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chicago-pd-is-weird · 11 months ago

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Hello! I wanted to ask if you could write an Antonio Dawson imagine where she’s his gf. Based on S3, Ep.14? The reader is Yates’ target. Antonio is worried about her & is more protective over her as everything is unfolding. As the reader is driving to Yates’ location he taunts Antonio through a video call saying he should’ve kept a closer eye on the reader or something along those lines.

At the end the reader shoots & kills him bc he tried to force himself onto her and when she fought back he wanted to kill her. Finally she breaks down when Hank and Antonio arrive but Antonio is there to comfort her & they go home together. Basically he’s there for her & expressing how he didn’t want her to lose her. And how he was thankful he arrived on time. Please & thank you!

Antonio Dawson x Fem!Reader

This was really fun to write, Anon! I took the episode and tailored it some, but I hope you like it nevertheless!

Requested by: Anonymous

Based on: 03x14 of Chicago PD - all ideas that come from it are not mine :)

TW: mentions of gore/violence as seen in the episode, mentions of stalking, attempted sexual assault

You returned home from New York. It was a horrible time, really. You hadn’t been able to recapture Greg Yates, no matter how hard you tried. As you looked out the car window, you felt a gentle hand come to your thigh, comforting you. You looked over to Antonio beside you, realizing how lucky you were to have him. “Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get him.”

“I know,” you hummed. “He’s heading back to Chicago. I’m sure of it.”

“His mistake. He’s on our land again. That’s how he was caught the first time.”

You took Antonio’s hand in yours, bringing it up to kiss his knuckles as he pulled up outside your apartment building. “I love you. See you later?”

“Let me walk you inside,” Antonio replied, getting out of the car to escort you.

“Come on, Toni, I’m a big girl with a big girl gun.”

Antonio hummed and pulled you close by your waist as you walked. He didn’t respond, but his body language told you everything. He was afraid something may happen to you, especially because Yates had taken a special interest in you in NY. Truthfully, you weren’t sure why, since you were nothing special.

Instead of fighting, you leaned into Antonio’s chest, looking up at him as you got into the elevator. “Toni, you’re scared.”

“Just trying to make sure my girlfriend is still around tomorrow.”

You sighed softly as the elevator got to your floor, taking his hand and pulling him with you and to your apartment. You keyed yourself in, then shut the door, taking off your coat and shoes. “Antonio Dawson, I love you, but you can’t completely shield me from the world. It’s no way to live. If Yates is coming after me, let him. What’s the difference between this and being undercover?”

Antonio sighed deeply, meeting your eyes. His were filled with deep concern, and he wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you close. “It’s completely different,” he replied. “Being undercover, they don’t know anything about you, and they’re not targeting you. This bastard, Yates, he’s targeting you. He knows everything about you. I-I just don’t want you working this one. He’s going to get into your head.”

“Sounds like he’s already in yours,” you said with a shrug, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Look, Toni, the whole point is to not let him in. To not change. I’m going to keep working, just the way I always have.”

Antonio gently pressed his forehead to yours. “I can’t lose you,” he muttered, shaking his head. “If I lose you… I won’t know how to keep living.”

“You won’t lose me,” you reassured, gently nuzzling his nose with your own. “Hey, come here…” You gently pulled him to the couch, sitting on his lap and smiling a little, properly leaning in to kiss him. The kiss was deep and passionate, but kept a light tone to it, as you finally pulled away, but not far. You smiled again, whispering against his lips. “I love you, and nothing will ever change that. My love for you is so strong, I’d conquer death just to stay by your side.”

He smiled and pulled you back down for another deep kiss, hands wrapped fully around you, pulling your body as close to his as possible.

“(Y/N),” Antonio huffed as he followed you into the locker room, making sure nobody else was there before coming to your side. “You should stay at the district. I don’t like the idea of you being out there, with him, and neither does Voight.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re just being overprotective, Antonio. I am still a detective and a damn good one, too. I’ve been in lots of situations where I’ve needed to be careful.”

“He’s completely obsessed with you,” Antonio replied, shaking his head. “He looked up your neighborhood, where you live!”

“Which means he’ll eventually make a mistake. I can’t let him get in my head and neither can you. Now, come on, there’s been three more murders and one attempted.”

You grabbed your gun and badge, pinning them on your jeans, then pulled on your jacket. Shutting your locker, you gave Antonio one last look, telling him you were completely serious. He sighed and simply followed you, riding with you to the scene. You looked down at your phone as an unknown number popped up. You sent it to voicemail.

It was brutal. Three nurses had been killed, and the fourth had been taken to the hospital. It didn’t look good. They’d been beat and tortured, and one even had a hand cut off. You shuddered a little, seeing how all four women had suffered.

“Alright,” Voight said as you all walked outside. “Antonio, Jay, go check on the person who lives upstairs, Nelly. (Y/N) and I will go back to meet Benson and the others.”

You rode back to the station with Voight to meet the SVU, a little upset he took you out of the field, most likely at Antonio’s suggestion. You sighed as you walked in and to your desk, but put on a smile when Olivia Benson and the others on her team walked into the bullpen. You stood to greet them, getting them up to speed on everything they missed in the last few hours.

Some time later, Antonio and Jay arrived back, Antonio looking distressed as he went straight to Voight’s office. You looked down as your phone buzzed. Unknown number. You sent it to voicemail again.

After a fairly short conversation with Antonio, Voight called you in. You went inside, shutting the door behind you. “What’s going on?”

“We found this at the crime scene where Nelly was kidnapped,” he said, handing you a note.

Too bad you’re at the station, (Y/N). You’re missing all the fun.

You shuddered, looking at the familiar cursive handwriting. You glanced to Antonio and Voight, then set the note on the desk. “So? He’s taunting us. Playing us. We can’t let him win by reacting to this.”

Antonio sighed and put his hands to his head, obviously stressed. Voight looked over Antonio, then looked to you with a soft shrug. “The safest place for you is here.”

“What?” You retorted, frowning. “You can’t bench me, Sarge. That’s hardly fair.”

“No, no, he’s right,” Antonio huffed. “I’m sick of telling you, over and over, (Y/N). You shouldn’t be on this case. You’re too close to it. He’s obsessed with you.”

“I could say the same about you,” you huffed in reply, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms. “I am fine.”

Antonio took a few steps toward you, grabbing your shoulders. “Just please, stay here from now on. Until we catch him. Please.”

“It’s an order,” Voight confirmed. “Sorry, (Y/N), but my number one rule here is that everyone goes home at the end of the night.”

“I thought it was to tell you the truth so you can lie for us?” You rolled your eyes again, shrugging Antonio off you and walking out of the office. You sat at your desk, frustrated by the men benching you, especially when Yates was pining for your attention. They could use you to play him.

Everyone went back to their work, trying to find Yates. A few hours went by, and you rubbed your eyes, having been staring at the computer screen nearly the whole time. You let out a deep sigh, but looked up when Kim got the attention of everyone in the bullpen.

“The desk sergeant just called up. A package was just hand-delivered to the front desk, addressed to (Y/N).”

You stood, frowning. Everyone’s gaze shifted to you, then back to Kim, before eventually settling on Sergeant Voight. He looked around and nodded. “Evacuate. Bomb protocol. Someone call in the bomb squad.”

You grabbed your coat, heading outside with the rest of the unit. Antonio stood beside you, a hand on your back. You sighed. “A bomb? Not his style.”

“Maybe, maybe not. He could be trying something new.”

“He probably thinks he has to, since none of you will let me out of the district.”

Antonio sighed again, looking down at you. “It’s to protect you. Why can’t you understand that I just want to protect you?”

“I know you do, and I understand it, but being overbearing like this isn’t protecting me. It hurts me.”

“If it keeps you alive, I’m fine with that,” he said with a small sigh, kissing the top of your head.

You couldn’t help but lean into his shoulder. Because you were among the first out, you were near the back. Your relationship was known, of course, but you liked to keep things private as much as possible. “Jerk,” you mumbled. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he replied, leaning down to kiss you sweetly before pulling away as Voight and the head of the bomb squad came over.

“It’s not a bomb, we x-rayed it.”

“Then I’m going to open it,” you replied with a shrug, moving from Antonio’s arms and toward the box, which was now outside. You slit the box open with a knife and unfolded the flaps. Your face contorted as you found a human hand inside, figuring it was off of the body from earlier that morning. You slowly reached in, pulling out a note that the hand was holding. Swallowing hard, you opened it.

Why won’t you answer when I call?

You frowned, showing the note to Antonio and Voight, then pulling out your phone as it vibrated in your pocket. You looked to them. “It’s a video call,” you said softly. You hit record on your phone before answering, holding it up so you could be seen in the camera.

“(Y/N),” Yates said, holding the camera out so that you could see him and Nelly. “So nice to see you.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You remind me of someone, that’s all. I like seeing you around.”

You hummed. “Is this what you wanted? Attention?” You turned the camera to show everyone around you. “Cause we’re all here.”

“It’s nice, but what I really want is you. We should meet up sometime. Just the two of us.”

“Let the girl go, maybe we can talk.”

“Mmn…” He hummed and held the girl tighter. “You’ll have to find her.”

