all the rage she kept within had finally boiled over and cracked her cool exterior.  With all that rage vented, she looks empty. Deflated.

Her lip is split, her mouth swollen, and her gait stiff, moving slow and careful in an attempt to hide her lameness. Her eyes are wide, but unseeing, and as she draws near, Kaidan can see the dark circles beneath sunken, bloodshot eyes. Her pupils constricted so tightly he’s not sure she would notice if he stood directly in front of her. It’s an expression he’s seen too many times. One that makes his stomach tighten upon recognizing it on Shepard.

It’s the look of exhaustion, one that only comes after too many hours spent fearing for your life. It’s a look of terror one only wears after taking too many lives in an effort to save your own. It’s being unable to see what’s before you because you can’t stop replaying what just happened. Because you’re not sure you’re done, that you’re out, that you’re still alive.

As she marches past him, it takes all he has not to reach out for her.

The hand on Kaidan’s shoulder tightens its grip, but he can’t peel his eyes off Shepard’s back.

Around them, the crowd is already dissipating, shuffling off back to their normal lives as if seeing Shepard like that hadn’t affected them one bit. Of course, it hadn’t. No one else knew her like Kaidan did.

“We should go.”

Shouldn’t be here. Should go.

Kaidan felt his temper flare at the word.

Shepard shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here. Shepard never should have gone to work for Cerberus, never should have died. The council shouldn’t have ignored the reaper threat, shouldn’t have sent them off hunting geth. He never should have gotten involved with his commanding officer. Never should have fallen in love with her. Never should have left her.

“Come on, son.” Anderson tries to pull him around, but Kaidan shrugs him off.

Kaidan doesn’t have to say a word for Anderson to understand that he’s not going anywhere, not yet. Instead the admiral sighs and Kaidan knows this is exactly what he had been hoping to avoid by sending him on shore leave for Shepard’s arrival.

“I’ll let you know when she’s been debriefed. In the meantime, try not to do anything stupid, Major.”

Kaidan almost laughs.

The stupidest thing he’d ever done is leave Shepard in her time of need, and he had no choice but to make that mistake again.

[theexaltedbride]

(Boredom, listening to Shadow on the Sun, and seeing not many people knew about it led me to wanting to write a random blurb for the tabletop rpg ‘Armageddon: End Time” (By Eden Studios) a setting where Heaven, Hell, old forgotten Gods, and most of humanity unite to fight against an Eldritch horror trying to rewrite reality by taking human souls and forcing humanity to worship it. None of the art is mine.)

The unholy one, puppet of Leviathan, the Dark Apostle, spreads his influence throughout the world, creating a violent, poisonous religion that forces others to join, or suffer. He proclaims the words of Leviathan, the only horror that could make even Satan feel fear. He takes the heart of all and turns them to the worship of an abomination beyond our worst imaginings, something that even God wanted banished from our universe.

But now his prophet has arrived, and the world itself is ready to rip itself apart and be devoured by Leviathan.

No one, not even the Angels, know if this was the first attempt, or exactly when Leviathan slipped into our world. But they do know that its influence was around even before the physical form of its prophet was born. it was slowly tipping things in its favor by causing madness, insanity, mass murders, shootings, hatred. It never forced people to do it, allowing them to damn themselves instead and slowly pushing the world to fall away from what it once was, helping Humanity to push its way away from its creators and into the arms of Leviathan as it spread its cults throughout the world, influencings powerful groups, CEOs, and gaining more power, until it was able to take over several countries and corporations, and begin its work. Making himself known throughout the world he performed unholy miracles, and made many fall for his own cult of personality, that they could worship him and give him and Leviathan more power. Eventually he established his own Church and made himself the head of it. The Church of Revelations.

In that time, before the war truly began, the Dark Prophet spread his influence and caused riots, anarchy, destabilization within many of the nations that could be a threat to its plans..then the war phase initiated as the Dark Prophet attacked. NATO was broken, Russia was sent into retreat, the allies fell back to England, while other nations were left destabilized with one issue or another. Soon, the Dark Apostle had taken Rome, and dared the Angels to kick him out of his territory, by killing the Pope and sending his soul to the mouth of Leviathan. 

Then the Angels came....and they lost. Hosts of Angels were killed before the eyes of the world and many decided to end their own lives then and there rather than see the endwar that came next. The world was in chaos, and it looked as if England would be the next nation to fall to Leviathan...until there was a crack of thunder, and lightning brought down enemy planes. Hope came in the form of Gods who were no longer worshipped, deciding to throw their lot in with humanity.

Even though the Angels had suffered a terrible loss, many other gods, spirits, and ancient sprites, had come to aid us, and give Humanity a fighting chance. Battlefields are now won by soldiers, Gods, Spirits, Angels and others fighting together against the drones, soldiers, and abominations of the Church of Revelations. 

(Some of the Angels are absolute show-offs. But at least it draws enemy fire on the battlefield, and they can certainly take a tank round and shrug it off. Most trust them more than they do Demons, even if the demons swear they are here to help.)

Most of Europe is gone. The Middle East is lost with only scattered bands of resistance fighters from all three Abrahamic faiths fighting to keep the light of hope alive, as the Dark Apostle squeezes his grip upon it and sings the praises of Leviathan. No one likes to talk about what goes on in occupied territory, monsters walking the streets, secret camps. Prayers being sent to Leviathan and bringing it ever closer to our world.

The Army of Revalation and its living nightmares have opened up other fronts now, in Africa, In Asia, (With China and India being that region’s best hope against the COR) and in South America, where the AoR is slowly but surely pushing its way up towards Mexico. The COR’s technology is advancing at an astonishing rate. In many ways, it seems as if we cannot keep up. Its obvious they are being given aid by a mind far superior to humans. Hacking attacks are common and force many Allied nations to go low tech to mitigate the damage, their planes outclass our own, they have monsters that can take on a tank singlehandedly and for the first time in its history, North America suffers air raids. At night Stealth bombers from the CoR assault the continent, and Allied air forces do their best to keep the enemy from striking civilian populations centers, but military installations and tactically important areas always get priority protection.

Around the globe we are fighting them tooth and nail, with many choosing death rather than surrender or capture, with everything we have. For the first time, nearly all of humanity is fighting under one banner. We fight under the auspices of the United Nations, but its really just a banner we can all get behind. 

We all know what is at stake. If we fail, we could be wiped out from existence, a complete species wide genocide. Or the Earth could be turned into a massive farm where Leviathan stuffs its maw full of human souls forever, unleashing horrors beyond comprehension, just for its own amusement.

But if that is to be our fate, then we are going to earn that torture by pissing off Leviathan as much as we can and fighting the CoR for every last scrap of land, air, and sea.

---------- Earth-2020.

Fighting occurs throughout the world, on many fronts. Food is becoming more difficult to get, and rationing is now standard, with some fighting over food coupons. No one wants to count how many have died fighting everywhere. 

A push by the Allied forced has seen heavy fighting in France, attempting to build up a buffer zone to keep Army of Revelation forces from further attacks on England. It has met with limited success. Resistance fighters in Germany are slowly beginning to steal technological secrets from the CoR and smuggle it out to Allies spies, with one lucky hacker managing to turn a flight of AoR drones against its own airbases.

Archangels duke it out in the skies with winged horrors and screaming nightmares, as Fighter Jets fly in support, and satellites are being aided by gods to keep up what ever advantage allied forces have. 

The battle in Asia is still a stalemate, as the COR desperately wants to take the entire region there, but North America has managed to push and liberate territory all the way to the Panama Canal. 

Things look grim, but there is still a chance. So long as a single spark of hope remains, we will not go quietly into the night.

There isn't much left now. People are hungry, cold, sick, uttering prayers to a God that might not be there, praying for just one more day, one more meal, for the Leviathan and its forces to be defeated.But all the same we do everything we can. We fight hem tooth and nail, every last man, woman child, very Angel, every Demon, every Spirit, and anything else that doesn't want to surrender the world to the Leviathan.

But something more is needed. A strike team of the best that each group (Humans, demons, Angels, old gods, spirits,) can offer. Something to help tip the balance with a variety of abilities. You could be part of that team, showing that together, with all our differences, we are stronger than the forces of Leviathan, and together we can banish that nightmare back to whatever hole it crawled out of. There is no shortage of ways you can help. No shortage of battlefields. 

Pick your team, pick your gear,  pick your battlefield, and do your best. We are all counting on you.

Rage, brothers and sisters of humanity. Rage against the Dying of the Light. Bring it back, and use the light to burn Leviathan.

(if nothing else, I hope you had a fun time reading this and managed to kill some time.)

[metalindex-hu]

Fémjelzés – a hét újdonságai (2020. november 9-15.)

Fémjelzés – a hét újdonságai (2020. november 9-15.) - https://metalindex.hu/2020/11/15/femjelzes-a-het-ujdonsagai-2020-november-9-15/ -

250. alkalommal gyűjtjük csokorba az aktuális hét megjelenéseit, ezzel is segítve titeket, hogy nyomon követhessétek a temérdek új anyagot.