“If you wanted her, why kill the others?”

He huffed. “Oh no, you’re trying to get me to confess. You’ve got people there, witnesses. Not only that, but I could probably guess that you’re recording me, aren’t you?”

“Just tell me where you are. We’ll talk.”

“Come and find me.”

With that, the camera dropped, showing a picture frame, then the call cut out. You frowned, furrowing your brow and looking to Voight and Antonio. Mouse started to swear, stomping his foot. “The trace couldn’t go through in time. We don’t have him.”

You sighed, playing back the video. You zoomed in on the picture at the end, then gasped. “Guys… I know where he is.” You turned the phone around to show them a picture of you and Antonio from when you first began dating. “That’s in my apartment.”

Antonio’s eyes widened, and he looked to Voight, who nodded. “Let’s hit it. Get the rest of the team.”

You rode beside Antonio, holding his hand and squeezing it. “It’s gonna be alright,” you said softly, though you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself. Antonio didn’t say anything, just humming in reply. When you pulled up, the whole team gathered and breached your apartment. There was no sign of Yates, but the girl was stowed away in your closet. You helped her up and stayed with her until she got back to the district.

The detectives from NY promptly interviewed Nelly, finding that she was Yates’ birth sister. The mother detailed that she put him up for adoption in South Carolina when he was young, because he had been a psychopath since birth. They found Yates to be in a frenzy now, wanting revenge on his mother. It gave you hope, thinking that you may just be able to catch him. They planned to raid his mother’s place.

“(Y/N),” Voight said, moving to your desk. “You’re not coming.”

You huffed. “Sarge, not this again.”

“Stay here with Nelly and her mother. They need you.”

With that, Vought walked away. You frowned as you watched him go before Antonio came into your view. You looked up at him. “Yeah, I know, he just told me I can’t go. I don’t have to hear it from you.”

Antonio hummed, looking you over as he leaned his hands on your desk, then leaned down to give you a deep, tender kiss. You blushed, but reciprocated. You loved him. How could you resist? Knowing he could die at any point, every time he left the bullpen, especially if you weren’t there to have his back. You gently reached up, standing to meet him again, and massaged his shoulders. “Hey…” you said softly. “Just… Don’t let him hurt you, okay? If he’s obsessed with me, it means you’re also in danger.”

Antonio hummed and pulled you close, rubbing your back as he embraced you. “I won’t let him get to you. Promise.”

“That’s not what I asked, Antonio,” you huffed, holding him tighter. “Please.”

“I love you. I’ll do whatever it takes to fight for you and protect you, until my last breath.”

Tears came to your eyes. You silently hoped that it wasn’t a trap of some kind, swallowing hard. “Okay,” you replied, voice barely above a whisper. “I love you too.”

He kissed your head, then gently cupped your cheeks, wiping your stray tears away. He kissed you again softly before leaving to suit up with the rest of the team. You swallowed hard and let out a shaky breath, wiping your face and sinking back down to your desk.

“Hey, it’ll be alright,” Mouse said, trying to comfort you.

You looked to him, offering a half-hearted smile. “Thanks.” You sniffled and let out another breath, then tried to focus on the paperwork on the case, pouring over it again to ensure nothing was missed.

After about a half hour, Nelly came to your desk, frenzied. Someone was calling her phone from her dad’s, but it wasn’t him. It was the man who had kidnapped her. You quickly took the phone and instructed her to go back into the room she’d come from, snapping at Mouse to get him to trace the call. You then lifted the phone to take the video call, seeing Yates with Nelly’s father in-hand.

“So good to see you again,” Yates said with a smile. “Oh, sweet (Y/N), what would I do without you?”

“What did you do for the years before you met me?”

“I dunno…” he hummed.

“I figured out who I remind you of.”

“Yeah?”

You walked into the break room, shutting the door. “Your mother.”

Yates huffed a little, tipping his head. “Yeah? Yeah. I guess you do.” He hummed again and stared intently into the camera, as if he could see into your soul. “So, have you figured out where I am, yet? Or, are you going to let this man just die?”

You looked up as Mouse came to the window with an address. You read it over, connecting the dots. “Yes,” you said into the camera. “Your childhood home.”

“Then come. Come and see me, (Y/N)… Or else, he will die. And come alone. I detest those men who decided to leave you behind. So ungrateful. You deserve the same chance they do. You won’t have to prove yourself to me. I already know you. Everything about you.”

“I’ll come,” you said softly.

“See you soon.” Then, the call ended.

You shuddered, setting the phone on the table before quickly grabbing your coat, running to the parking lot. You grabbed your car, driving to the address and calling Voight to let him know. He told you not to engage, but you knew you couldn’t follow that order. You apologized as you put your foot further onto the gas and sped to Yates’ location.

Meanwhile, Antonio pushed the gas pedal as much as he could, knowing you were in danger and might do something stupid. “Dammit, (Y/N),” he mumbled. Suddenly, his phone rang, and he answered the video call, settling his phone in a cradle on his dash so he could pay attention to the road as well as the video.

“Well, well, well,” Yates’s voice rang out. “If it isn’t the infamous Detective Dawson. You should’ve kept a closer eye on her. You know you can’t save her now, right? She’s going to be mine.”

“Like hell she is!”

“But she’s rushing to my side. She’s coming to save me. And then she’ll be mine. She’ll be mine forever. I’ll be the last thing she sees. The last thing she feels. My name will be the last word on her lips. And you? You will be nothing.”

“You really think that? No. She doesn’t love you. None of those girls loved you!”

Yates huffed and rolled his eyes. “Dear Antonio Dawson, doesn’t even know what love is. Love is seeing the life go out in her eyes, slowly fading away, while she grips to you and pleads out your name.”

Antonio hit the gas pedal to the floor, gripping the wheel as tightly as he could. He was so ready to beat Yates to a pulp. “You lay one finger on her, and I’ll kill you myself.”

“It’ll have been worth it in the end, because she’ll join me in the afterlife.” Yates then looked up, smiling. “Oh, she’s here. I’ll see you soon, Antonio.” The call promptly ended.

Antonio punched his steering wheel, growling as he raced across the busy Chicago city to save you.

You climbed the steps, your gun gripped between your hands, finger on the trigger. You found Yates in a room upstairs with a large hole in the floor. He was holding Nelly’s father over the hole in a chair, a noose wrapped around his neck. “Hello there,” he said softly. “Oh, (Y/N), please come in.”

“Let him go.”

“I don’t think you want me to do that… You know I’m the only thing that’s holding him up, right?”

You sighed, then pulled your hands up, holstering your gun. “Fine. Then let’s talk. You untie him and let him leave here. Then you and I can talk.”

Yates hummed, looking you over. You disliked the way his eyes roamed your body, swallowing hard. He smiled a little. “Uncomfortable?” He asked. “I’m just undressing you a little. I wonder what you look like under there.”

You bit your inner lip, trying to keep your hands from shaking. “Just let him leave here, and we’ll talk. Just you and me. You know you’re running out of time.”

Yates hummed again, then sighed. “Yes, well, he will have to leave here, won’t he?” And with that, he let the chair go, the man going over. The chair fell to the ground, but the man hung in the hole. You gasped, looking down at him. Yates took the chance to grab you, pushing you against the wall. He let his hands roam your body, including your chest and crotch. You cried out, hands pinned at your sides as he pushed his body weight against you, then eventually pushing you to the ground. “You’re everything I imagined you to be, (Y/N),” he mumbled, pushing his lips to your neck and biting down, making you cry out in pain as his teeth broke your skin. He then sucked and licked at the mark he’d given you, grinding down on you, as he was now on top.

You panicked, whimpering and trying to get to the gun on your hip. He growled and pushed down on you harder. “Stop it. Stop!” He grabbed at your arms to subdue you. “Stop fucking fighting me! Stop it, or I’ll fucking kill you! Just like Nadia! Just like those nurses! Just like all the others!”

In the chaos, finally, you grabbed the gun and pointed it at him, shooting him in the chest. The bullet went straight through his heart.

He fell limp immediately on top of you, his blood pouring onto your body from the wound. You cried out again, tears rolling down your face as you pushed his body weight off you. Then, you stood and pointed the gun at him, your hands shaking, ready to pull the trigger if he moves again, even twitched. You didn’t take your eyes off him.

Antonio and Voight got there very soon after, seeing the scene, and you shaking. Voight slowly pushed your arms down to lower your gun. Antonio checked the body, confirming he was dead.

“I-I-I had to,” you mumbled, sniffling and breathing shakily as sobs came to your throat. “I had to!”

“I know,” Voight said softly, gently taking your gun from you and putting it in his own waistband. “It’s okay, (Y/N).”

Antonio came to you quickly, checking you over. He examined your chest, where the blood had stained your shirt, but finding no injury, he turned to your neck. “Hey, we’ll get an ambo here to check you out.”

“Antonio…” you whimpered, your knees buckling beneath you.

He caught you with ease, picking you up bridal style and carrying you out of the room and downstairs. He set you down outside in the grass, still holding you up to stand. “It’s okay, (Y/N), it’s okay. He hurt you. It was a clean shoot.”

“I-I…” You sobbed softly into his shoulder as he held you tightly. “H-He…”

“Shh,” he shushed you. “You don’t have to explain to me. It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

Hours later, after speaking with internal affairs, the paramedics, and anyone else who had questions, you were finally allowed to go home.

Antonio drove you, holding your hand the whole time. Then, he escorted you up to your apartment and inside, helping you into your bedroom. He helped you undress, taking the blood-stained clothes and throwing them in the trash. He knew exactly how you felt about them, without you even having to say. He helped you into the shower, then let you have some time alone as he made some tea for you.

You turned the shower hotter, as hot as it would go, letting it scald your skin. You didn’t know what else to do. You didn’t know what to feel. You didn’t know what to say. The knot in your stomach intensified, making you sick. You heaved up the contents of your stomach and then some, feeling like you had thrown up your entire insides. Your throat burned as you watched it wash down the drain. You fell to your knees as your body betrayed you, sobbing softly. You simultaneously felt everything and nothing. You were so overwhelmed that you were numb. You sobbed yourself sick, heaving now as nothing else came up. You pushed your head against the shower wall, which was cool in comparison to the water. You sobbed and heaved, trembling on the floor of your shower for what felt like days, though only mere minutes before you regained yourself. Your body was still weak, but you managed to turn the shower off. The steam hugged you, even in the absence of the scalding water. You slowly pushed yourself up to get out, then got a towel to dry yourself. You sat on the toilet, swallowing hard as you played out the scenario in your mind, over and over.

What had you been thinking? Antonio was right. You never should’ve left the district. You would’ve been safe there. You trembled as the air grew cooler, leaving bitter kisses on your wet skin. You swallowed hard again, then stood, stumbling into your bedroom and finding some clothes to put on. You were able to find some underpants, but then you found some old sweatpants of Antonio’s that he had left previously. You also found one of his old CPD shirts from the academy. Putting them on, the smell of him comforted you in his physical absence. It helped to soothe your mind, thus soothing your body.

Moving shakily into the living area of your apartment, you looked around for Antonio. He was in the attached kitchen, looking at something on the counter, then turning around with two mugs of tea in his hands. He stopped when he saw you. “Hey…” he said softly. “You look pale…”

You blinked slowly, suddenly exhausted. You moved to the couch, sitting down on one side of it. Antonio moved in beside you, setting the mugs on your coffee table. He put his hands to your face, his fingers surprisingly cold. It felt good to you. You leaned into his touch and closed your eyes.

“(Y/N)…” he murmured, gently holding your face. “What you did in there… it was the right thing to do…”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you mumbled. “Please… just… hold me…”

“I can do that,” he whispered, nodding and pulling you into his lap, allowing you to sit sidesaddle. He brushed wet strands of hair from your face, grabbing your mug of tea for you. “Here, sip.”

“Toni…” you mumbled, shaking your head. “I just threw up all of my insides…”

“Just sip. You’ll feel better. Please.”

You sighed, but took a small sip of the tea, swallowing it before resting your head on his shoulder. He set the tea down, and rocked you gently, kissing your head and whispering sweet things in your ear for a while before just rocking you in silence.

“I’m sorry,” you finally whispered, breaking the silence.

“(Y/N)…”

“I should’ve listened to you… to Voight…”

Antonio sighed softly. “What’s done is done… I am always here for you… no matter what you choose. I just… I almost lost you today… I never want to lose you. You and my kids, you’re the best things to ever happen to me. I never want to lose any of you. That’s why I have this job. Taking these guys off the streets so that they don’t hurt you or Diego or Eva.”

“I know,” you mumbled, pushing your face into his neck, accidentally reminding yourself of the bite mark on your own. Your hand moved up to feel at the tender skin, wincing as you ran the pads of your fingers across every groove his teeth had left. You sniffled, trying not to cry again.

“Hey, hey,” Antonio gently grabbed your hand, holding it instead so you couldn’t feel the mark. “Shh, you’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

“I love you,” you whispered, sniffling again as a stray tear escaped your eye.

“I love you too, (Y/N).” He rubbed your back with his free hand, just holding you, all night long.

#antonio dawson #antonio dawson x reader #chicagopd #chicago pd #x reader #fanfiction requests #hank voight #sargent hank voight #sergeant hank voight #jay halstead #detective jay halstead

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saintmeghanmarkle · 1 year ago

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Eco Warrior Duchess Sussex merching winter gear like an idiot by u/Lensgoggler

Eco Warrior Duchess Sussex merching winter gear like an idiot So, I live in a country that gets cold. Very cold sometimes. Similar to Canada.And I own one puffy coat. ONE. I bought it 5 years ago. Most people here do not own many of similar function coats - and I assume it's true for Canada. Nobody owns 3 new identical coats simultaneously. Why? Because these are fucking expensive, and buying many is just plain stupid and pretentious. We also don't tend to own that many identical thickness new hats, gloves and boots. Same reason - expensive and pointless. When it comes to winter gear, everything has to have a function. Kids tend to have two or three sets of things because they tend to get wet and/or dirty, but not adults.Blue, boots #2Beige, boots #1 with furBlack, boots #2But Duchess Meghan, the eco warrior, with a new website and last name, wears three different new puffy coats and two pairs of similar but different boots (the beige set had boots that have fur) in three days. She also wears the coats unlike people in actual cold places (we zip them up usually, or wear a thinner one). She wears a scarf like nobody who is actually cold does - but of course, if she wore it the way it'd actually be warm, you couldn't see it... And on two other occasions she has no scarf at all, so it's not scarf weather for her? She must have an immune system of steel. To Harold's credit, he seems not not give two hoots about what he wears. Has put on Invictus puffer after getting to the event, and has a nondescript layer underneath, and a very basic hat, if any. I wonder what goes on in MM's head... "This is my husband's work thing, I'll tag along and wear all kinds of different getups because this makes me appear successful and awesome because I have sooooo many clothes and accessories!! I am such an inspiration!" I didn't list the 'Valentine's Date pap shot' because it looks like she rewears the red monstrosity from the NY trip. I wonder what happens to the coats back in warm California. Will she return them? Donate them? Rewear them? I'm pretty sure WME has got nothing to do with MM anymore. Because this is a very bad look indeed, anyone with a brain would see that. A 42 yo woman obsessed with her clothes and faffing about at an event she has nothing to do with. post link: https://ift.tt/b4M9Swr author: Lensgoggler submitted: February 16, 2024 at 10:10AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

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ask-the-usa-manor · 6 months ago

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chicken parmesan recipe

(Your sarcastic ask isn't winning today. /lh) "Chicken parm—?" Vermont blinked, "Do we look like Google to y-"

"Set a wire rack inside a rimmed baking sheet!" New York started, shoving everything off the counter and slamming said materials down, "Line another rimmed baking sheet with foil! Cut two 12-inch sheets of plastic wrap!!!" Vermont stood, staring at New York blankly.

NY slowly turned back to him, "...Did you hear me?"

"Yes, but-"

Vermont was cut off by an apron smacking him in the face.

"Cut two chicken breasts in half lengthwise, making four roughly equal pieces," New Jersey continued, popping out of seemingly nowhere with a chef getup already on as he sliced the meat, "Place one sheet of plastic on a clean cutting board. Put a chicken piece in the center of the plastic and top with the other sheet of plastic." Jersey stopped to stare at Vermont, knife in hand. After a second of hesitance, Vermont decided he'd choose his battles today and followed the instructions under the very judgmental eyes of his brothers.

Once done, Rhode Island popped out of heaven knows where and started to beat the ever-loving heck out of the chicken with the flat side of a meat mallet. "You just gotta-" Rhode Island was putting his heart and soul into beating up the poultry, "You just gotta pretend it's your least favorite sibling." Vermont cringed every time the mallet met the chicken, "...Am I your least favorite sibling?"

Rhode Island didn't answer. He just kept beating the poultry piece by piece until all the pieces were 1/4-inch thick before carelessly tossing the mallet into the sink. He threw a good amount of pepper and salt on them before walking away.

"Put 3/4 a cup of all-purpose flour in a pie plate and dredge each piece in it one at a time!" New Hampshire went on, scaring Vermont. He didn't hear her get here. Or get her ingredients out. What the-?

New Hampshire turned the chicken to coat and packed the flour into the crevices. She shook of the excess before placing each piece back on the rack.

New York pointed to a kitchen cabinet, "Get a medium bowl."

Vermont grabbed a bowl and paused. Since when did he listen to any of these people???

New Jersey dumped a cup of breadcrumbs, a 1/4 cup of Parmesan, a 1/2 teaspoon of salt, and a 1/4 teaspoon of pepper into Vermont's bowl. New York joined in by cracking an egg and dumping a 1/2 cup of milk. Vermont whisked for his life.

New Hampshire dunked the chicken in the mix, allowing any excess to drip off. She then packed seasoned breadcrumbs onto the chicken. VERY gently.

The rest of the excess was shaken off, and the chicken was returned to the rack. It was then sent off to be refrigerated from 30 minutes to 12 hours; no more, no less.

Vermont was shaken. This cooking felt aggressive, "...Are we done?"

New Jersey raised his eyebrows, "Can you magically summon sauce into existence?"