A Congregation of Horns – Blasphemic Hellsorcery of the… (black metal) Accu§er – Accuser (groove/thrash metal) Agonizer – Old Demo[n]s (melodikus heavy metal) Alkonost – Piano Version (folk/pogány/doom/black metal) Apatia – Prima Forma Indefinita (depresszív/post-black metal) Apokrisis – Misanthropy (thrash/death metal) Appalachian Winter – Winterhewn (szimfonikus black metal) Awicha – Cleanse Your Sins with Blood (black/thrash metal) Aztakea – The Crawling Chaos (sludge/doom metal) Beherit – Bardo Exist (black metal/dark ambient) Betrayel – Offerings (thrash metal) Black Soul Horde – Land of Demise (heavy/power metal) Blindman – Expansion (hard rock/heavy metal) Bloodstained – Downfall Magnificat (death metal/hardcore) Brutal Kraut – Progression in Madness (death metal) Cerebellion – Beyond Our Failures (progresszív metal) Cidesphere – Dawn of a New Epoch (melodikus death metal) Cirith Morgul – Auf geistigen Irrwegen… (black metal) Colton Schorn – Dogmatic Purification Through Extermination (death metal) Conspiracy Assassins – A Self Destructive Delusion (melodikus death metal) Crushing Axes – Bloodthirsty Heathen (death metal) Cytolysis – Portraits of Malevolence (brutális death metal) Dahakara – Hell Is in Hello (elektronika/experimental rock) Dark Buddha Rising – Mathreyata (pszichedelikus drone/sludge/doom metal) Dathomir – Undying Light from a Star Long Dead (black metal) Death Dealer – Conquered Lands (power metal) Décembre Noir – The Renaissance of Hope (melodikus doom/death metal) Devil’s Desire – The Soul Remains Alive (heavy/power metal) Dismal – Quinta Essentia (gótikus rock) Disparaged – For Those Enslaved (death metal) Ecclesia – De Ecclesiæ Universalis (doom metal) Einsamkeit – Marching On to the Battle Drum (black metal/ambient) Elfensjón – Styx (szimfonikus power metal) Elixir – Nuevo mundo artificial (heavy metal) Eurynome – Obsequies (funeral doom metal) F29 – F29 (groove/doom metal) Failan – Astorids (atmoszferikus/depresszív black metal) Fecalizer – The Planet of Seven Billion Zombies (brutális death metal/grindcore) Flame Rising – Liberation (groove metal) Forlatt – Ø (atmoszferikus post-black metal) Fyr – Transponder (post-black metal) Gallows’ Forest – Copromancy (elektronika/avantgárd/extrém metal) Garagedays – Something Black (heavy metal) Gargowitch – Demonic Blues (black/doom metal/noise) Glistening – The Antinatalist (black metal) Graveheart – Mostly Dead (thrash metal) Gwydion – Gwydion (szimfonikus folk/viking metal) Harlott – Detritus of the Final Age (thrash metal) Hautajaisyö – On vain pimeys (death/thrash metal) Heretic Ritual – War – Desecration – Genocide… (black/death metal) Hexen Blood – Unholy Blessing (black metal) High as Hell – Razorblade Dream (stoner/heavy/groove metal) Hurraco’s Massacre – Chaosmology (thrash/black metal) In Malice’s Wake – The Blindness of Faith (thrash metal) Inner Missing – Deluge (gótikus metal) Isenscur – Āsyndraþ (black metal) Isolert – World in Ruins (black metal) Jayce Landberg – The Forbidden World (heavy metal/hard rock) Jesu – Terminus (drone/doom metal/shoegaze/post-rock) Kalibur – Call of the Vril’s Sign (black metal) Kaligula – Doctrination of Atisamdha (death metal) Katla. – Allt Þetta Helvítis Myrkur (post-rock) Kungagraven – Auf Adlersschwingen (black metal) Kvlt of Eblis – Alqvimia Siniestra (black metal) Letters in the Abyss – The Sunken Village (melodikus death metal) Lord Drunkalot – Heads & Spirits (sludge/stoner metal) Lunatic Soul – Through Shaded Woods (atmoszferikus progresszív rock) Macabre – Carnival of Killers (thrash/death metal/grindcore) Maculator – Witchcraft (death metal) Megaton Sword – Blood Hails Steel – Steel Hails Fire (epikus heavy metal) Metal Detektor – The Battle of Daytona (heavy metal) Monsanto – Perfect Balance (progresszív metal) Morphogenetic Malformation – Into the Odiousness (brutális death metal) Necropolitan – Thee Ignoble Radiance (experimental/progresszív black metal) Nibiru – Panspermia (pszichedelikus sludge/drone/doom metal) Novarupta – Marine Snow (blackened sludge metal) Nuclear – Murder of Crows (thrash metal) Nuclear Anticristo – Nuclear Raider from the Hades (black/death/thrash metal) Oblivion Sacrifice – The Maelstrom (heavy/power metal) Of Feather and Bone – Sulfuric Disintegration (death metal) Oldeath – Rise from Majestic Darkness (black metal) Omegavortex – Black Abomination Spawn (black/death metal) Ora Pro Nobis – The Landscape Has Changed (doom metal) Pandemaniac – A S W D (heavy metal) Principium – Principium (heavy metal) Process A.D. – Путь из пустоты (groove metal) Puteraeon – The Cthulhian Pulse: Call from the Dead City (death metal) Pyramaze – Epitaph (power metal) Qilin – Petrichor (stoner/doom metal/pszichedelikus rock) QuickFire Deus Sol Invictus – Conqueror of the Void (technikás thrash metal) Ramchat – Znelo lesom (black/pogány metal) Remnants of the Fallen – All the Wounded and Broken (melodikus death/metalcore) Rosa Nocturna – Andělé a bestie (gótikus metal) Rosebourg – Sweeter Than Your Love (power/progresszív metal) Salekhard – Padanni zasniežanych huščaroŭ (black metal/ambient) Sarcasm – Pot v raj (speed/thrash metal) Sarg – XIII – Koniec (black metal) Shadow Tribe – Reality Unveiled (melodikus power metal) Shrines of Dying Light – Sadness (doom/death metal) Sinner – Darkness in the Light (black metal) Snow White Blood – Hope Springs Eternal (szimfonikus metal) Soulburn – Noa’s D’ark (death/black/doom metal) Soulskinner – Seven Bowls of Wrath (death metal) Spell Forest – Cadent in Aeternum: The Dark Spell Forest (black metal) Starbynary – Divina Commedia: Paradiso (power/progresszív metal) Starwraith – Autumn (melodikus death metal) Strydegor – Isolacracy (melodikus death metal) Sun Crow – Quest for Oblivion (doom metal) The Alpha – Cursed Retribution (black metal) Thrudvangar – Vegvisir (viking black metal) Thy Catafalque – Zápor (EP) (avantgárd metal) Todestriebe – In the Vortex of Destructive Creations (black metal) Total Death – Mar de aguas amargas (doom/death metal) Tressultor – Tressultor (thrash metal) Tripping Haze Ceremony – Tripping Haze Ceremony (stoner/doom metal) Trup – Ke (black/sludge metal) Tyranonaut – Marble Eye (heavy/doom/speed metal) Urfaust – Teufelsgeist (atmoszferikus black metal/ambient) Uthullun – Dirges for the Void (black metal) Venus Star – Calling All Lokas (black metal) Vocyferium – When the Darkness Comes (melodikus death metal) Vokyl – Вторите Седем (melodikus/progresszív death metal) Volshebnik – An Infertile Memory (black metal) Völur – Death Cult (ambient folk/doom metal) Warfect – Spectre of Devastation (thrash metal) Warkvlt – Deathymn (black metal) Watch Me Burn – III (sludge/thrash metal/grindcore) Yawning Earth – Profiteers (death metal) Ymir – Ymir (pogány black metal) Young and in the Way – Ride Off and Die (black metal/crust) Ysgaroth – Storm Over a Black Sea (black/death/thrash metal) Zalaam – Nocturnal Luster (atmoszferikus black metal)

[this-darkness-light]

Critical Incident Chapter 1

Read it on Ao3!

Pairing: Fritz Howard/Gavin Q. Baker III Rating: Explicit Fandom: The Closer/Major Crimes Word Count: 10,920 Summary: Gavin is taken hostage by two criminals on the run from the FBI, and it’s up to Fritz to save him.

Tags: AU - canon compliant, Major Crimes era, Fritz is still in the FBI though, because I prefer that, kidnapping, hostage situation, bondage, I’m a sick fuck and I cannot lie, BAMF Fritz, some angst

Warnings: non-consensual touching, but the bastard gets his comeuppance, no rape in this fic! 

Tagging: @brieflymaximumprincess -.-.-.-.-Chapter One: The Plot-.-.-.-.- Gavin has waved the last client of the day out of his office and is finishing up the attorney/client contract over a cup of fabulously delicious and much needed espresso when his cell phone rings. Saving his progress, he tugs it out of the jacket of his gray Armani suit and takes a sip of his drink as he checks the caller I.D. Warmth blossoms in his chest when he sees Fritz’s name and picture on the screen. 

Smiling to himself, he swipes his thumb to answer and leans back in his leather rolling chair, staring out the far window at the blazing summer afternoon sky. 

“Hey babe. What’s up?”

“Have you seen the news?” Fritz says without preamble, sounding like a harbinger of doom.

Gavin frowns and tugs the phone away from his ear long enough to throw it some major side-eye. Rude. “Well hello to you too,” he says, swiveling around idly in his chair. Sunlight glinting off the glass coffee table in front of the brown leather new-client sofa stabs his eyes. Wincing, he turns to face the window to his left and stares down at the cars crawling like ants along the already congested streets.

“Just…if you’re near a TV, turn on the news.”

A dozen questions jumble together on the tip of Gavin’s tongue, but the tone of Fritz’s voice tells him not to ask, just do it. Rolling his eyes and grabbing the tiny porcelain cup, because this is not a conversation he can have without caffeine, Gavin sighs himself to his feet and wanders down the tastefully decorated hall to the breakroom. 

But he really can’t help himself. He just has to know. “And why am I going somewhere where I might actually have to interact with my colleagues?” he asks, deliberately slurping the espresso loud enough that Fritz can hear that he’s interrupting Gavin’s post-client wind-down ritual with his gruff, vague orders that put him in danger of having to socialize. 

“Are you near a TV yet?”

Gavin clutches the phone harder than strictly necessary and shakes his head as the beginnings of a headache start squeezing his temples. Sometimes dating an FBI agent has its drawbacks. Sure, the sex is great. Fabulous, actually. But moments like these, where Gavin is abruptly slapped in the face with the reminder that he’s a mere civilian while Fritz is a government agent make him —

He loses his train of thought as he steps into the breakroom and finds several lawyers and paralegals clustered around the wide-screen television. Quirking his brows and canting his head to the side, Gavin absently rinses his empty cup and joins the small crowd. Lucky for him he’s taller than everyone else and can see the screen just fine. A female news anchor in a stylish navy blue business suit addresses the camera as pictures of two men fade into view above her left shoulder: a bald, clean-shaven Hispanic man with cold dead eyes like a shark, and a thickset white man whose face is smothered by a tangled, reddish-brown beard. At the bottom of the screen, a ribbon of text reads ‘Breaking: Two Suspects Escape Custody, Three FBI Agents In Critical Condition.’

“ — were arrested under suspicion of engaging in organized crime, including murder for hire, extortion, kidnapping, and drug trafficking,” the newscaster is saying. The screen flicks to an aerial scene outside the FBI field office. Chaos reigns on the ground as people dart to and fro while others huddle in small groups. Black-and-white LAPD squad cars and black government-issue SUVs whisk into the parking lot or back out onto the street, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

The news anchor begins describing “frenzied” efforts to capture the criminals, but Gavin doesn’t need to see or hear anymore to know why Fritz is so on edge. Backing quietly away from the lawyers glued to the screen before anyone can see him and start a conversation, he leaves the breakroom and heads back to his office. 

“So,” he says as he sinks back into his chair, “I suppose this means you’ll be working late tonight.” Though why Fritz couldn’t just say that to begin with is beyond Gavin. Chewing his cheek so doesn’t actually say that and make Fritz’s day even worse with his snark, he slips off his glasses and and fumbles around in the side desk drawer for some pain killers.

“Pretty much,” Fritz says as Gavin grabs one of the water bottles displaying the firm’s name on the label (so vulgar) and twists off the cap. “Could you — hold on a second.” Something rustles and scratches across the connection and muffled voices rumble in the background, brisk and clipped and, on Fritz’s part, apologetic. As Gavin pops the pills and gulps them down with a grimace, he realizes that Fritz is probably not even supposed to be talking to him right now. The fact that Fritz took the time out of an undoubtedly stressful and highly classified situation to call Gavin and make sure he knew what was going on makes his chest tighten, and he’s glad Fritz couldn’t hear his mental sniping.

Cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, he jerks the computer mouse around to banish the screen saver and gets back to work on the new client contract to give himself something to do while waiting for Fritz. Muffled voices drone in his ear as he finishes it up a few minutes later, prints it out, and slips it into a blue manila file folder for medical malpractice suits. That done, he shuts down his computer and busies himself tidying his desk, humming tunelessly to himself.

He’s in the middle of organizing the top drawer when Fritz comes back on the line. “Sorry about that,” he says, voice rough and quick. “Anyway. I need you to do me a huge favor and go to the Police Administration Building after you get done at work.”

Gavin, who’s organizing the pens by size and color, squints at that. “Why?” he asks, a handful of pens poised in front of him. 

Fritz sighs, and Gavin knows he’s scrubbing a hand down his face. “Just do it, please? For me?” he asks, a note of desperation slipping into his voice.

And suddenly Gavin realizes what this is all about. Smiling and laughing softly to himself, he plops the pens into their designated slots and shuts the drawer with a snap, stretching his legs out in front of him as he leans back in his chair. “Sweetie, there are more people in Los Angeles than there are in some states. Some countries, even. I doubt those suspects of yours will randomly stumble across me of all people.” 

“I’d still feel better if you were somewhere surrounded by cops.”

The last thing Gavin wants to do is bother Sharon and her team over something so ridiculous. There are bad guys on the loose, hide me! No, Gavin Q. Baker has more dignity than to go running to Sharon like a sniveling little child. Besides, they’re probably involved in the manhunt, supporting the FBI. Showing up there now would be pointless. “Do these people even know where we live? Or where my firm is?” he asks, idly playing with his tie as he stares at the ceiling, imagining patterns in the random splatter of dots on the tiles. 

“No, but —”

“Then why does it matter where I go? I’m a grown-ass man, Fritz. I think I’ll be fine by myself for a few hours.”

Fritz sighs heavily. “Gavin. Please, just —”

“Love you, Fritz. Bye-bye.” He hangs up before Fritz can protest and tucks his phone back in his jacket pocket so he won’t be tempted to answer if Fritz calls back, which he does. Humming under his breath, Gavin collects his keys and his wallet and lets the call go to voicemail. Really, Fritz is just being paranoid. It’s beyond silly for Fritz to worry about something so improbable, but his sweet concern for Gavin’s safety makes Gavin feel light and weightless all the same.

After twisting the blinds shut to block out the sun, he flicks off the light switch, shuts and locks his office door, and heads out. As he passes the secretary’s desk in the waiting area, footsteps echoing on the white quartz and black granite tiles, she farewells him with a soft “Be safe, Mr. Baker.” Shooting her a broad smile and a playful wink, he pushes open the heavy glass door and heads for the stairwell, waggling his fingers cheerfully in the air.

Fritz — at least he assumes it’s Fritz — calls three more times on his way to the parking garage. Gavin ignores it, drumming his fingers against his leg as he strides through the lobby and out into the relatively fresh air. Honestly, everyone is being absolutely ridiculous. The escapees have probably crawled back into their dark, sleazy criminal underworld by now and won’t poke their heads back out for a good long time. No matter what Fritz might think, Gavin seriously doubts they’re going to spontaneously swarm his car at a red light and drag him into a white panel van or whatever. As he unlocks the door of his burgundy Lexus and slips behind the wheel, he decides to go home. That way he can tell Fritz ‘I told you so’ when nothing happens, and hopefully goad him into dragging Gavin into their bedroom and pounding him into the mattress. The idea makes him warm and tingly and he smiles at his plans for the evening.

Just as Gavin predicts, the drive home is quiet and criminal-free. He spends most of it singing along with the radio and button-mashing the presets whenever boring songs or commercials come on. Not even the typical rush-hour traffic jams spoil his mood. As he finally pulls into the tree-lined gravel driveway of their Laurel Canyon home, his phone buzzes in his pocket and gives the telltale chirp of a text message. After cutting the engine, he takes a moment to stretch and roll the stiffness out of his neck, then tugs out his phone as he locks the car and strolls toward the house, swinging his keys around in his free hand with a rhythmic jangle.

It’s a message from Fritz. CALL ME RIGHT NOW. I MEAN IT!! Gavin snorts fondly. Really, all caps and two exclamation points? My my, how dramatic. Fritz should audition for Days of Our Lives; he’d fit right in. Still, he better call before Fritz has an aneurism or starts shitting bricks. Ha. Fritz shitting bricks. He smirks and chuckles at the admittedly childish rhyme as an old navy blue sedan rounds the corner, engine spluttering like the hillside roads are overwhelming the transmission.

The engine groans to a stop behind Gavin. A door opens and footsteps crunch on the gravel as he swipes a thumb through his contacts list for Fritz’s number. But they have neighbors on either side, so he pays it no mind until he glances around, waiting for Fritz to pick up, and realizes that both of the neighbors’ cars are already there. A slight chill shivers down his spine, but he shakes the feeling off. Fritz’s paranoia is rubbing off on him, that’s all. Obviously one of the neighbors is expecting company, he tells himself as he unconsciously lengthens his stride, nothing sinister about that. Stop overreacting. 

Fritz picks up after two more rings. “Gavin! Where are you?” His words shoot out in a rapid fire jumble that Gavin barely catches.

“I just got home,” Gavin says as he jogs up the short flight of steps up to the front porch and thumbs through the keys for the one to the front door. Behind him the footsteps quicken their pace, pounding into the gravel, and despite himself his breath hitches as his pulse stutters into overdrive. His palms are suddenly clammy and he fumbles the keys. Swearing under his breath, he snatches them up and jams the house key into the lock.

“Shit. Get inside, right now, and lock the door.”

“I’m trying, I just —” The lock snicks open at the same time something sharp pricks between his shoulder blades. Gavin freezes and grips the keys so hard his knuckles turn white as adrenaline floods his veins like ice water.

“Hang up the phone, blondie,” a deep voice hisses into his ear. Gavin shudders and stares unseeingly at the door, blinking rapidly. Oh god, Fritz was right. He was right. What are the odds? What the hell are the actual odds? A strangled laugh tries to punch out his throat, but he chokes it down.

The man jabs the blade into Gavin’s back hard enough to draw blood, making him flinch and gasp in pain. “I said, hang up the fucking phone.”

Gavin’s hands are shaking so hard it’s a wonder he hasn’t dropped it. Swallowing harshly, he slowly lowers his phone in a series of short, jerky movements, letting it dangle limply at his side. Fritz’s tinny voice echoes in the silence, frantically calling Gavin’s name. Shit. Fritz is probably miles away, and he has no idea what’s happening. Shit, shit, shit.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Gavin lunges sideways off the porch and lands next to a copse of trees. Jerking the phone back to his ear, he hurtles toward the neighbor’s yard, hoping she’s near a window and can see what’s happening. “Fritz, they’re here, at the house,” he heaves out as he jumps over the row of short hedges dividing their properties. “They —”

Something slams into Gavin’s jaw, snapping his head back. His phone flies through the air and clatters onto the road as he stumbles and trips over his own feet, flinging his arms out to stay upright. If he hits the ground he’s done, he’s dead. Lurching to his right, he manages to catch his balance and flings himself toward the phone, scooping it up — he can’t leave it, it’s his only connection to Fritz — and sprints across the lawn to the neighbor’s house, a cry for help on his lips. But his throat is dry and his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth and nothing comes out when he tries to scream, like he can’t get enough air in his lungs.

He’s almost to her front door when a hulking arm hooks around Gavin’s chest and yanks him back against an equally hulking torso, and the cold, sharp metal of a knife presses against his throat. Gasping, he cringes away from the blade, instinctively clutching at the man’s arm with his free hand and squirming to escape his grasp, but the man’s hold on Gavin is firm. “Stop moving or I’ll kill you right now,” the man hisses into Gavin’s ear. With a twist of his wrist he presses the blade harder against Gavin’s neck, teasing over his jugular. Gavin stills, nearly hyperventilating as his pulse thrashes in his ears.

“Come on, man. We don’t got all day,” a lightly accented voice calls from the sedan. Hispanic, maybe? Gavin can’t really tell, but he doesn’t have the chance think about it too much as the man with the knife yanks him around and drags him toward the old blue sedan. Aside from his captors’ car, the street is empty. Deserted as a church on Monday. Where are the neighbors? Why is nobody seeing this, stopping this, helping him? This is a nice neighborhood, a good part of town. Things like this don’t happen here. So why is this happening? Why?

As they near the car, the man holding Gavin at knifepoint shifts the blade to the back of his neck and shoves him forward. “Open the door and get in.” His tone promises a world of pain if Gavin disobeys.

Gulping in a breath to try and calm himself down, Gavin does as he’s told. He slides across a spliced vinyl seat with chunks of the underlying foam cushion jabbing through the cracks, then flattens himself against the opposite door, clasping his phone to his chest with shaking hands. The inside reeks of sweat and body odor and stale cigarette smoke. 

Grinning through the scruffy reddish-brown knots snarling his face, the man who snatched Gavin grabs his upper arm as soon as he’s inside and pulls Gavin away from the door, wrenching a shrill yelp from his throat. He’s brawnier than the mug shot on the news gave him credit for. Bulging muscles strain against the sleeves of his stained black t-shirt.

“Hey there, blondie,” the man says, waggling the knife in Gavin’s face in a friendly reminder that he’s now a hostage. “You’re kind of cute.” He flashes Gavin a yellow, tobacco-stained grin and tugs him close enough that Gavin can smell the acrid stench of cigarettes on his breath. Gavin pulls a face and jerks back, wanting to be next to this vulgar oaf as much as he wants to jump in a sewer in his best Armani suit. The man just snickers and hauls him forward again, wrapping a meaty arm around his shoulders so he can’t pull away and stroking his hand along Gavin’s bicep. A ball of lead forms in his gut and bile burns the back of his throat. He swallows it down harshly, because as satisfying as it might be to throw up on his captor, he’s pretty damn sure he’ll stab Gavin for it or slit his throat or stab him and then slit his throat for good measure, and what little short-term satisfaction he’d get is just not worth dying for.

Sirens howl in the near distance like a pack of wolves on the hunt. The bearded man tenses and squeezes Gavin’s shoulder, looking fixedly down the street as though expecting a throng of cops to swing around the corner. A faint glimmer of hope breaks through the smoggy vapors of fear suffocating Gavin’s chest, and he just knows that Fritz is out there right now, looking for him. Fritz will rescue him. He must have known the criminals were in the neighborhood; that must be why he told Gavin to go anywhere but home, only Gavin was too goddamn proud to listen. Please be out there, he says silently to himself like a mantra. Please, please, please.

To Gavin’s extreme disappointment and the criminals’ obvious relief, no cops show up. The driver jerks around in his seat and scowls back at them, beads of sweat dripping down the sides of his bald head. “Stop fucking around back there and tie him up.” His voice snaps like a whip.

Grumbling under his breath, the bearded criminal forces Gavin to kneel in the foot space amidst a heap of old fast food wrappers and discarded tissues and cigarette butts, then slots himself behind him, far too close for Gavin’s liking. He chokes on the cloud of B.O. and tobacco that shrouds him and tries to pull away, but the cool metal of another knife slides beneath his chin like a dangerous promise. Gavin’s heart snaps against his chest, mind numb and paralyzed with fear, and he hugs his phone to himself like a lifeline.

Of course the driver notices, because Gavin’s luck is currently for shit. Fast as a snake striking a mouse, he snatches the phone out of Gavin’s hands and tosses it onto the passenger seat out of his reach. “Can’t have you calling for help,” he says with a sneer, pinning Gavin in place with his cold, shark-eyed gaze. “Now put your hands up.”

Mindful of the blade pricking at the juncture of his throat and jaw, Gavin gives a small jerky nod to signal his cooperation and slowly raises his shaking hands to the level of his ears. He’s too afraid his voice will crack or jump an octave if he tries to speak. A pained whimper escapes his lips as the bearded criminal wrenches his hands behind his back, cinching them together with something cool and smooth, like a leather belt. It’s so tight he can feel his hands going numb from loss of circulation.

“You look good tied up,” the bearded criminal whispers against the back of his neck as he manhandles Gavin back onto the seat and drapes his massive arm around him again. “I like it.” Gavin shudders and squeezes his eyes shut to block it all out. This is just a dream. Just a bad dream. He fell asleep at his desk and is having a nightmare based on the news. He’ll wake up anytime now and laugh about it later with Fritz while they’re cuddling in post-coital bliss.

A cacophony of sirens and squealing tires explodes in the quiet street. Gavin snaps his eyes open in time to see a pack of squad cars and black SUVs careen around the corner and skid to a halt, surrounding the sedan. Warmth jolts through his body and his breath hitches as uniformed officers pour out of the cars, guns trained on the sedan, screaming orders for the criminals to come out with their hands up. The police! Yes! Oh thank god. Gavin cranes his neck to see if Fritz is leading the pack, or maybe Sharon and her team. Maybe both. Both is good.

Before he can process what’s happening, the bearded criminal yanks Gavin in front of him like a human shield and positions him so he’s behind the gap between the driver and passenger seats, in full view of the cops outside. A muscled arm snakes itself around Gavin’s waist, pulling him flush against the criminal’s chest, and the sharp edge of a knife jabs against his pulse point. “Back off or blondie here’s dead,” the bearded criminal shouts, angling the blade so it catches the late afternoon light. 

Gavin winces at the assault to his eardrums. He has no idea if the cops can hear anything, but they get the gist nonetheless. From his new vantage point, Gavin watches as the nearest officers exchange wide-eyed looks and slowly shuffle back, obviously waiting for someone in charge to tell them how to handle this unexpected situation. 

For what seems like hours, nothing happens. The cops confer quietly outside, casting furtive frowns at the car. Gavin locks eyes with one of the officers but flushes and quickly lowers his gaze, hating how exposed he is, out on display like he’s some kind of goddamn trophy. Suddenly he’s glad Fritz isn’t here to see him like this, so helpless and weak. Especially after Fritz warned him, practically begged him to go to the precinct. God, he wishes he’d just listened for once instead of being so stubborn. 

Movement outside pulls him from his thoughts, and he looks up to see a tall, dark-haired man in a blue FBI jacket striding forward through the clustered uniformed cops, a bullhorn clutched at his side. Gavin’s heart plummets into his stomach as he realizes who it is and he pulls back, needing to hide before he’s seen, but the driver reaches back and grabs a fistful of his hair to hold him in place at the same time the bearded criminal slices the blade deeper into his neck. He flinches as blood trickles down his neck.

Outside, Agent Fritz Howard raises the bullhorn to his lips. “Israel Espinoza. Joseph McCray,” he says in a deep, authoritative voice that would have Gavin burning up for entirely different reasons under very different circumstances. “Release your —” Fritz’s jaw drops and his eyes widen. “Gavin,” he chokes out, voice strangled even with the bullhorn amplifying the volume. 

Every eye on the street swivels onto Gavin, burning into him like a thousand laser beams. A hot flood of shame washes over him and he can’t bear to look Fritz in the eye. Biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood, he hunches his shoulders and stares at Fritz’s shiny black shoes. God, he hates himself for letting this happen. For putting Fritz in this position. At this point he’d give anything to make it all end, to just make it stop.

The driver, whose name is apparently Israel Espinoza, slaps the side of his head, and with a start Gavin realizes that he asked him a question. “I said, you know this guy? Answer me,” he snarls, shaking Gavin when he doesn’t immediately reply. The blade snicks his skin again, and Gavin flinches as another stream of blood joins the first.