"Well-"

"HEAT 1/3 CUP OF OLIVE OIL in a large pot over medium-high heat," New York interrupted, the stove roaring to life, "3 cloves of garlic. FINELY GRATED. 1 teaspoon dried oregano! 1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes! FASTER, MONTY, FASTER! This can only be on for a minute!"

As Vermont scrambled around the kitchen, New Jersey wasn't helping. "Two 28-ounce cans of diced tomatoes," NJ listed, leaning against the counter, "3 sprigs basil, 1 teaspoon salt."

After the ingredients were added, the pot was brought to a boil then promptly reduced to a simmer. It cooked on the stove, uncovered, for about 30 minutes. Vermont tried to creep away the whole time, but he simply wasn't allowed. The tomatoes were smashed with a potato masher until smooth. A little extra salt was tossed in.

Meanwhile, New Hampshire poured a 1/2 cup of olive oil into a large skillet on medium-high heat. She cooked the chicken from the fridge for one minute on each side (not cooked through) before placing them on the foil-lined baking sheet, about 3 inches apart.

New York arranged an oven rack to be directly underneath the broiler before preheating it to high. New Jersey and Vermont topped each piece of chicken with a 2/3 cup of the sauce and spread it evenly to coat. New Hampshire sprinkled 1 tablespoon of Parmesan and a 1/2 cup of mozzarella on each one. It was then broiled until the cheese melted and browned in some spots, about 2 to 3 minutes.

12 ounces of spaghetti were cooked until al dente. It was drained and stirred into the remaining sauce, before getting placed into a serving dish and topped with the chicken.

Vermont, after being voluntold, finished the meal by sprinkling more Parmesan and torn basil on top.

Staring at their creation, he looked to the others. "...What now? "Then have Italy take all the credit for your own recipe," America shrugged, taking a dish, "Not that we're bitter. Or anything."

#Screw Quebec #USAManor! Vermont #USAManor! New York #USAManor! USA #USAManor! New Jersey #USAManor! New Hampshire #USAKitchen?

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the-archangel · 1 year ago

Text

It's My (Halloween) Party

Halloween fluff (mostly) with a NSFW middle bit!

“It’s fine V, honestly, it’s fine. I knew that in the end this is what would have to happen and so did you. I’m ready, it’s fine.”

V looks Johnny in the eye, the usual smug look had been replaced with one more sombre and thoughtful.

“Shit Johnny, I’m so sorry, but don’t you think you’re over-reacting the tiniest bit? I mean, I’m literally going to be gone for three days, I promise I’ll spend the day with you on Friday.”

“But it’s Hallowe’en tomorrow V, I wanted to take it all in, dress up and shit, y’know?”

“I know, I do, but you can always decorate the apartment. Hey, why not have a party? Get dressed up, invite your friends, it’ll be fun.”

Johnny huffs non-committally, he does love a party, he might struggle with the friends part though. “I got a costume, see what you think?”

V nods and settles back on the couch and a few minutes later a subtly changed Johnny re-enters the room. V looks at his friend’s black suit, shirt and tie combo quizzically, “Who’re you supposed to be?”

“I’m an old-school assassin, like in that movie we saw where he killed that dude with a library book.”

“Shit yeah! That’s pretty good. If you put away the shit-eating grin and worked on harassed and homicidal you’d look just like him.” V laughs.

“Thank you for your valuable feedback.” Johnny spits before stalking back to the wardrobe.

Kerry is also in a wardrobe, albeit a much larger, more glamourous one. This Hallowe’en is going to be epic and he and V need outfits to match. There is already a pretty impressive pile of discarded clothes and exotic costumes, but nothing seems quite right.

V had tried helping at first, unearthing pirate costumes and elegant military gear from long-forgotten videos and declaring it all perfect, but hot as V looked in the sexy highwayman outfit, none of it was vibing with Kerry so the outfit was abandoned with the rest – only a little torn by its somewhat hasty removal. So, V is returning home in good spirits, oblivious to the increasingly frustrated mood of his husband.

“Hey Ker, you still upstairs?” V shouts.

A muffled, “M,hm,” comes from somewhere above him. Taking the steps two at a time and entering the closet, V tries not to smirk at the picture before him: world-famous Rockerboy Kerry Eurodyne sat in his underpants and a black feather boa pouting in a maelstrom of abandoned ideas.

V carefully picks his way over to the comically dejected looking man and sits behind wrapping his arms around his shoulders and grimaces through the pain of the coat hanger currently digging into his upper thigh. “It’s OK Ker, I’ll drive us into the City Center, buy lunch, look for costumes…”

Kerry cuts him off, “No! There’s something here, I can feel it, I just can’t find it.”

V pulls him closer burying his face in the older man’s neck, mostly to hide the chuckle. “Ditch this for a couple of hours, we can come back to it later, we need to pack for tomorrow’s trip.”

The other man looks momentarily startled, he’d been trying to forget about the record company shindig in NY he’d agreed to host, only finally agreeing because there’d be chooms there he hadn’t seen in a few years – and because of the preem Hallowe-en party of course. “Sure, I suppose,” he says, reluctantly letting the boa fall to the floor and allowing V to help him up, not that he needed help of course.

V flicks a note to Johnny when they’re on the way to the airport, Kerry sighing and rolling his eyes as he does so. “I just don’t want him to worry.” Explains the ex-merc.

“You don’t want him bugging you all day asking if you’ve set off yet ya mean.” Mutters the Rockerboy.

Johnny reads the message sullenly, last Hallowe’en was a wash out what with hospital stays (him), hissy fits (Kerry) and psychological evaluations by the bucketful (him and V), he wanted this one to count. Asking around various bars had given him a few leads to some preem parties, but none of them were quite what he was looking for, too controlled, not enough mayhem, maybe he wouldn’t bother after all, just throw himself into some work and forget about the whole thing. Fucking Kerry spoiling his fun again.

The Afterlife is buzzing, especially for a Tuesday morning which is often the quietest part of the week, prolly everyone wanting to conclude business before the evening shenanigans begin Johnny thinks curling his lip. He heads towards a couple of chooms in a corner booth and begins to talk biz.

Dragging the cases to the cab whilst Kerry expansively describes the hotel they’ll be staying in, V quickly pings off another message to Johnny, ‘En route to hotel, any plans yet?’ but no reply is immediately forthcoming so he takes his seat and looks out at the crumbling skyscrapers of New York that remind him so much of home.

Kerry’s voice brings him back to the moment, “Do you think we made the right choice?”

Baffled, V looks for clues in his husband’s face, does he mean in coming to NY, or picking this hotel, or getting a cat, or, well the list is pretty long of things they may regret one day. “Nope, you’ve lost me.”

“Of costumes ya gonk, what else could I be talking about?”

V lets out a breath and grins, “Course, everyone’s gonna be blown away.”

“Ya think? It’s not going to come across as a little, I dunno, low effort?”

V grips Kerry’s hand even tighter than he already is, “Babe, no one is gonna care about anything other than how fucking awesome we look, it’s not even worth thinking about.”

Sinking into his husband’s arms, Kerry smiles and looks up into the ex-merc’s eyes, “You’re one choice I’m never gonna regret,” he whispers huskily before planting a kiss on V’s bearded chin and snoozing for the rest of the ride.

Back in NC, Johnny is in the shower after a seemingly straightforward gig that turned unexpectedly messy. Picking the bits of Scav bone out of his matted hair is taking longer than he anticipated, he grunts with satisfaction as each one hits the floor of the shower.

Finally feeling reasonably presentable he searches the apartment for his jacket, he’s finally found the perfect party, he’s ditched the costume, he very much wants to look recognisable as himself when he walks in. “Fucking thing, where’s it gone?” he mutters to himself as he turns the room upside-down. Sitting on the bed and scanning the room, he frowns as he notices V’s battered old ‘Second Conflict’, jacket on the back of the chair, the October air is too cool to go jacketless, so “Fuck,” he sighs as he shrugs on the offending item and leaves into the Hallowe’en afternoon smog.

For the more formal, earlier part of the evening, Kerry has chosen a powder blue shot-silk evening suit and for V a matching one in teal, V is leaning heavily on the dressing table clinging onto the edge with one hand and gently stroking Kerry’s hair with the other as the Rockerboy expertly and enthusiastically sucks on his cock. “You look so hot in that suit Ker,” V purrs between gasps, “hope I didn’t hurt your knees pushing you down on the floor like that.”

Kerry pulls away from the object of his obsession for a moment, a string of drool and precum connecting them still, “You know I’d crawl over broken glass to get to your dick,” he smirks running his tongue up the underside and grinning as V shivers, “but I will get my own back ‘bout the crack about my knees later.” V chuckles, then gasps as his length disappears into Kerry’s warm, willing mouth.

“Five-minute call Mr. Eurodyne,” a runner calls through the door just as V groans and Kerry swallows, he licks his lips and kisses his husband deeply.

Johnny is on the street looking over at the warehouse where the party is to be held in a few hours’ time. He’s rolled up pretty early since he’s unfamiliar with this part of Watson and wants to make sure he makes a big entrance dead on time later. Satisfied that he has identified the main entrance and any exits he may need for whatever reason he retires to a nearby bar, orders a tequila and checks his messages.

Despite still being pretty pissed at V for disappearing over the holidays, he grins when he sees his message, “Heck yeah!!” he replies and settles in for a couple of hours while he waits for the party to begin.

V basks in the reflected glow from his husband as Kerry charmingly ad-libs his way through introductions and conversations, finishing with him disappearing in a puff of smoke whilst a spooky instrumental version of Dark Matter is played allowing him to grab V and rush back to the dressing room to get changed for the party proper.

“Still not sure about this Vince,” says Kerry pulling on and adjusting the wig he spent many hours choosing and having styled just right, “but it is spooky how much you look like him, got his mannerisms down and everything. Gives me the creeps if I’m honest.”

Looking in the mirror, V has to agree that the make-up artist, who is now working on Kerry, has done a preem job, unsettlingly so in fact. “It’s supposed to give you the creeps, it’s Hallowe’eeeeeen,” he replies in his best spooky voice. After a last critical look in the mirror V grabs his jacket and leans on the doorframe having a smoke waiting for Kerry to be ready. The make up guy does a couple of last adjustments and stands back whilst Kerry plays with his Kiroshis to get just the right eye color and stands to look in the full-length mirror.

He's almost mesmerised by what he sees there, “You’re a fucking genius Terry,” he tells the make-up guy, eyes never leaving the mirror.

V comes up behind him and slips his arms around his waist, “I honestly don’t know if it’s wrong to feel like this, but you look so fucking hot right now.”

Kerry turns in his arms and looks for V’s eyes, but finds only his own reflection in the lenses of his glasses, “V honey, it’s never wrong to tell me I look hot.”

People have started arriving to the party in Watson, Johnny nurses his drink and watches through the grimy window of the bar, waiting for the perfect time to make his entrance. He checks the pistol in his jacket, hefts his duffel bag onto his shoulder and makes his way over, avoiding being seen until he reaches the camera over the doorway to which he gives a one-fingered salute before heading inside.

It's maybe not what most people would call a party, mostly there are heavily chromed Maelstrommers hunched over laptops or having heavy conversations at tables, but as far as Johnny Silverhand is concerned anywhere where you can drink and have fun is a party, he’s already done the drinking part, now he’s ready for the fun.

He’d made it in and up the stairs without being spotted, clearly they’re all too busy to check the cameras, good. Standing just inside the doorway to the goon-filled open space beyond Johnny drops the bag pulling out V’s favourite SMG, Fenrir – perfect for these over-chromed gonks – and with something less flashy as a backup he kicks open the door, spraying bullets as he strides forwards.

Not being complete idiots, most of the gangers flee through the fire exit and disperse into the night, that’s fine, he’s not here to kill particularly, he’s here to collect. A couple of crumpled bodies impede his entrance slightly, but he grins as a metallic voice whines, “Shit, it’s Johnny Silverhand,” he makes his way towards the injured goon.

A couple of the guys don’t seem to have got the message, a well-placed bullet re-acquaints them with it, a couple more decide to try to be heroes, a casually hurled grenade finishes them off, finally it’s just Johnny and his quarry and a nervous woman who appears to be the girlfriend.

“You Taser?” the merc asks lighting a cigarette, well-aware of how this illuminates his scowling face.

“Leave him alone,” the woman shrieks coming at Johnny with impressively sharp steel nails unsheathed, “or I’ll fuck that pretty face right up.”

“Aw, she thinks I’m pretty,” Johnny says as he slows her down with a spray of bullets to the legs.

“Shit, dude!” screams Taser covering his head with his arms and smearing the blood dripping from his chest over his face.

Johnny looks into a face that is mostly polished chrome with two red pin-pricks that he guesses must be eyes. “Brick says you owe him, and you owe him big. He wants his Eddies.”

Taser gulps, “But…” Johnny’s pistol presses uncomfortably into his abdomen, “Shit, fine,” his eyes glow violet for a moment, “it’s done, tell him it’s fucking done.”

“We thank you for your co-operation,” Johnny offers as he leaves.

Over in New York, the party is also in full swing, the media swarm around the red-carpeted entrance to the ballroom cooing over the guest’s costumes and analysing their choices. The short journey from their room to the party is a tense one for Kerry, still unsure if anyone will even get their costumes, never mind dig them. Hand in hand, he and V leave the elevator and turn the corner onto the carpet, dozens of heads turn, they’d been waiting for his arrival, not only is he a huge star, but his costume never disappoints. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but the gasps, laughs and applause are not unwelcome.

For the occasion, V has replaced his synth-skin chrome arm for an older, silver model, red shades and a dark, shoulder-length wig add to the look, but it’s the ‘borrowed’ clothes – leather trousers, Samurai tank and the iconic jacket – and immaculate mannerisms that really make the resemblance extraordinary.

Kerry had spent ages getting the bandana just so around his thick, curly dark hair. Terry had done an amazing job with the facial hair and tattoos and somehow made him look thirty all over again. The moment of inspiration had come as he put the pile of clothes back into the closet the previous day, his old leather vest had slipped from its hanger as he shuffled past with his armful of rejected outfits and on picking it up something akin to a lighting bolt hit him, Kerry Eurodyne and Johnny Silverhand finally together again after fifty years.

The crowd lapped it up, especially when they stop for a very wet, passionate and long kiss, tomorrow’s screamsheet headlines are just writing themselves.

Having collected his payment for a job well done, Johnny makes his way through town, stopping briefly to change before making his way to the Afterlife and the private party he was about to crash. The feeds on the street caught his eye, he stands clenching has cigarette between thin lips as he watches the footage beamed from New York, he was definitely going to have to have a very serious word with V later.

The party was awesome, Kerry had kept his crown as the King of Hallowe’en and V was having a lot of fun channelling Johnny again for one night. Back in their room, the Rockerboy throws himself onto the bed chatting animatedly about how awesome the evening was while V sits beside him, smiling at how happy they both are and remembering how lucky he is.

“Y’know,” says V resting his hand on his husband’s chest, “Rock God Kerry is my guy, but this version is still doing it for me.” Kerry scowls at first, but is soon smiling again as V’s hand slides down his torso and into his jeans, “Keep the costume on for a while huh?” he asks, running his tongue around a pert nipple.

Kerry closes his eyes and moans softly, but then opens them and pulls himself up into a seated position, evicting a confused V from his chest, “You’re gonna have to get changed, the thought of Johnny anywhere near my cock is putting me off,” he growls.

V snickers, Johnny would love to know he was cock-blocking him from the other side of the country, “Course Ker, gimme a minute.” The ‘borrowed’ clothes drop to the floor, the shades and wig come off and the make-up is wiped away, a few minutes later a fresh-faced V comes back to four angry messages from Johnny and a gently snoring husband, it’s OK he decides curling up next to his man, it can all wait til morning.

#cyberpunk 2077 #kerry eurodyne #kerry eurodyne x male v #kerry x male v #cyberpunk kerry #v cyberpunk #kerry is my muse #cyberpunk v #kerry x v #johnny silverhand #halloween

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foxes-that-run · 9 months ago

Text

Harry Styles and Taylor Russell (Tarry) timeline

2023

12-17 June - Taylor Russell at one of Harry's Wembley dates, we don't know which. The photos were provided of her sitting with Jeff, Xander and Jacquelyn on 19 January 2024

24 June - Taylor Russell and Harry leaving art gallery in London.

6 July - Taylor Russell seen walking with Harry and in the Vienna HSLOT show in VIP tent.

8 July - Taylor Russell and Travis Kelce spotted at Harry and Taylors concerts respectively. ….on the same day.

11 July Harry and TR by a hotel pool and Barcelona airport

23 July - With Brad at Love on Tour

10 August - 1989 TV announced and Harry goes to Taylor Russell's play on the same day, 9 August in US. Gemma and her partner there

25 August - they walked all the time in London

28 August - Harry attends Taylor Russells play more on closing night 7 October,

7 September - They passed Sigel Rides walking Root... Taylor Russells dog who disappeared as quickly as it appeared when she went to NY.

13 September - H seen near TRs play

27 September - They were seen riding Lime Bikes then while Walking TR reached for Harry's hand and he switched the side he was holding his coffee.

29 September - Harry and his dad at Taylor Russells play. TR went to Fashion week and wore a weird metal coat. Harry stayed in London. A story that he drove to pick her up from the Train Station and got a parking ticket.. except there were no photos and (as at June 2024) he has not been seen driving since December 2022. "An onlooker told The Sun on Sunday's Bizarre column: "Harry quickly parked up on the double yellows. You could tell he didn’t want to be late for Taylor after her long train journey so he quickly dashed into the station.""

8 October - Harry at the after part of the Effect in London

23 Oct - video of HS & TR in cafe.

3 November - Harry in Vancouver with TR, head covered. Left a note for a restaurant they visited and ate donuts on a dock.

9 November - Video of Harry’s buzz cut from 8 days earlier posted during U2 concert, same day it is reported TK will go to the Eras tour.