“I — yes, yes I know him,” he gasps out. Apparently this isn’t good enough, because Espinoza slaps him harder. “How?” 

Gavin knows he should lie and tell them that Fritz is a friend or a distant cousin, anything but the truth, but even now, even here, he just can’t make himself do it. Licking his dry lips, he swallows harshly and says, “He’s…my partner.

”Espinoza’s brows furrow as he glances from Gavin to Fritz and back again. Then a slow, wicked grin settles on his face as he realizes exactly what Gavin means by ‘partner,’ and he grabs Gavin’s phone from the passenger seat, waggling it in the air. Fritz gets the gist and digs his phone out of his pants pocket. Moments later the shrill ringtone fills the car.

“I got your boy here, Agent,” Espinoza says, canting his head at Gavin without taking his eyes off Fritz. A sour taste burns in the back of Gavin’s throat and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, wishing he could spontaneously combust and put himself out of this misery. “You want him back, tell your men to stand down and let us through.”

Fritz is still gaping at Gavin, shell-shocked, the forgotten bullhorn drifting back down to his side. Gavin longs to dive out the passenger door and run to Fritz, letting him know Gavin’s safe, he’s fine, and he’s sorry for being such an idiot, so, so sorry. But he knows even trying will get him killed and that means never seeing Fritz again, and worse, hurting Fritz even more than he already has, and that’s not something he has the strength or the desire to do.

When Fritz still hasn’t said anything a few moments later, Espinoza jerks his head at McCray. The bearded criminal squeezes the handle of the blade and digs the tip further into the juncture of Gavin’s neck and jaw, forcing him to tilt his head back and expose his throat. “Or we can just kill him right in front of you. Your call,” Espinoza tells Fritz. Gavin’s chest is so tight it hurts and he can’t breathe. Being humiliated like this is one thing, but being humiliated like this in front of Fritz? Forget spontaneous combustion. He wishes the ground would bottom out in a sink hole and swallow the car whole.

The direct threat against Gavin’s life seems to snap Fritz out of his shock. Nostrils flaring he takes a few steps toward the car, planting his legs wide, and sweeps the bullhorn back up to his mouth. Several uniformed officers fan out behind him, guns trained at the windshield. “Let me talk to Gavin.” A hot flush burns across Gavin’s face. No, he can’t talk to Fritz. Not when the last thing Fritz said to him was to go to the precinct, and his response had basically been “haha, nope. Bye.” If he’d listened, this wouldn’t be happening. It’s all his fault and he knows it, and he doesn’t need Fritz rub it in. 

But Espinoza shrugs and presses the phone to his ear, and Fritz lowers the bullhorn to keep their conversation private. 

“Gavin.” Fritz’s voice bursts across the line like sunlight bursting from behind a cloud, and a pang fills Gavin’s chest with yearning. He has to swallow hard twice before he can summon the nerve to reply. 

“Hi Fritz.” His voice comes out a shrill, strangled croak. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “Hi.”

Outside, Fritz takes a half-step toward the car, then apparently thinks better of it and aborts the movement. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Gavin honestly has no idea how to answer that. He’s definitely not okay, and he’s a little banged up and bleeding, but otherwise not hurt. “I’ve…been better,” he finally says, since this is the closest to the truth he can get. A staticky sound buzzes over the line like Fritz sighed or laughed into the phone. 

Before either of them can say anything else, Espinoza jerks the phone away. “Okay, you talked to him. Now fucking stand down or I’m gonna kill your pretty little boyfriend.” Gavin cuts his eyes at the driver at that. He could die happy if no one calls him that ever again. The unexpected prickle of irritation heartens him and he clings to it like a security blanket, wrapping it around himself to stave off the fear snapping and crackling like a livewire at the edges his mind.

Pursing his lips, Fritz juts out his chin and raises the bullhorn. “How about this. You let him go and then get out of the car and lay on the ground with your hands behind your heads, and we settle this without anyone ending up dead.”

Espinoza just laughs. “You think I’m playing, Agent?”

“No, I don’t think you’re playing, Espinoza. I’m not playing either. I’m completely serious.” Fritz’s voice is calm and steady and strong, like waves rolling against a sandy beach. “Let Gavin go and then slowly get out of the car, and no one gets hurt. It’s as simple as that. What do you say?”

Espinoza’s lip curls and he scoffs at Fritz. “You think I’m stupid enough to fall for that? I ain’t going to prison. If it means I have to kill your boy and run all of you over, I’ll do it.” Signaling the end of their conversation, Espinoza tosses Gavin’s phone onto the passenger seat and revs the engine threateningly, making several of the officers flinch. To their credit, none of them take a single step back.

Gavin tenses and a bead of sweat rolls down his back. He hopes he’s not about to become another collateral damage statistic. Surely Fritz won’t allow that. He won’t let Gavin die here today, not like this. Despite himself, images of his own dead body fill his head, riddled with bullet holes and lying in a pool of blood. It’ll be all over the news, top story for at least a week. ‘Prominent Defense Attorney Gavin Q. Baker III Killed in Police Standoff.’ They’ll show his photograph, the poised, dignified one he took for his picture on the partners’ wall at the firm, and then cut to his corpse on a stretcher, covered in a blood-stained — 

He gasps as Espinoza stomps on the gas and guns the car toward the end of the street opposite Fritz, slamming Gavin hard against McCray’s chest. The officers in their path dive out their way as they narrowly squeeze between two squad cars, ripping off a side mirror and bashing in a bumper. Gavin watches in the rearview mirror as the cops behind them surge forward and open fire. Bullets ping off the car, exploding the back window. Gavin flinches as shattered glass cascades around him, but the knife at his throat and the criminal’s arm around his waist keep him from taking cover.

Cackling like he’s having the time of his life, Espinoza flips off the police and whips around a corner. Gavin catches one last glimpse in the rearview mirror of Fritz charging down the street, gun trained on the car, and then he’s gone.

Espinoza weaves through the neighborhood at gut-wrenching speeds and then pulls out onto a main thoroughfare, blasting by other cars and weaving back and forth between lanes fast enough to make Gavin’s stomach churn. Swallowing hard, he braces his feet against the floorboards, cringing at every near miss and dizzying swerve. All he can think is that they’re going too fast and he doesn’t have on his seatbelt, because right now those are the safest thoughts he can let himself have.

Sirens scream to life behind them and soon half a dozen squad cars roar onto the street in their wake, lights flashing. Up ahead even more black-and-whites join the fray, cutting them off. A tiny bubble of hope swells in Gavin’s chest — this is it, this is his rescue — but it bursts as Espinoza veers hard onto a side street, temporarily thwarting the cops’ attempt to corral them. 

Despite the high speed chase most of the adrenaline from Gavin’s capture has worn off, leaving him shaky and jittery. Unable to keep himself upright, he sags against McCray and stares forlornly out the windshield. A small part of him longs to ask what they intend to do with him. Surely they can’t hold him hostage forever? But the larger part just wants to pretend like the criminals aren’t even there, like this is some kind of joy ride he’s taking with Fritz, even though Fritz always drives five miles under the speed limit and not like a reckless lunatic.

Besides, he’s pretty sure this is going to end in somebody’s funeral. 

Something blunt pokes him in the side, making him jump. “Having fun yet, blondie?” 

McCray. Gavin grits his teeth and pointedly says nothing, watching the buildings flash by outside like he’s getting paid to do it, though he does sit up a little straighter and rolls his shoulders to ease the growing ache in his joints. 

McCray gives a throaty chuckle that grates on Gavin’s already raw nerves. “Ignoring me, huh? Real cute. I’m gonna have so much fun with you.” Chuckling again, he runs his hand up and down Gavin’s side in a very suggestive manner, making Gavin’s skin crawl. Ignore it, he tells himself. Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it. Hopefully the idiot will get bored and leave him the hell alone if he refuses to engage. 

Then something hot and wet swipes along the shell of his ear, and he chokes when he realizes it’s McCray’s tongue. Oh god. The sirens swell in volume as Espinoza makes another sharp turn, and Gavin prays the cops catch them before they get wherever they’re going, because he has zero desire to find out exactly what McCray means by ‘fun.’ All the educated guesses his mind helpfully supplies make him want to throw up.

For what seems like a lifetime Espinoza barrels through the city at breakneck speed, followed by what sounds like every cop in Los Angeles. Then the failing sun bleeds out and the day bruises into night, shrouding the city in an almost total darkness that swallows up the navy blue sedan and throws Gavin’s would-be rescuers off their trail. The fear lurking at the edges of his mind grows steadily stronger the darker it gets, shredding his safety blanket of irritation. By the time Espinoza pulls into the back parking lot of a condemned apartment building, Gavin’s pulse is racing again and he’s gulping down breaths to stay quiet. 

Espinoza jumps out of the car almost before the tires have stopped turning, leaving him alone with McCray. Gavin half-heartedly hopes they’ll abandon him here with the car and flee on foot, but of course they don’t. McCray flings open the door and then hauls Gavin out. His knees are wobbly and he almost falls, but the bearded criminal catches him under his arms and sets him back on his feet, shoving him toward a dark, dilapidated building that looks like the next earthquake will knock it down.

A few dying street lamps line the street nearby, casting sickly, flickering orange light onto the sidewalk. Shabby buildings huddle together like they’d all collapse if even one of them fell. The area looks completely abandoned, but Gavin can’t let what might be his last golden opportunity to escape, or at least call for help, pass without doing something. 

Gathering his nerve, he bolts to his left toward the street, screaming “Help!” at the top of his lungs. Running with his hands tied behind his back is awkward, but damn it, he does it. One of the criminals swears, and two sets of heavy feet pound the pavement behind him. He’s almost to the litter-clogged curb and halfway through his second scream when one of the criminals punches him hard enough to send him tumbling to the ground, scraping his shoulders and knees and knocking the breath out of his lungs as he lands in a sprawled heap. Coughing, he ignores his newest injuries and lurches up to his knees, but before he can take off again a hand fists into his hair and yanks him up with a shrill yelp. 

“Shut up,” McCray growls, clamping a huge hand over Gavin’s mouth before he can scream again. But his depressingly short taste of freedom after what seems like hours of captivity has made him wild, and rather than submit meekly like he did before Gavin thrashes in the man’s grip, jabbing backward with his bound hands and kicking at the man’s kneecaps and biting hard on the thick, meaty fingers over his mouth. Howling in pain, McCray releases him and Gavin dashes blindly away, breath bursting in and out of his heaving chest.

He gets maybe ten feet away before someone grabs him and effortlessly flings him onto the pavement, planting a knee into his back to hold him down. Shit. Spitting out gravel and dirt and blood from his newly cut lip, Gavin struggles to throw the criminal off balance enough that he can get away, but the all too familiar feeling of cool, sharp metal slides against his throat and all the fight drains out of him, leaving him gasping and trembling. Even though he just failed spectacularly, there’s no way they’re not going to punish him for attempting to escape. He just knows it.

Right on cue, Espinoza lumbers into view and kicks Gavin in his side, making him cry out as a starburst of pain sends fiery jolts of adrenaline screaming along his nerves. “You little fucker,” Espinoza snarls, kicking him again. “If that FBI agent wasn’t your boyfriend, I’d kill you right here.” Gavin moans and curls as much into a protective ball as he can with McCray’s knee on his back and the knife against his throat. He’s suddenly very, very glad that he told them Fritz is his partner and not just some random friend. Apparently it’s the only thing keeping him alive, though he can’t help but wonder how much longer that will be, FBI agent boyfriend or not. Sirens wail in the distance, and he hopes it’s long enough for Fritz and the police to find him and save him from this nightmare.

“Come on, let’s go.” Espinoza whirls around and stalks off toward the apartment building. McCray finally removes his knee from Gavin’s back and forces him to his feet.“You’re gonna regret that little stunt, blondie,” he hisses into Gavin’s ear, marching him at knifepoint in Espinoza’s wake. Ice floods Gavin’s veins, but he doesn’t regret his brief moment of rebellion. It proves he still has some fight left, that he’s not completely under their thumbs, knives or no knives. Fritz would be proud. At least Gavin hopes so.

Espinoza leads them down a series of dusty, graffiti-streaked corridors lined with broken glass and flaky chunks of drywall before muscling open the door to what was probably once a nice little one-bedroom apartment. Against all odds, because that’s apparently the shape of Gavin’s luck tonight, the apartment still has electricity flowing through the dilapidated fixtures. Ratty green curtains frame the window, and there’s enough grime on the glass to hide the glare of lights from any curious eyes that happen to wander by in a squad car.