1 December - Deux Moi reports that Harry and TR are expecting, Taylor and Joe had a ceremony. Tree ends Deux.

2 December - Harry and TR rumoured split. Article deleted the next day possibly as it identifies TRs hotel

3 December Daily Mail reports TR and HS are in crisis then takes the article down.

11 December - distant photo of Harry and Taylor Russell in Italy from the 7th posted to HS news. Rumored to have been in Italy for weeks with Alessandro Michelle

26 December - Harry seen with TR at a pond in England wearing only underpants and a Eagles beanie

2024

3 January - Harry in the Caribbean with TR.

17 January - Deux Moi H LA 6 - 16 January

19 January - a photo of TR with Jeff at LOT Wembley last June.

20 January - Joe, TR and Zayn at Loewe show at Paris FW, some guy gives TR a neck rub.

26 January - Harry and TR seen in London Together, again riding bikes and dinner.

14 February - Blind item that TR is calling paps, they are then not seen together again for a month.

3 March - TR play opens in NY, Harry doesn’t go. He was in L.A.

8 March - Harry back in London, TRs play was on from 3-31 in NY, Harry did not attend. Pleasing ‘Single at last’.

14 March - Harry backstage at Mitch’s show in NY!! TRs play was on 10 mins away, she came after, arriving at 9:30/10, they left before encore with TR look to be arguing. TR did not attend Mitches show, her play was on. A photo leaked of Harry at the start of the show and TR came before it ended. Harry left with her, a crowd yelled her name and it looked like they argues in the car. Harry was walking alone an hour later. First time seen in a month.

15 March -Harry walking around NY with TR and separately with Maxwell Ritz. And at the white cube gallery.

17 March - Harry in Brooklyn at townhouse with TR with bag, last sighting for another month. Fashion spread about it.

19 March - Harry returns to London. TRs play on till 31, did not go

26 March - TR VF article where she says “My work is the most interesting thing to me, so that’s what I’ll say about that.” And talks about finding safety for herself, in August she talked about safety within a relationship.

1 April - TR Columbia

15 April - Harry & TR Japan sighting.

19 April - TTPD, Harry seen in Japan.

20 April - Harry seen in Japan with TR, TR seen at airport on 24th last TR sighting w H. Later reports broke up then.

29 April - Harry seen in London

6 May - Harry on a lime bike London not with TR at met gala.

14 May - Deux Moi reports Tarry ended

15 May- Harry at Kacey Musgrave concert alone

19 May Harry and TR broke up last month: Sun & Mirror

20 May - tarry break up picked widely, rumor Harry in Italy

21 May - Harry seen in Italy.

23 May - Harry went kitchenware shopping in Rome wearing a Blur ‘modern life is rubbish’ he also wore in 2014.

#tarry timeline #Taylor Russell #Tarry

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atomicwinnerdreamland · 1 year ago

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Do you have any silly hc’s and ansgty hc’s for NY?

**it’s fine if not lol**

Hii! Ooo thank you for the ask, and I may have a few of both kinds of hc's for him :D

New York's silly hc's:

-He has tried ice cream and soy sauce together because he read about it in a book and surprisingly, he doesn't hate the combination. (the book is King of Wrath by Ana Huang, which is set in New York)

-I like to think that he tries on the shoes of the bigger states in the statehouse because he finds fun in doing so. New York was wearing Texas's huge dress shoes and tripped on them, and Alaska so happened to be nearby and helped him up, which got Alaska to be the one to first notice this habit of his.

-He and Louisiana read picture books together on nights when they can't go to sleep. Sometimes they're picture books that New York himself wrote, other times they're picture books that New York finds in his local bookstore that he thinks Loui would like.

-Whenever he's angry at a certain state, he paints a portrait of them that portrays them in the ugliest way possible. It could be a painting of the state's face with the ugliest color combos and/or purposefully messed up proportions or he may paint a part of the state that the state considere to be ugly or unattractive (ie. if here were mad at Texas, he'd paint Austin bc TX thinks that Austin is ugly, California w/ Bakersfield, Michigan w/ the border shared between him and Ohio, etc)

-He sometimes likes to wear his coats on his head like a wig and walks around the statehouse as he's doing so. And he likes to style it too: sometimes the coat looks like a whole ass muffin on his head (think of how people with long hair wrap a towel around their hair after a shower). Everyone else thinks he looks insane, but he's happy doing it for some reason.

-He hides candy in his beanie and nobody knows.

New York's angsty hc's:

-He has a terrible relationship with sleep. He can't sleep because of flashbacks of his past, he can't sleep because of his workload, and sometimes he doesn't sleep on purpose just to punish himself.

-He likes to lock himself in his room when the statehouse gets too loud. It reminds him of his past again (with all the wars and stuff) and he prefers not to interact with anyone at all for a few days to deal with it.

-[TW: self-harm] Whenever he does something that doesn't reach his own standards, he hurts himself in many ways. He indulges in his never ending workload, he stays up all night, he doesn't eat, and he can't talk to anyone without screaming at them (which hurts NY bc he doesn't like hurting his loved ones).

-He likes to cook for others but rarely finds the will to cook for himself sometimes, much less eat. It's the same way with comforting others: he always is the first to try and uplift somebody yet he can never uplift himself when he needs to.

-He likes to disappear whenever he gets too overwhelmed. The fellas in the Northeast always try and look for him whenever he does so, but New York always finds a spot where he knows he can't be found (usually in Wyoming and Iowa since they're usually forgotten, and both states seem peaceful to me), so they just wait for him to return home hoping he's okay. There was an occasion where he came back with cuts and bruises all over his body to the point he was hospitalized, and though the northeast states thought it was bc of a fight, it turned out to be self-inflicted injuries. The northeast now keep an eye out for any sign that NY's stressed out/overwhelmed so they can go talk to him before he decides to disappear again.

-[TW: suicidal thoughts] He likes to think about not being immortal & what life would be like if only he were to be able to die like normal humans. Sometimes he doesn't have the will to live and finds it so hard to accept that he can't just die. This fic by @xechoecho88x is a great story that ties along with this specific headcanon if you're interested in reading something like this :D

-He has a severely damaged wall designed for when he needs to let out some anger. To go along the lines of this, he likes fire and burns random things to keep himself at ease. The only thing that he regrets burning is an old necklace given to him by a friendly old lady he met & befriended in upstate. Her death took a toll on him and he burned the only thing that reminded him of her so he wouldn't mourn as much, but all he feels now is regret.

That's all I have, I hope you like it :D Thank you sm again for your ask, I appreciate it so much <3

#wttt #welcome to the table #wttsh #welcome to the statehouse #ben brainard #wttt new york

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greyeyedmonster-18 · 1 year ago

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Just finished clear eyes and I ADORED IT!! But I would love to know, how did Orion say the move to NY wasn’t happening - like I know Sirius predicated it and did the pretend convo to James but did Orion call Sirius? And then did Sirius tell everyone? Or did he just phone the house and tell whoever picked up? How did effie and monty and James react? And then following on from that how did remus react when Sirius told him?

I just loved it and it’s consuming my mind now, I loved the potter family with Sirius and regulus so integrated in and it was so cool, i also really enjoyed the Americanness as a non American like monty in particular i was reading it in like a (my version of) southern American accent and every time he said son I died 🫶🫶🫶 sorry for the spam of questions, I’ve asked way way way too much here so no pressure to answer or respond at all!!

hello and thank you for reading!! I'm glad you enjoyed a football fic as a non-american and the non-specific southern accents they all had <3. no need to apologize for the spam questions! one thing about fic writers is we all love to talk about our fics. ask away!

i had no idea that that question of like "but how did new york not happen????" would haunt so many readers so...i'm just going to give a little bonus and write it out <3

Last trip before all your final exams start, bud, I swear.

That's what his Father had said during their last phone call, when Sirius expressed that weekly trips to New York, now that the Football season had come to a close, wasn't exactly helpful for a study schedule and finishing up a school semester. An excuse? Maybe, but Sirius knew it was one that worked. Half of Sirius's closet had been packed and placed into suitcases, and he clung to the handles of both as he and Regulus made their way through the busy baggage claim of the New York airport. Sirius had his phone in his other hand, checking and double-checking for a phone call to tell him where to meet his Dad.

"Slow down," Regulus said from somewhere behind him as Sirius shouldered his way through the crowds, desperate to find any type of breathing room or personal space. But Sirius had a feeling touching perfect strangers would be his norm very soon. Even the buildings were close together here.

"You're s'posed to be the fastest one in the State, I think you can keep up, Reg," Sirius teased, looking over his shoulder to make sure Regulus was actually somewhere close behind him and not lost in Terminal 3. Regulus had a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, wheeling a suitcase behind him, and a scowl on his face from all the people who simply couldn't be bothered to say excuse me.

"I just don't know what you're runnin' for. Dad's not gonna leave without us." Regulus told him when he caught up, now that they were outside of the terminal and waiting on the sidewalk for pick-up. Puffs of air ghosted out in front of their faces, warm breath meeting cold air and it didn't take long for Regulus to put his hands inside his coat pockets, shoulders shrugging up around his neck.

"Get's ya places faster..." Sirius returned, looking down at his phone and then back toward the line of cars. It seemed like the sound of the cicadas and birds chirping would be replaced with honking horns and ambulance sirens, and Sirius wasn't sure he was ready for it. Not at all.

Hours later, there had been no phone call. They waited outside on the curb until Sirius's fingers felt like they had frozen in place around the phone. He had called his Father several times, to have it ring. The last time he called, it went straight to the voicemail, and by then they had moved inside to the baggage claim, Black Brothers slumped against a wall, watching as the carousel went around and around.

Flights came and went. People picked up their bags and reunited with loved ones. Sirius and Regulus waited for a phone call, or else a stranger with a sign to appear signaling that someone had remembered they were coming, and were excited to see them.

Sirius checked his watch, and let out a breath through his lips.

"...You go first." Regulus whispered quietly, his head reclined and staring up at the ceiling. Voice strained and Sirius was afraid to look completely at him, knowing there were tears likely streaming down his face.

Hypothetical Freaks.

"...No." Sirius said quietly, shaking his head, "No." Louder. "I'm not playin' that anymore. I'm...I'm not doin' this."

Sirius flipped his phone open and pressed a few buttons before holding it to his ear.

Ring.

Rin--

"Sirius?"

"Hi Mom," Sirius practically choked out, not knowing until that moment how much relief he would feel, just having someone pick up the damn phone.

"Monte, it's Sirius and Reg!" Euphemia called and Sirius couldn't help but smile, imagining her screaming through the house, "Well, hi sweetheart, did you make it--"

"Mom, we're still at the airport," Sirius started, "I've called, I can't even tell ya how many times now, and it rings and it rings and no one answers, and we're stuck sittin' here at a stupid airport, I don't know where to go--I don't have my new stupid address memorized yet or the subway or anythin' and we can't go anywhere, and please just tell me what to do, please." Sirius didn't care that his voice had gone up two octaves the longer he spoke to his Mom; Sirius didn't care that he shook with every word, or that for once he dropped like he had everything figured out in front of Regulus. Nothing was okay, nothing was fine, and Sirius was done pretending it would work out okay.

There was rummaging on the other side of the phone.

"Sirius? You just hold on now, okay?" Fleamont said, "You know I'm not too good with the flights and lookin' at times, so I've got Effie on her phone right now. We'll figure this out, okay?"

"Can we just...come home?"

"We got you, kid. Just hold on."

#xoxo doctor grey #a friday night lights au #clear eyes spoilers

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lostloveletters · 25 days ago

Note

im rewatching the godfather bc ive been binging bruised fruit and the timeline of the movies/ book is soooo confusing to me bc of all the inconsistencies T_T what timeline or reference does bruised fruit follow bc it feels so coherent :0

Thank you so much! Hearing you've been rewatching The Godfather movies and binging Bruised Fruit makes me so happy🖤

As for timeline stuff, that's totally understandable! I had to make one for myself to reference while working on Bruised Fruit, and I think it's as accurate as I can get? I used the 3 or 4 real-world events explicitly referenced in the movies (the attack on Pearl Harbor, the end of WWII, The Bells of St. Mary's release, and the Cuban revolution) to build this out because there are a lot of inconsistencies otherwise, especially when it comes to the novel and even in some early drafts of the script for Part II.

Anyway, my Godfather timeline for Michael's arc is beneath the cut! The Bruised Fruit-specific events are differentiated with red text.

1941

December - US joins WWII following attack on Pearl Harbor, Michael drops out of college to enlist in the Marines immediately afterward

1945

September - Connie's wedding, as Nazorine says that the war is over when he appeals to Vito for Enzo to stay in the US so he can work in the bakery and marry his daughter. Also based on wardrobe, the weather is still warm enough for light, summer dresses and short sleeves

December - Attempt on Vito's life, Michael and Kay find out while leaving a screening of The Bells of St. Mary's, which came out in December 1945

1946

January - Michael kills Sollozzo and McCluskey and flees to Sicily, there are still Christmas decorations up around NY (could be late December 1945?)

1948

Michael meets Apollonia; marries her not long afterward (a few weeks?)

1949

Santino is killed on the Long Beach Causeway

Apollonia is killed in a car bomb meant for Michael

1950

Michael returns to the US from Sicily (according to the novel The Sicilian, he has been in exile in Sicily for 4 years - full disclosure, I haven't read this novel yet)

1951

Autumn/Winter - Michael reunites with and marries Kay — she asks him how long he's been back, he says at least a year, maybe more; leaves on the trees in New England are visibly orange/brown in the scene, they're both in coats

1953

Gloria moves to Las Vegas

Michael first meets Gloria in Las Vegas - He is 33, she is 20

1954

Michael and Gloria start their affair

1955

Murder of the Five Families

Corleone family moves to Nevada

1958

October/November - Anthony's first communion (though I've never heard of a first communion happening any time other than spring?), while they're dancing, Kay reminds Michael that "You told me that in five years the Corleone family would be completely legitimate, that was seven years ago"

December - Michael goes to Cuba

1959

January - New Year's Day, Batista's government is overthrown by Castro's revolutionaries

February/March - Senate hearings; Kay leaves Michael; Bruised Fruit chapter 1

#ask tag #insp: bruised fruit

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the-girl-who-didnt-smile · 8 months ago

Text

ADDENDUM

I LOVE thinking about this shit, so I decided to revisit this topic.

TLDR: (1) I don’t think I gave fair coverage to Team “IT WAS KALFOU!!!” (2) I found more compelling evidence that Papa Gede was imported by Haitians in the early 19th century!

The strongest evidence for Kalfou being “the Devil at the Crossroads” comes from a statement from bluesman Tommy Johnson (unrelated to Robert Johnson), as quoted by his brother Rev. LeDell Johnson:

“Take your guitar and you go down to where a road crosses that way, where a crossroad is. Get there, be sure to get there just a little ‘fore twelve o’clock that night so you know you’ll be there. You have your guitar and be playing a piece sitting there by yourself. You have to go by yourself and be sitting there playing a piece. A big black man will walk up there and take your guitar, and he’ll tune it. And he’ll play a piece and hand it back to you. That’s the way I learned how to play anything I want.”

Source: Evans, David (1971 ). Tommy Johnson. Studio Vista, London p. 22-23. ISBN 978-0289701515.

Note the similarity to Maya Deren’s description of Kalfou (Carrefour): "This is no ancient, feeble man; Carrefour is huge and straight and vigorous, a man in the prime of his life. His arms are raised strongly in the configuration of a cross. Every muscle of the shoulders and back bulges with strength. No one whispers or smiles in his presence."

Source: Deren, Maya. Divine Horsemen : The Living Gods of Haiti. New Paltz, NY: McPherson, 1983 (originally published in 1953), p. 101: https://archive.org/details/divinehorsemenli00dere/page/100/mode/2up

However, the quote from Tommy Johnson does not specify the age of the “big black man”. In Southern folklore, “The Devil at the Crossroads” is usually described as a “larger, older black man” with supernatural musical talent. It is also sometimes specified that he has an association with dogs, and/or walks with a limp. I’ve had a surprising amount of trouble finding an academic paper, but this is something that has been transmitted through urban legend / oral tradition.

This is why Marvin Thomas says: “Most versions of this story instruct the aspiring musician to bring his instrument to a lonely crossroads at midnight and await the arrival of a limping old black man who will tune the instrument, play it briefly, and then return it endowed with supernatural power."

I do dock him points for the source he provided… Henry Hyatt’s Hoodoo Conjuration Witchcraft & Rootwork (5 vol.s) offers nothing to support his claim!

Adam Gussow’s (2017) Beyond the Crossroads touches on this topic. However, Gussow himself challenges the notion that “the Devil at the Crossroads” was Legba – or any other African deity, for that matter! (Anyone familiar with THE LEGEN D. OF ROBERT D. JOHNSON knows that there are many schools of thought… the notion that he sold his soul to Papa Legba is far from uncontested…!)

Source: Gussow, Adam. Beyond the Crossroads: The Devil and the Blues Tradition. UNC Press Books, 2017.

Anyways, it goes without saying that oral tradition is not always reliable (ever played Telephone?) So it is entirely possible that it really was Kalfou at the Crossroads. Another possibility is that it was Dahomean Legba: the gluttonous, spoiled youngest god of liminality, who loves music and dogs!

On to my second point: I may have found more convincing evidence that Papa Gede made it over to the U.S. during the 19th century!

Newbell Niles Puckett (1926) describes how “the Devil” appeared to African Americans in the South:

“...Most of the time, however, when going about on the earth, the Negro devil has the appearance of a gentleman, wearing a high silk hat, and a frock coat, and having an "ambrosial curl" in the center of his forehead to hide the single horn which is located there. Mrs. Viriginia Frazer Boyle tells me that when she was first taken to church by her father and mother she used to scan the congregation eagerly for a man with that "ambrosial curl" and one with the "evil eye", which her old Negro nurse had told her were to be found in every crowd, even in church. In most cases this Negro devil has cloven feet, a characteristic also credited to him in European circles. Possibly the black cat is the animal most chosen by the Negro devil for impersonation...Nevertheless the devil is not limited to this particular form but may appear as a rabbit, terrapin, serpent, housefly, grasshopper, toad, bat, or yellow dog at will. To the Mississippi Negroes he often appears as a black billy-goat; a view strictly in keeping with his custom at the English witches' Sabbath. In New Orleans it is thought by some that snakes and black cats are incarnations of the devil…”

Source: Puckett, Newbell Niles. Folk beliefs of the southern Negro. University of North Carolina Press, 1926. https://archive.org/details/folkbeliefsofsou00puck/page/552/mode/2up?q=devil

Puckett is likely a more reliable source than the news reporters of 19th century New Orleans. The most convincing part is the mention of a “high silk hat”, which matches Maya Deren’s description of Papa Gede: "Ghede is frequently concerned with hats, and usually wears a black top-hat."