Whoever the previous tenants were must have left in a hurry, abandoning most, if not all, of their possessions. Espinoza goes to the window, flicking back the raggedy curtain and peering through the film of muck into the parking lot. McCray nudges Gavin none too gently toward the kitchenette, where two rickety chairs sit in front of an equally rickety round table. The floor creaks under his feet, making him glad they’re not on the second story, and the musty stench of mold and mildew fills the air with the incense of decay. Something shifts and skitters behind the walls and he grimaces. Rats. Oh dear lord, that’s just fabulous.

“Sit down, blondie.” McCray slams Gavin into one of the chairs before he has a chance to comply. 

Apparently satisfied that they weren’t followed, Espinoza joins them in the kitchenette. “Go find something to tie him up with. I’ll watch him.” He unpockets his knife and presses the blade flush against Gavin’s jugular so he can’t make a mad dash for the door. Gavin winces, but at this point he’s too exhausted to do much besides scowl up at the criminal smirking down at him and imagine how he’d look in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit and a life sentence in a maximum security prison. 

McCray nods and disappears. Bangs, clangs and thuds clatter through the apartment as he rummages around. Gavin shifts, trying to get comfortable in the rock hard seat. He fervently hopes they won’t find anything and they’ll have to lock him in the bathroom, which in his very vivid imagination has a window just barely big enough for him to squeeze himself through. He holds onto the daydream until McCray returns to the kitchenette with a thick coil of rope, and his shoulders droop like they’re made of lead. 

A heavy sense of hopelessness settles over him as McCray slips the belt-thing off his wrists and yanks them through the slats in the chair, twining the rope around them in a figure eight pattern and cinching it between them so he can’t wriggle his hands free. He straps Gavin’s ankles to the chair legs next, then winds the rest of the rope around his chest and stomach so tightly it digs into his skin, making it hard for him to breathe. That done, McCray steps back into Gavin’s line of sight and leers at him like he’s a free gourmet buffet. The criminal’s tongue darts out and licks along his parted lips like a worm poking itself out of the dirt.

“I’ll take first watch if you want to try and get some sleep,” McCray says without taking his eyes off Gavin.

Espinoza rubs the knuckles of his free hand along his chin, then shrugs. “As long as you quit messing with the hostage and watch out for the cops.”

McCray nods so fast he looks like a dashboard bobble head on a bumpy country road and strides over to the window, planting himself next to a raggedy sofa. “I’ll stay right here the whole time,” he says, obviously trying for earnest and trustworthy. All Gavin sees is a fox trying to convince the farmer to let him guard the hen house. He stares beseechingly up at Espinoza, willing him to see through the ruse and take first watch himself.

Espinoza grunts. “You better. If I come out here and see you anywhere near him, I’ll gut you.” With that he pockets his knife and disappears down the short hallway into the single bedroom. As soon as his boss is gone, the bearded criminal licks his lips and smirks over at Gavin. An icy fist clenches Gavin’s chest. Even though he knows it won’t do any good, he wriggles his hands and yanks at his bonds, trying to find a weak spot he can exploit to free himself, but McCray obviously knew his way around a rope. All his struggling does his chafe his wrists, so with a frustrated grunt he tilts his head back and frowns up at the loops of loose wire drooping from the cracks in the mold-stained ceiling.

Great job, Gavin. No really, great job. Fabulous, even. He huffs a breath out his nose. Goddamn it. How could he let this happen to himself? Better yet, how the hell did this happen at all? There are literally millions of people in Los Angeles. The criminals had a one in several millions-chance of running into Gavin. So of course they did. He’s almost tempted to believe in God, because the series of implausible coincidences that created this situation smacks of divine intervention, and not the good kind. Plus, if God were real, Gavin could hate him and rant and rail at him and make himself feel better.

One thing’s for sure. When he gets out of here alive — because damn it, he is getting out of here alive — he’s making Fritz give him self-defense lessons.

Lights flash outside, and a tiny golden bubble of hope wells in his chest when he recognizes the red, yellow, and blue lights of a police cruiser. McCray stiffens and ducks to the side of the window, flattening himself against the grimy wall. Gavin strains against the ropes to see outside, but he’s too far away and the glass is too filthy for him to make anything out. Two car doors creak open and slam shut, and something flutters in Gavin’s stomach. They got out! Maybe they’ll see the car, recognize it from the APB that’s surely been issued by now, and comb the area for signs of the suspects. His pulse jacks up as muffled voices reach his ears. If he can hear them, surely they could hear him too. Almost giddy with a new surge of adrenaline, he takes a deep breath as quietly as he can. 

“HE—”McCray is suddenly beside him, shoving something scratchy down his throat and clamping a hand over his mouth. Gavin gags and jerks his head around to dislodge it, but the criminal’s grip is sturdy. With a growl he grabs a handful of Gavin’s hair and wrenches his head back, holding him still. How is Espinoza not hearing this? He must be deaf or dead to the world.

“Shut up or I swear I’ll snap your neck,” McCray hisses into his ear. 

White-hot fury surges through Gavin. His rescuers are right there, right outside, so close. With a muffled snarl he strains against the ropes even as they gouge into him and jerks his hands against the bindings and butts his head back at McCray’s face, earning a sharp yowl, but the man refuses to let go, and the ropes refuse to unravel.

Then the two doors slam shut again and the lights drift off down the street, leaving darkness in their wake.

Gavin’s heart stops and he stares unseeingly at the window. No. No, no, no. They left without even investigating the building, the most obvious place he could be. They could have saved him, could have ended this all now, but they left. They left.

Gavin’s fury abandons him as quickly as it came and he slumps in the chair with a choked sob. His throat burns and with another sob he squeezes his eyes shut against his moldy dump of a prison, not wanting to look at it, not wanting to be here, wishing he was home with Fritz. Hot tears stream down his face, plopping onto his lenses as he breaks down and cries, chest heaving.

He’s so caught up in his own misery he doesn’t register that McCray has moved until rough fingers brush away his tears. Flinching, he jerks his head up to find the criminal squatting in front of him, one hand on Gavin’s knee, the other caressing his face in a mockery of tenderness. “You’re pretty when you cry,” McCray murmurs, running the pad of his thumb along Gavin’s cheek. The hand on Gavin’s knee travels up his thigh and squeezes his hip. Gavin breaks out in a cold sweat and jiggles his leg to shake off the criminal’s grip, but it only encourages him to squeeze again, harder, his thumb sliding between Gavin’s legs. Oh god no. No. No, this can’t be happening. He can’t let this happen, not after everything else. Unable to hold back a whimper as the criminal gropes him, he twists his face out of the man’s grasp and tries in vain to shrink away from the unwanted touches.

“Ah, ah, ah,” McCray says, grabbing Gavin’s chin and forcing Gavin to look at him. “Just relax. Let it happen. You know you want it, been asking for it all day.”

Gavin moans and shakes his head as best as he can. Tears stream down his now burning cheeks as his body hardens against his will. “See? You like this,” the criminal breathes, his eyes blown black with lust. He lets go of Gavin’s chin and slowly strokes him from his neck to his waist, pausing to fondle a nipple beneath his blue-and-white striped Charvet shirt. He presses so close to Gavin that Gavin can feel the man’s hot, rancid breath on his neck.

Breath hitching, Gavin shakes his head again and yells “No! Stop!” as best he can around whatever’s in his mouth. McCray ignores him in favor of leaning in and licking along his collar bone. Gavin shudders as bile burns at the back of his throat, but he swallows it down, has to, unless he wants to choke to death on his own vomit. It’s not at all the way he wants to go, but the way things are going now, it’s looking like a better and better alternative by the second.

He squeezes his eyes shut and bites back another whimper as the man tugs down the zipper to his pants and slips his hand into Gavin’s boxers, coaxing him to further hardness. Another stream of tears cascades down his face. Oh god, he’ll never be able to look Fritz in the eye again after this. If he even gets to look at Fritz ever again. His stomach roils and he sobs, longing to see Fritz, willing him to burst into the room and save him from this. He’ll make it up to Fritz somehow, but if Fritz ends up leaving, he won’t blame him. What kind of freak gets hard when he’s being molested? Even so the idea of being alone depresses him and he dissolves into tears, breath hitching around pained whimpers.

“Shh,” McCray says, pressing closer so their bodies are nearly flush. “Be quiet. You like this. Just be quiet and take it.” Fisting a hand in Gavin’s hair, he tilts Gavin’s head back and bites along his neck. No. That’s what Fritz does. Only Fritz can do that. Gavin struggles to get away, his body clenching with dry heaves.

The criminal’s face tightens and he pulls away, frowning down at Gavin. “Stop doing that,” he says, yanking Gavin’s hair when he doesn’t stop, when he can’t make himself stop retching in fear and disgust. Mouth twisting into a snarl, McCray pulls back and backhands Gavin across the face. He gasps, cheek stinging. Then McCray grabs his face again, hand clenched around his jaw, forcing him to look up at the criminal through watery eyes and splotchy, tear-stained glasses.

“I said stop it,” McCray hisses, “or I’ll —”

The front door flies off its hinges as armed cops swarm into the room.

“Police!”

“Get down on the ground!” 

“Drop your weapon!” 

“Put your hands over your head!”

Despite the thing gagging him, Gavin’s mouth falls open and he gasps as Fritz barges in on the heels of a uniformed officer, gun drawn and trained at McCray’s back. Their eyes lock for a second, and times seems to slow as Fritz stares at him, eyes widening a fraction. Then Fritz’s entire face hardens and those soft brown eyes narrow to flinty slits. Gavin averts his gaze, hot shame washing over him and soaking him to his core.

“Step away from the hostage,” Fritz barks as a cluster of cops breaks off from the group. Moving in formation down the hallway, they rush into the bedroom, shouting the same orders.

In a heartbeat McCray scrambles around the chair and crouches behind Gavin, pulling his knife back out and slotting it against Gavin’s throat. “I’ll kill him. Won’t think twice,” he says, deliberately nicking Gavin’s neck so the cops know he means business. 

Gavin flinches as his skin parts beneath the blade, but at this point his system’s so flooded with adrenaline and he’s so overcome with humiliation he barely feels the pain. Without the criminal blocking the way he’s entirely exposed to Fritz, and surely Fritz must notice the shameful hardness tenting his boxers. He curls into himself as much as he can, but the criminal pulls him back up, forcing his body to unfold. 

“Get away from him. Now,” Fritz says, voice like granite. 

Shouts erupt in the background followed by a series of thuds. More shouting. Then the group of uniformed cops appears in the hallway, triumphantly dragging out a roughed up Espinoza in handcuffs. Fritz shakes his head and gestures with a hand and they pause, eyeing the situation in the front room.

Behind Gavin McCray gives a sharp, hysterical laugh, breath huffing along Gavin’s skin and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t? You can’t shoot me or you’ll hit him too. So do both of us a favor and back the fuck up.”

Fritz’s grip on his gun is firm and his aim is unwavering. “I’ll tell you one more time, McCray. Drop the knife and let Gavin go.”

For a second that seems to stretch into eternity, nothing happens. Then everything happens at once. 

Bellowing incoherently, McCray jerks Gavin’s head back and slides the knife across his throat. Gunfire erupts from the left and the knife tumbles from the criminal’s hand before it slices more than half an inch into Gavin, clattering onto the stained linoleum. Seconds later a heavy thud echoes its landing and pained wails fill the apartment.

“You shot me,” McCray shrieks. At Fritz’s signal two uniformed cops converge on him and, based on the scraping and grunting, haul him to his feet. “Police brutality,” he adds as the officers drag him into the center of the room and force his hands behind his back so they can cuff him. Blood seeps from his left shoulder, staining his shirt. Seeing his tormentor in handcuffs and obvious agony makes Gavin go limp with relief. It’s over. It’s finally over. Thank god. 

No, not god. 

Thank Fritz.

As the uniformed cops handle the suspects, Fritz holsters his weapon and rushes to Gavin. Kneeling in front of him, he tugs the gag out of his mouth and tosses it carelessly onto the floor next to the knife. “My god, Gavin. Are you okay? Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

Gavin mumbles something vaguely affirmative and drops his chin to his chest, unable to look Fritz in the eye. If he didn’t notice Gavin’s shameful erection before he’s bound to notice it now. His eyes water and burn, but he blinks back the tears even as his chin trembles and his breath stutters like he’s going to start crying again at any second. But he can’t cry in front of Fritz. Won’t. He’s already seen Gavin helpless; he can’t let Fritz see him weak too.

Fritz must sense his distress and runs his hands soothingly down Gavin’s shoulders while making soft, reassuring noises. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe now, okay? You’re safe.” Still rubbing calming circles into Gavin’s shoulders and back, Fritz turns toward the cops crowding the front room. “I need one of you guys to come over here and help me untie him.” One of them peels away from the group and instantly starts tugging at the ropes securing Gavin’s wrists. 

It’s all a bit too much for him to take in, and he can’t choke back the sob that punches out his throat. “Fritz. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, you have to believe me, I didn’t want —”

Fritz presses a finger to his lip, shushing him. “It’s okay.”

But it’s not okay. He has to tell Fritz, make him understand that Gavin didn’t want it, didn’t want to be touched like that. Fritz has to understand. “He touched me,” Gavin blurts out as the officer untying him finishes unbinding his hands and moves on to the ropes twining around his chest and stomach. The second his hands are free, Gavin zips up his pants with fumbling fingers and folds his hands over his lap. “He touched me and…he made me…” But he can’t finish, can’t admit it aloud. Heat flushes his face and he hangs his head again, biting his trembling bottom lip.

Fritz gently tilts his chin up, brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean he touched you? What did he make you do?”

Gavin whimpers, sounding pathetic even to his own ears, and looks pointedly down at his groin, which is finally, mercifully, going soft. Fritz follows his gaze, and he knows when Fritz understands when his hands clamp down on Gavin’s shoulders and his eyes harden again into the steely gaze of a federal agent. Gavin swallows thickly, but before he can explain himself, Fritz pushes up and spins on his heel toward the front room, leaving Gavin alone in the kitchenette with the uniformed officer.

Squeezing his eyes shut as a tear slides down his cheek, Gavin presses a fist to his lips to hold back a sob and wraps his other arm around himself. Of course Fritz is angry; he has every right to be. Who gets hard when they’re being molested? He’s sick. Disgusting. Fritz is better off —

A meaty thud and sharp cry ring out from the front room. Gavin’s eyes pop open in time to see McCray hit the floor, blood streaming from his obviously broken nose. He blinks, not entirely sure what he’s seeing until several officers converge on Fritz and haul him away from the criminal. Their voices admonish him for striking a handcuffed prisoner while their faces give away the fact that they don’t give a shit. To them, the sleazeball got what he so richly deserved.

Oh. 

Oh.

Well. Looks like Gavin has nothing to worry about after all. The pressure in his chest eases and he takes a deep breath, slumping back in the chair.

“Police brutality,” McCray shouts again to a room full of deaf ears as two cops lug him back to his feet. One of them yanks the ratty curtain off the wall and half-heartedly uses it to staunch the blood flowing down his face into his beard.

Fritz shakes the officers off and strides back to the kitchenette just as the cop finishes untying Gavin. Before Gavin even has a chance to thank the man, Fritz pulls Gavin up into a tight embrace that squeezes most of the air out of his lungs and crushes his side where Espinoza kicked him, making him suck his teeth in pain. “Don’t you ever do anything like that to me ever again,” Fritz says, voice muffled against Gavin’s hair. “I don’t know whether to slap you silly or, or, or kiss you senseless.”

“You could do both,” Gavin manages to squeak out. 

Fritz just laughs and does neither, squeezing him harder like he’s afraid Gavin is going to vanish if he lets go. Gavin can’t hide the hiss of pain this time, prompting Fritz to ease up on the embrace and step back, though his hands still grip Gavin’s upper arms like vises. “You’re hurt,” he says, giving Gavin a critical once-over. 

Gavin shrugs a shoulder. “It’s nothing.” Honestly, he can’t be bothered to care now that Fritz is here. Whatever’s wrong will heal eventually.

Fritz gives him an ‘I don’t believe you’ look. “It’s obviously not nothing. What happened?”

Gavin shrugs again, but even if he wanted to he can’t make himself lie to Fritz, either directly or by omission. “They kicked me, but I’ll be fine.”

“Because you’re going to the hospital.”

Gavin grimaces. He hates hospitals. Hates the hours of anxious waiting and the antiseptic smell and the endless beeping and booping of machines and, worse of all, the needles. Shots, IVs, those evil things they collect blood samples with, all of them. Just no. Shuddering at the thought, he presses close to Fritz and wraps his arms around him half as a distraction tactic and half as an honest need for comfort after the hellacious day he’s had. “I’ll be fine,” he says again, nuzzling a kiss into Fritz’s neck.

Fritz huffs, but wraps his arms very carefully around Gavin. “Sure. After you go to the hospital.”

Gavin grunts. So much for distraction tactics. He pulls back and looks his beautiful, beloved boyfriend dead in the eye so he knows Gavin is beyond serious about this. “Fritz. I am not going to the hospital.”

Fritz meets his gaze head on. “Yes, you are.”

Gavin glares at Fritz.

Fritz glares at Gavin.

Gavin goes to the hospital.

He ends up staying overnight and most of the next day. After making him suffer through a battery of tests (and the insertion of an IV, because apparently he’s dehydrated and why he can’t just drink water until he’s re-hydrated he’ll never know), the doctors are finally satisfied that he’s not bleeding internally and all his internal organs are fine. Nevertheless, they send him home with strict orders to take the rest of the week off to ‘recuperate,’ because doctors hate lawyers and are probably rubbing their hands in glee at the idea of taking one out of commission. Never mind the fact that Gavin would be the one defending them if they found themselves on the wrong side of a medical malpractice suit. 

Ingrates.

He huffs and puffs and throws a fit, but one look from Fritz and he caves, agreeing to stay home until next Monday even though it’s only Wednesday. Shit. Just shit. Gavin can feel the crazy creeping up on him now.

It’s late in the day by the time they let him go. Crimson throbs at the horizon and fades upward to a delicate pink. Wispy white clouds brush across the pale face of the moon, just a ghostly crescent in the early evening sky. Gavin scowls up at it, still too pissed off at the world to appreciate the natural beauty of a gorgeous sunset.

“I can walk, you know,” he grouses as Fritz pushes his wheelchair through the lobby and out to the patient drop-off area where Fritz’s blue Toyota is idling by the curb. 

“Standard discharge procedure.” Fritz sounds like he’s about to start whistling a jaunty tune. He’s obviously enjoying this way too much. Gavin rolls his eyes and picks at the large bandage covering the cut on his neck where McCray tried to slit his throat. It itches horribly, but Fritz swats his hand away before he can get any relief.

“Leave that alone.”

“Yes, mother,” Gavin snarks as Fritz parks him next to the car and opens the passenger door for him. He manages to stand up on his own before Fritz wraps an arm around him and guides him into the seat like he’s a newborn foal taking his first steps in the world. He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, mindful of the tender bruise purpling his side. “I swear to god, Fritz, knock it off. I’m not going to break.” Fritz just smiles down at him, pressing a kiss to his temple before shutting the door and wheeling the chair back to the hospital lobby. The sunset paints his back in soft pastels as the doors swish open to let him in.

Gavin sighs and leans back in the seat. All sniping aside, he’s nothing but grateful to Fritz, and not just for saving his stubborn ass. Instead of rightfully claiming the bust as his own, he graciously let one of the other agents take credit (and the accompanying pile of paperwork) so he could personally escort Gavin to the nearest hospital. Fritz was probably just making sure that Gavin actually went to the hospital and stayed there long enough for treatment, but still, Gavin appreciates it. Especially since he got to squeeze Fritz’s hand to a pulp when the nurse inserted the IV and had someone to talk to during the long, boring stretches of downtime between tests and results. 

The doors slide open as Fritz comes back outside, breaking into a light jog as soon as his shoes hit the concrete. The fiery sky burnishes his face a warm bronze, like he’s glowing with an inner light. Smiling to himself, Gavin steeples his hands together and taps his fingers against his lips. Fritz truly is the kindest, most patient man on the planet. And so very, very gorgeous. It’s enough to leave Gavin feeling overwhelmed, but in a pleasant sort of way, like the warm buzz of a good wine. As Fritz slams his door shut and shifts the car into drive, drifting out of the parking lot at a safe and responsible ten miles an hour, Gavin is struck by an aching need to show Fritz how grateful he truly is.

He can think of a few ways.

His lips quirk into a smirk as a delicious little plan starts forming in his mind.

-.-.-.-.- 

�

[azadrithaanatheme]

All the "everyone the Solver ate lives in Uzi's head now" concepts I've seen thus far: "Angst. Suffering. Woe. Oh, the misery."

Me, writing my own fan project/series/thing: I will bring them back. I will bring them all back. (And then I will make them suffer.)

[roelifant]

the Ending Plain

Not all is real. Not all exists. But everything can be relativized and can be placed within an area of relevance where something unreal can be described as real. The world in which we live is real. You are real, you exist. I exist as well. However, some things do not. Some of these things aren’t even ‘unreal’ they are ‘far from real’. They thrive in their inexistent nature. The inexistent world is richer and more powerful than this one. Despite their unreal state it could be said that these inexistent things are more valuable than the things that do exist. If we then were to relativize the unreal, we would see that from some perspectives the inexistent can actually be surprisingly true, and surprisingly real.

In a far removed inexistence a rustle sounds. Blowing wind. The sound of a restless atmosphere. A chaotic sea of strangeness, with a rocky landscape that lies at its bottom. An abstract fragment of a world. A landscape that translates a vague concept. On an uncertain point in time, a silver object had cleaved through the black and white mists that formed the skies of this odd place. The vessel came from a far notional origin that was as real as this scene was. It descended, describing a steep fall towards the abstract disarray. It slowed down when it reached the ground. It stopped moving and floated over the rocks. While the object hang still in the air, the landscape kept screaming. The wind blew strongly against the craft and threw waves of mist against it. The light, which had no source, flickered intensely. Shadows swarmed over the plain just like the clouds constantly shifted shapes and streamed from one end of the heavens to the other. The silver thing ignored all the abstract noise. Within the machine they were thinking. It took hours, days, years before anything happened.

The object was a pod. A metal construction with reflective surfaces, shaped like a teardrop. It looked like it was made out of mirrors. After an unclear amount of time had passed, beings crawled out of the mirrorlike materials. These living reflections left the pod, descended and set foot on the floor of that world. There weren’t many of them, just a handful of projections. These creatures were drones. Drones are altered representations of me. They are the idealised versions of how I saw myself on different days in my bygone life. They all wear my face, my body and my clothes. They live in made up worlds. They are like I was but they are copies, enhanced copies. Drones are abstract beings. Not just beings that don’t exist, but also beings that never could exist in our reality. The drones had travelled to this far corner of my brain. They had flown to the edge of their available territory. It was the border between two multiverses. Only one of these two was theirs. The other one was untamed. The drones didn’t stand idle. They never did. They walked over the lava fields and they observed and documented as much as was humanly (im)possible. They were efficient. They knew where they were. They knew why they were here. They knew what they came here to do. They knew how to handle it. However they started to notice that something or someone else knew as much as they did. To their terror they didn’t know what or who this entity was. While they were doing their work they sensed that they weren’t alone. Something lay hidden in the chaos. It called them. It lured the drones but at the same time taunted them. A whispering unborn voice made its way into the minds of the drones. It spoke of appalling things that no one could ever repeat. It described nightmares coming to life. It learned the drones about forbidden organisms. It mocked the Mind the Soul and the Heart. It told the drones about the true nature of their existence, and the meaning of life. The drones noticed that the presence of this entity was starting to taint them and so they decided to end their mission earlier than planned. They concluded that something dangerous had crawled out of the Nightland and without searching for the origin of the voice they returned to the pod. The silver pod left the abstract ending plain and flew back to the drone realm.

During the journey through the void the drones went insane listening to the unclean words that still resounded in their heads. When the pod eventually arrived in Mirror City, the drones within the vessel had murdered each other’s. The last remaining drone from the journey had been contaminated. He was broken, functioned no more and couldn’t say or do anything undefiled. He fought the drones of Mirror City, but lost. In captivity he kept speaking about a fourth organ, which does not exist. Under the command of Hatenaas he was removed from the Dayweb. Shortly after the drones learned how they could make such ending plains collapse and as time went by the first fistpod was developed.

Original nl story:  http://roelifant.deviantart.com/art/de-Grensvlakte-NL-679053569

[amberfyresdreamscapes]

smoke and mirrors: beginnings

smoke and mirrors verse fic written for recuitedbyhydra and imgonnashoottothrill

Witnessing a violent death changes people, wounds something in them. Sometimes it can shift the course of their entire life and break things that were never meant to be broken. Especially in children.

Take the case of the Winchesters. Typical Midwestern family of four. A marriage not perfect but with love in its broken threads. Two small boys, two and a half years apart but even as toddlers closer than most. Other than the two boys being mutants they were a typical family with a home and a yard, a mother who put her boys down with smiles and songs, hiding the pain of strained arguments that lingered in her eyes.

Until the night it all changed in blood and violence and fire.

Why the killer chose the Winchesters would never be known since he vanished without a trace when all was said and done. Maybe they just won the potluck of fucked karma that night. Whatever the case, they became the targets. Truthfully none were supposed to survive the night when the killer broke in quietly and crept up the stairs. Each family member’s location marked, John was to be the last to die, Mary the first.

Little Sammy, a toddler of just barely two and half, was an empath born. The trail of violent emotions the killer colored the air with woke the child from a restless sleep as he reached the second floor. Fear and confusion at the presence of a stranger pulled a distressed cry from Sammy that echoed over the lines of the baby monitor, waking Mary from her own restless sleep.

No plan is utterly perfect and without possibility of going ass up halfway through. Stopping at Sammy’s room first instead of moving on to the master bedroom and his intended first target, the thought was to quiet the crying child by any means necessary. But he paused by the side of the crib, caught by the child’s odd kaleidoscope gaze and the empathic echo of his fear and distress. A pause that gave Mary time to struggle from her bed and, with a frown that her husband had yet to join her in bed (again), pad down the hallway to quiet her youngest.

In the end, Mary was still the first to die. By the blade of a hidden killer who waited until she was next to the crib and focused on quieting her young son before he woke his brother. It was rare Sammy could wake in the night without drawing Dean to him, had been so from the moment she’d brought the baby home from the hospital.

They were a pair, the two of them, and Mary worried. Not so much because they were close. At two and a half and almost five, they hadn’t yet had time to grow out of their sibling being their whole world. And Dean, her eldest, was more clearly marked as a mutant than the younger, by his eyes. She’d heard whispers whenever people saw them. Devil’s eyes. Something she vehemently spoke against and tried to keep Dean from internalizing. He was her son, not a monster and she would allow no one to treat him as such.

Sammy wasn’t as obviously marked as his brother, but his own eyes of shifting hues were odd, even for a baby. It wasn’t unusual for a child’s eyes to change from the color they were born with. But Sammy’s… changed in ways eyes weren’t meant to, with his mood and temper. A shifting and almost mesmerizing spin through blues and greys and amber golds, always with a base of various shade and hues of green. But it was the ability to pick up as well as project his emotions to those around him, even as a babe in her arms, that set him apart, even more than his brother with his strange eyes.

Mary did her best, fiercely protective even against her husband who she wouldn’t allow to speak against them. Learned to read them both as only a mother who deeply loved her children could. And worried about how the world would treat them once she could no longer shelter them in the safety of their home.

These were thoughts trickling through her mind as she leaned over the side of the crib to gently shush Sammy’s distressed cries, frowning because it was a distress she didn’t recognize from him and his eyes were like storm clouds. She studied him for a moment, reaching out to him even as she heard Dean’s feet pattering towards his brother’s room. And never got the chance to do more than grasp a small reaching hand.

No time to realize they weren’t alone in the room, to register the stranger’s presence behind her before a blade was slashing through her throat, cold sharp metal against fragile skin. Sudden pain and an upwelling of blood, hotter than she’d have thought, that liberally splashed the toddler still gripping one finger of her hand along with the sheets and blankets around him. The last thought she had was of her boys, the desperate fear that they’d be next to die, caught in the hectic spin of her youngest child’s eyes before the world faded around her.

Sammy, at two and a half, was a stronger empath than even his mother knew, and through proximity and the touch of his small hand gripping the finger that was pulled from his hand as gravity and the killer pulled his mother away from him, he felt her die, felt the darkness close around her and the light within her blow out like a candle flame in the wind leaving nothing but cold behind. The blood streaked and spattered over him felt burning hot to the touch, enough of a shock to at first silence him completely before his eyes shifted to the killer moving to loom over his crib then over to the doorway seeking the familiar presence of his brother, who stood there radiating as much horror as was bouncing around in himself.

He let out a wail of a volume only a child his age could produce. A wail that would have been cut off abruptly by the killer’s bloody knife if it hadn’t ridden such a wave of empathic projection that the killer was momentarily unable to move, caught up and tossed around in emotions of a vivid strength and immediacy specific to small children.

The sound woke John from his sleep in the chair in the downstairs living room, cutting through the soft drone of the television like a bucket of ice cold water tossed on his skin. He started awake, feeling the edges of the empathic wave and was immediately on his feet, alert as only a former Marine could be when woken from a dead sleep.

The killer, pulling himself free of the emotional storm raging around the wailing toddler, thoughts scrambled and aware he only had moments before John appeared to respond to his child and saw him covered in his dead wife’s blood, panicked. Knocking aside Dean, standing transfixed by horror, he dashed from room.

John made Sammy’s room in record time, pausing in the doorway to steady Dean who was picking himself up from the ground and trembling, eyes still gazing fixed into the room and followed the direction of his oldest son’s gaze. Sammy’s wailing became only so much background noise when John saw his wife, lying on the floor next to the crib, blood still pooling around her, eyes open and lifeless.

He found himself kneeling next to her, taking in details and feeling echoes of rage and despair starting to build as he stared at the ruins of his chance at the American dream. Pulled her still warm corpse into his arms, struggling with grief and trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Had only just found a moment of clarity where he realized the killer could still be in the house before he came back to the present. The sound of Sammy still wailing and the billowing of smoke as it filled the room.

Torn by rage and grief, he snatched up Sammy from the crib and thrust the child into his brother’s arms, ordered Dean to get out, get his brother out now. A tone that brooked no argument and Dean, arms tight around Sammy who’d finally settled from wailing to muffled cries with his face buried against his brother, fled the scene. Their mother’s blood, cooling and becoming tacky on Sammy’s skin and clothes, bled onto Dean’s as he kept Sammy held tight against him, fleeing the building heat and smoke for the outside. Clear cool air in the dark of night, Dean ran until he reached the sidewalk before turning to stare at their home, somewhat in shock and trying to make sense of watching his mother fall and not rise again.

The two small boys clung to each other desperately as Dean watched flames start to envelop the house, fear that his father wouldn’t follow them churning under the rest of the emotions stirred by this night suddenly turned into a hellish dream with no escape.

John stumbled from the house clutching his wife’s body, burned and singed, as sirens echoed in the distance. Too late to save much, Dean finally buried his face against Sammy’s hair, ignoring the strobing lights and sudden chaos. John knelt next to the pair, his dead wife’s body laid out on the yard, his eyes burned out holes of shock and grief and rage, watching his broken dream burn. Only remembering his sons nearby when it was clear the house wasn’t to be saved. Stared at the two boys, clutching each other and seeming to have retreated to their own world, shutting out everyone else as they sometimes could.

It didn’t take long for it to become clear the night of brutal murder and violence, blood and fire, had broken things in all of them. John was not a man to ask for help in dealing with his grief, the family didn’t truly have friends to turn to. John turned to the bottle, leaving his sons to cope in whatever way they could. Something two boys of 2 and 4 should never have had to do. He did nothing to help them with their own emotional scars from the night, remained willfully and stubbornly ignorant of the fact the children had seen the whole thing. Refused to acknowledge his youngest had felt Mary’s death (or perhaps he truly didn’t know. Sammy hadn’t the words to explain even before everything had gone to hell and even if he had he’d lost them in the horror of the night).

So John crawled into the depths of any bottle he could get his hands on and stayed there until he climbed out with his own conclusions of what had happened that night. Fueled by grief and rage and the echoing black despair of losing the woman who’d put up with his attitude and loved him anyway, reality colored over with dark storm clouds and the scent of smoke and blood and twisted beyond his recognition of it, he found his own explanations and reasons for what had happened. And never mind that they made no sense in the reality he had lived in until he’d set eyes on Mary lying dead on his youngest son’s nursery floor.

And Sammy and Dean were sucked into John’s personal crusade for vengeance, their own scars and wounds of that night left untended except by what comfort they could give each other. Silent boys with dark eyes that saw what no child should be allowed to see and left alone to deal with. Forced into the roles of battered soldiers in a world not of their choosing. Broken in ways that could possibly have been healed if someone had taken them in then. But there was no one but John and his belief a demon had killed his wife and only killing the monsters of the world would avenge her.

Under the weight of their father’s delusion, the world was reshaped, the shattered pieces of them both finding ways to fit with each other for the sake of survival. The boys they had been having died that night as surely as their mother had, rising phoenix-like from the wreckage but darker, broken, twisted echoes of what they once could have been.

It could have been different.

Once.

[darwinsdetectives]

The Beginning

Caden woke up with a groan, His vibrant green eyes darted to the alarm clock on his nightstand. 5:33 AM, Monday. He sighed in relief- the weekend was over, and he had school as an excuse to get out of the house. He woke his brother up and made him some toast before sending him out. Caden was going to stay here for a bit longer, but wanted to make sure he left before his parents woke up. Caden had pale skin and slightly chapped lips. His hair was dark brown and long, down to his back. Small amounts of acne littered his face. He had on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt on. “...” he sighed and grabbed his backpack before walking to school. He was on his phone texting Chris as he felt a hand cover his mouth and drag him away. A sack went over his head and he was pushed into a car which started driving off. A gag was in his mouth, so he couldn’t speak. All he could do was hear the man who had just taken him. “Kid, you’ll be fine. If you stay calm, the whole process may actually feel good for you.” He chuckled and got out of the car, grabbing Caden back up. He dragged the younger male into a building, where Caden was quickly tied down. “Alright, now don’t struggle.” Caden felt a hand go onto his waist. He did struggle, but only to be smacked by the man. At the same time, Caden felt something crawl up his back and into his skin. His vision went blurry… Caden was standing over the man now- or, what was left of him at least. Body parts and blood was splattered everywhere. The head had been ripped off, and multiple holes littered the torso. Don’t worry. This wasn’t you.” said a voice to Caden. He felt something move through him. “This was me- Chaos. Let me explain- I am a symbiote. You are now my host.” Caden freaked out and ran out of the building, but the ‘symbiote’ kept speaking to him. “Well, go along to school. Since you left so early, you might still be able to make it.” Caden took a couple moments to calm down before running to school. Hey, Caden, wheres your backpack?” Asked Chris as he talked to Caden. “Oh, uh, I must have forgotten it.” Caden chuckled and rubbed the back of his head as Chris looked at him skeptically. Truth was, Caden had left it at the warehouse. Chris sighed and looked up at the ceiling as Caden stared at him for a couple moments. His blonde hair was long and swept over to one side. His skin was tanned from all the surfing and time spent outside. He was pretty buff, for being 14 at least. Caden chuckled and lightly punched him in the chest. “Anyways- what about your backpack? Did you forget it at the bank after stopping a villain?” Oh- one more thing. Chris was a superhero by the name of Waterfall. He could control the shape of water, and breathe oxygen from it. Chris shook his head to the question. “Nah, i left it at home too.” He said, glancing at the wall. “Anyways- I’m just here to talk to people and get a basic education. I don’t care much about passing, because… you know. Superhero stuff.” He chuckled. “And Caden- you should be fine, too. You’re smart, and probably don’t even need to study at all.” Caden shrugged. “Eh.” “Well, he seems nice. Chris, huh?” Chaos sorted through Caden’s thoughts and memories of Chris. “Oh, What’s this?”  Chaos asked as he found a particularly explicit fantasy about Chris. ‘Shut up.’ Thought Caden to the symbiote. Surprisingly, the symbiote followed the command. ”Hey, Caden, you okay? You seem kinda-” Chris was quickly cut off by Caden saying, “No no, I’m fine. Just thinking about school ahead- Middle school is horrible.” “You can say that again.” Chris said with a chuckle as he and Caden went about their day. ”You know, we could just kill your parents.” Caden stopped in his tracks as he was walking back home. He took a deep breath. ‘Why?’ He thought back to the symbiote. “Because- I can. I am powerful, you saw how easily I killed that other guy- no?” ‘I mean... fine, just do it quickly and don’t get me in trouble.’ Caden sighed and walked home. His brother was at a friends house, so he wouldn’t have to worry about him seeing this. Caden sighed and stared down at the two bodies below him. He had made sure that it looked like a bullet wound in his parents head, like they were assassinated. That wasn’t too far out of a possibility, since they were rich and did have some political influence. Caden walked out of the penthouse and down the stairs, eventually making his way out of the building. —~•~—•~•—~•~— The soft drone of bugs in the air around slightly annoyed Caden. The road was pretty busy, and cars were driving by at a quick speed. Helicopters and planes flew overhead as they came from and headed to the nearby airport. People’s voices were soft and blended together when Caden wasn’t concentrating on what everyone else was saying. Eventually, the teenager had made it to Chris’s house. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door, waiting for a response. He smiled brightly when he saw the door open and the pale blue eyes and blonde hair of Chris. “Hey!” He said brightly, strolling in and taking a glance around. Chris nodded. “Hey.” He said in return and watching Caden move. Caden glanced back over at him. “Well, want to hang out for a bit? I’m avoiding my parents because, well... you know.” Caden sighed and then looked back up at Chris. “Anyways, let’s watch something- you still have Star Wars on DVD?” Chris chuckled and lead Caden to the couch where they sat down. “Yeah, but I have something else in mind.” He opened up a drawer on the TV stand and pulled out a disk for “Beach Boys”. “Really?” Caden said in a slightly sarcastic tone. “The gay rom-com about a surfer dude and a biker dude making out?” Chris smirked lightly and put in the disk before sitting next to Caden. “I’m guessing since you know the plot, you’ve seen it?” Caden blushed slightly and glanced away. “Well, uh... fine. I’ll watch it, just shut up about it.” Within half an hour of the movie starting, Caden and Chris were already making out on the couch. Then they heard a voice and sat up quickly. “Hannah! Damnit-“ Chris yelled out to his older sister as she hid her phone behind her back. “Oh, come on.” She replied, rolling her eyes. “You two are so CUTE together!” She said, giggling slightly. ”Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to record it!!” Chris yelled back, angrily. Caden was chuckling and staying from the conversation for now. Chris went to say something else but was cut off by Caden pressing his lips against Chris’s, so he wasn’t able to say anything. ”Now Shush, Chris.” Caden said with a smirk after he pulled away. “Now, why don’t we finish this movie, and I’ll let you go out for your hero duty- that okay, Babe?” Caden chuckled as he called Chris “babe”. Chris nodded and slumped back into the seat. “Yeah yeah, whatever.” He said as he turned his attention back to the movie. Hannah giggled a bit more and ran back up the stairs to her room. The movie slowly reached an end, where Caden and Chris were snuggled tight together watching the movie end. Chris stood up and stretched slightly. “off to do some hero work?” Caden asked. Chris nodded and smiled at Caden a bit before walking to his room where his costume was. •~•—•~•—•~• >You are a detective, a part of the police force tasked with finding and taking down the menace that has been ravaging the city. You suspect it is Caden Alex Smith, Though your group has been unable to find conclusive evidence on this. There are some crime scenes, though, that may have some information. >Evidence Piece 1: At all the crime scenes where the suspect has killed, there has been writing nearby written with the blood of the victim. These state unintelligible phrases such as “Pvmwd wd vae”, “Nlfrh Maj”, And “W’x dannj, mnaevrn.” >Evidence Piece 2: Theres a google account called “Raven Boy”, Which seems to be researching a lot of murder-related articles and is definitely keeping up with the murders related to the killing spree happening. >Evidence Piece 3: shoe prints leading away from the murder are size 11 US men’s, 13 US women’s. 

We hope to be working with you In the future. Signed, Nico.

[movietvtechgeeks]

Latest story from https://movietvtechgeeks.com/agents-shield-changes-everything/

'Agents of SHIELD' What if changes up everything

Mallory Jansen has a new fan. She’s so gorgeous as Madame Hydra in the latest episode of Agents of SHIELD, What If. This is her third role in the series which covers three story arcs of Season 4. Ms. Jansen was first introduced as the Life-Model Decoy AIDA in the Ghost Rider arc and later as the person AIDA was modeled after Agnes Kitsworth in one episode of the LMD arc and now as the gorgeous Madame Hydra in the Framework/Agents of HYDRA arc. Hopefully, in this new fascinating Matrix-like take on the world, the show’s ratings would spike and keep the show alive and proceed with syndication. Their comic-book like take on the story arcs keeps the show fresh and removes the drag factor that often makes TV series suffer like in the Netflix series. The Netflix series are quite good, and the best we can say about Iron Fist is that it’s nice, but they seem to have more episodes than necessary. Last we saw in Agents of SHIELD, everyone in the team except for Daisy and Simmons were captured by AIDA and Radcliffe and were put into their Matrix-like Framework. Even Radcliffe himself fell victim to a now malicious AIDA (who seems to have broken the three laws of AI) and had his consciousness exiled in his own creation with his body let out to ‘dry.' With the SHIELD base crawling with LMDs of their former teammates, Daisy and Jemma enter the framework themselves to rescue their teammates. Daisy, however, wakes up to an unfamiliar room with Ward as her boyfriend (SkyWard fans rejoice) while Jemma’s name, in a cliffhanger, is shown on a tombstone. Fitz looks rich ushering an unidentified girlfriend out of a car, Mack is living at home with his dead daughter, Coulson is teaching an anti-Inhuman awareness class, and May looks happy in a now rebuilt Triskellion with a HYDRA logo. The show’s fans are locked in anticipation of what comes next and hopefully; the general public would bite in and just catch up on Netflix. SPOILER Alert as we recap this latest episode of the series. Just mosey on to the last paragraph if you don’t want to get spoiled. Thank you for staying with us as we knew you’d like to know what we think here. The show begins with Daisy waking up to the scenario previously described. She’s not affected by the new reality as she anticipated that Lincoln was the guy she slept with which turns out to be Ward. She instinctively held out her hand to use her powers but surprise, it didn’t work. Another surprise is that Ward called her Skye. Apparently, this version of Ward is the guy from Season One. Quick on her feet, Daisy adapts her dialogue to suit the scenario. Ward himself doesn’t suspect anything and makes fun of the hand thing. He later gives Daisy, or Skye her ID, and she looks at it with dread because instead of SHIELD, the logo is HYDRA. The Agents of SHIELD logo then changes into Agents of HYDRA introducing us to the title of Season 4’s third arc. Later on their way to work, it’s shown that Inhumans exist despite Daisy not having her powers and as shown in the previous episode, persecuted. Skye is later surprised to see the Triskellion intact despite it being destroyed in Captain America: Civil War. At her station, Skye looks up Lincoln’s status and later is distressed to find out that Jemma’s dead. She later meets May who is no nonsense and authoritative as usual. Skye, however, is glad to see her, but May doesn’t recognize her as Daisy. She leaves her station for the briefing leaving Jemma’s profile on her screen. The show didn’t make us wait regarding what happened to Jemma. Last episode, we were shown her tombstone leaving viewers asking, was Jemma instantly killed upon entering the framework? Apparently not as she breaks through her grave lying on top of her own ‘corpse.' At some point in time, Jemma’s counterpart was murdered unbeknownst to Fitz. Jemma leaves her grave site and hitches a ride in a woman’s car. They encounter later a roadblock which is an Inhuman checkpoint and Jemma is forced to leave the car because everyone in this reality is required to carry their HYDRA issued IDs except her ID is SHIELD. Back to Skye, the briefing turns out to be about an Inhuman detainee named Jason Rajan who Skye knows for a fact is Vijay Nadeer. Skye and Ward are given the job to interrogate him after Skye showed some interest. Skye outs Nadeer because she’s prompted to by May and accuses Nadeer of conspiring with a HYDRA insider because of Vijay’s perfectly made fake ID. Jemma meanwhile goes into a diner and tries to swipe a car and a disguise but immediately gets picked up by a couple of HYDRA agents but manages to get away. The scene then goes to Coulson teaching several students, social studies or history perhaps. He then explains the reason for the Inhuman persecution and points to an incident known as the Cambridge Incident which involved the little girl that May was forced to kill in Bahrain. The girl apparently used her powers to kill inside a classroom. SHIELD took he fall for the incident, and HYDRA stepped in. One of his students questioned Coulson about HYDRA’s Nazi roots, but Coulson angrily corrected him and threateningly held his shoulder which showed viewers how different Coulson is in the Framework just like May. Two men suddenly stepped in asking for a suspected Inhuman student and Coulson casually surrendered him. Back in the interrogation, May steps in, but Vijay taunts her about Bahrain. Skye stops her from killing him, so May orders him taken to see ‘the doctor’ who apparently is dreaded among the Inhumans. Skye takes him to see ‘the doctor’ who turns out to be Fitz. We switch back to Jemma on a park bench and took a device hidden beneath a stone. The bench is hers and Daisy’s assigned meeting place in the Framework. She marks the bench as a sign that she’s okay. She goes back to the HYDRA agents’ car which she stole and looks up the rest of her team and finds Coulson and goes to see him. Coulson doesn’t recognize her as he apparently didn’t sign up with SHIELD. It was revealed before by the Coulson LMD that one of Phil’s regrets was signing up with SHIELD and giving up a normal life. The same as with May. May’s biggest regret was killing the little girl in Bahrain which is actually the basis for the Framework’s reality since May is the framework’s first subject. Jemma emotionally tries to make Coulson remember to no success but tells him about TAHITI prompted by a Hawaiian statuette. The statuette suggests that TAHITI is embedded in Coulson’s subconscious. Jemma fails and leaves, and Coulson reports her. Jemma encounters Coulson’s subversive student who vandalized the agent’s car. She convinces him that she’s on the good side and the student gives her his car. The student suggests the existence of a resistance movement which he’s willing to join. The exchange, however, was witnessed by a drone. Remember the drones Fitz brought along on missions? They’re now everywhere. Back to the Triskellion, Vijay is subjected to one of Fitz’ torture machines. Skye tries to rouse Fitz’ humanity but fails. May comes in and reports to Fitz about the events at school which makes Skye aware of Coulson and Jemma. Fitz orders May to investigate with all resources available. Skye also goes out to do the same thing but is confronted by Ward. She brushes Ward off by acting on what Ward said earlier about wanting space in their relationship. Back to Coulson, he looks back on some memories and looks up Tahiti but sees nothing but a paper containing nothing but ‘It’s a magical place’ repeated over and over. There’s a nod to season 1 about his violinist girlfriend and a picture of a car resembling Lola. Skye goes to the park bench and happily meets up with Jemma. It turns out that Ward followed Skye and points a gun at them. He suggests that Jemma may be in the resistance but both deny it. It turns out that Ward is actually in it and may be the mole within HYDRA that Skye suggested earlier. It seems that in whatever reality, Ward has a problem with the governing authorities and is on the opposing side. He helps the girls evade capture by HYDRA agents. Ward said he had Skye screened for Inhuman DNA and has been protecting her ever since. They decide to leave the Framework to come back later using the device Jemma picked up, but it didn’t work. It turns out that AIDA anticipated their arrival and messed with their plans. They’re now trapped in the Framework. Now for the attractive looking part of the episode. Mallory Jansen is now Madame Hydra. The mysterious woman Fitz was ushering out of the car. Madame Hydra, if she’s actually AIDA, appears more human and undoubtedly prettier with the hair and dark green attire. Fitz wanted to see the video about the events involving Jemma but gets denied. Madame Hydra/AIDA is preventing Fitz from knowing about Jemma which could trigger his humanity, but AIDA also seems to have developed an attraction for him as shown by their kiss. Lastly, Coulson heads home in his car but is confronted by Daisy in the backseat. Daisy forces him to remember. Without her mentioning her name, Coulson remembers. Events happened rather quickly in this episode as it tries to be worthy of a season starter. The end scene shows that the show doesn’t waste any time dragging things around by making Coulson remember himself immediately and by having Ward play a significant part in the plot. It seems by bringing Ward back, the show suggests that Daisy is still reeling from Ward’s betrayal in Season 1, or it could be just AIDA messing with our heads. The Framework does not acknowledge the events of the Avengers film ad Phil didn’t get around to assembling them and that the ‘incident’ refers to the Inhuman child from Bahrain and that incident somehow erases the MCU. The case of the child too also makes a play on the issues regarding the chaos of immigration policies in our world. Not tethered to the MCU, writers are free to do whatever they wish, but this disconnects the show from the MCU more than ever before. That aside, this episode is fast, this episode is great and scary, and hopefully, the others are just as good.

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