Source: Deren, Maya. Divine Horsemen : The Living Gods of Haiti. New Paltz, NY: McPherson, 1983 (originally published in 1953), p. 106: https://archive.org/details/divinehorsemenli00dere/page/106/mode/2up

Elsewhere, “The Devil” of Southern folklore matches Deren’s description of Papa Gede: “A figure very similar to the Haitian Ghede and Puckett’s Negro Devil appears in many Woodruff County folktales. He is commonly seen near a crossroads, a cemetery, or, as is often the case, both simultaneously. Sometimes, as in Haiti, he holds a cane.”

Source: Jacobsen, K. (Nov. 1, 2002). The Society for the Study of Southern Literature, Volume 36, Issue 1: https://southernlit.org/volume-36-issue-one-fall-2002/

This and Alvarado’s mention of purple robes point to this “Devil” / “Spirit of Death” being Papa Gede!

…Granted, it’s not completely conclusive, and there are differences between Puckett’s description of the “Devil” and Papa Gede. He seems to have merged with pre-existing European (and possibly, African) beliefs, taking on a new form entirely. I digress…

I’ve struggled to find evidence that Kalfou and Baron Samedi or Papa Gede were worshiped in New Orleans during the 19th century. But if they were worshiped, it makes sense that it would be so difficult to find a record of them.

So much about New Orleans Voodoo is kept secret - not because it’s an “evil” religion, but because they’ve been persecuted so viciously over the entirety of American history! As a consequence of this, there’s a lot that isn’t written down or shared with outsiders.

Neither Kalfou nor Baron Samedi are evil, but they are both very powerful and dangerous, which causes them to be associated with “black magic” / “bad work”. Papa Gede isn’t evil at all, but he is in fact an oversexed spirit of the dead… I can see why Vodouisants of the 19th century would have to keep him under wraps!

I’m not certain of this, but it is possible that the refraction of Dahomean Legba took place prior to the Haitian Revolution, and was transmitted by Haitian refugees. Alternatively, the “big black man” and the Devil in the “high silk hat” bear superficial resemblance to Kalfou and Papa Gede, but aren’t them.

I’m really starting to lean towards the first one, but many (including Adam Gussow) argue against this. Since I’m not part of the community, I’ll probably never find out the truth. But it’s so much fun to try to figure this out!!

RE: Was Baron Samedi worshiped in New Orleans prior to the late 20th century?

This one is also about the actual lwa.

Baron Samedi can aptly be described as not just the most iconic lwa, but one of the most iconic things from New Orleans Voodoo. Ironically, I have only found inconclusive evidence that he was worshiped in New Orleans during the 19th or early 20th centuries.

In American popular media, Baron Samedi is frequently conflated with other Haitian deities, called the Gede. The real-life Baron Samedi has his origins in Haitian Vodou, as does Maman Brigitte (Gran Brijit). The Haitian lwa are derived from African deities, among the most important being the Dahomean trickster god Legba (himself, derived from the Yoruba deity Eshu). Over the course of Haitian history, Dahomean Legba was refracted into Papa Legba, Met Kalfou, and the Gede - by extension, the Bawons, including Baron Samedi. This explains why the Gede are trickster deities of sexuality and liminality, who embrace all that is taboo - just like Dahomean Legba!

19th Century New Orleans Voodoo was greatly influenced by Haitian Vodou, due to the massive influx of Haitian refugees that arrived in the Crescent City after the Haitian Revolution. Following the post-Revolution migration wave, several Haitian lwa became features of New Orleans Voodoo, including:

Papa Legba → “Papa Limba” or “La Bas”, syncretized with St. Peter

Damballah → “Daniel Blanc”, syncretized with St. Michael

Agassu → “Yon Sue”, syncretized with St. Anthony

Ogou Feray could have also been worshiped as “Joe Ferrai” (“Joe Feray”), and Ayizan Velekete as “Vériquité”. While the Erzulies were not directly worshiped per se, veneration of Mother Mary was a key feature of 19th century New Orleans Voodoo. (The Erzulies are syncretized with Mother Mary.)

(I should also note that, in New Orleans, the lwa were called “spirits”, while Bon Dieu/Bondye was simply called “God”)

During the 19th century, the two most important lwa were probably Papa Legba - the Doorkeeper - and Damballah - the most ancient of the lwa. This would explain why their names appear most frequently in 19th- and 20th-century sources, especially in large scale rituals. Damballah might have been refracted into multiple deities, including “Daniel Blanc” and “Zombi the Snake God” – a deity famously associated with Marie Laveau. Others argue that “Grand Zombi” is actually derived from the Kongo supreme deity Nzambi Mpungu, or an invention fabricated by journalists.

A third key deity – “Onzancaire” / “Monsieur Assonquer” – might have been associated with Ogou Feray – one of the most important Haitian lwa. However, the origins of “Onzancaire” are elusive. Because so many different theories have been proposed, I do not know where his true origins lie.

Other deities of non-Haitian origin were also features of New Orleans Voodoo. St. Marron (Jean St. Malo) was the New Orleanian folk saint of runaway slaves. Mother Leafy Anderson – founder of the Spiritual Church Movement in New Orleans – introduced worship of the Native American Saint Black Hawk (see: Kodi A. Roberts (2015) Voodoo and Power: The Politics of Religion in New Orleans, 1881–1940). My understanding is that “Dr. John” (Jean Montaigne) was also deified, in a similar manner to St. Black Hawk. Orisha, such as Shango and Oya, may too have been worshiped. Other deities are listed here and here.

Baron Samedi is conspicuously absent. I think this has to do with the history of Haitian Vodou. Prior to the Haitian Revolution, Haitian Vodou was less of an organized religion, described as a "widely-scattered series of local cults" (see: The Social History of Haitian Vodou, p. 134). It was between the years 1804 and 1860 that Haitian Vodou began to stabilize into a clear predecessor of its present form. (see: The Social History of Haitian Vodou, p. 139) This period of stabilization took place after the migration wave of the early 19th century, which could explain why key features of Haitian Vodou are missing from 19th century New Orleans. For example, I have yet to find evidence that division of the Petwo and Rada lwa made it over to American soil. The refraction of Dahomean Legba might have never been transmitted by Haitian refugees, which would explain the absence of Met Kalfou and the Gede/Bawons from worship.

This too explains why the Papa Legba of American history was both Doorkeeper AND Guardian of the Crossroads. It has been theorized that the legendary “Devil at the Crossroads” was actually Met Kalfou. However, this “Devil” does not match the appearance of Kalfou, described as "no ancient, feeble man...huge and straight and vigorous, a man in the prime of his life." Instead, the one at “the Crossroads” appears as a limping old man who loves music and dogs (“Hellhound on my Trail”). It’s Papa Legba!

Rather than Kalfou, I think American Papa Legba actually inherits his more menacing attributes from Eshu. This would explain why he walks with a limp (like Eshu), is notoriously vengeful (like Eshu), and is sometimes described as androgynous (like Eshu!).

In any case, the Papa Legba of American history can be clearly traced back to Haiti. His appearance as a limping old man is inherited from Haitian Papa Legba; his love of dogs and music from Dahomean Legba. 19th century sources clearly identify him with Saint Peter (“St. Peter, St. Peter, open the door;”) The same cannot be said for Baron Samedi. He was probably not syncretized with St. Expedite, because St. Expedite “did not achieve popularity until the late 1800s or early 1900s in New Orleans” – long after the Haitian migration wave.

I have found one compelling source that places worship of Baron Samedi in 19th century New Orleans. Creole author Denise Alvarado is something of an expert on this topic, her being born and raised in New Orleans. In Witch Queens, Voodoo Spirits, and Hoodoo Saints: A Guide to Magical New Orleans (2022), Denise Alvarado identifies a “Spirit of Death” with Baron Samedi / Papa Gede. The most convincing piece of evidence comes from the second interview, in which the interviewee describes a ceremony where attendees donned purple robes. The color purple has been historically associated with Papa Gede (by extension, Baron Samedi).

That being said, I do think the evidence Alvarado provides is tenuous. Without additional context, it’s difficult to say whether the purple robes are truly linked to the Haitian lwa. The other newspaper article sounds rather sensationalized. The 19th century saw horrendous news coverage of New Orleans Voodoo, where reporters would exaggerate or straight-up fabricate details to demonize Vodouisants. The reporter’s description of the spirits of death does not align with the Haitian Gede or Bawons. It is important to remember that New Orleans Voodoo is not entirely Haitian in origin. Several other traditional African spiritualities are woven into New Orleans Voodoo. Prior to the Haitian migration wave of the early 19th century, one of the main influences was Kongo spirituality, in which ancestor veneration is central. Additionally, the newspaper cited is from the year 1890 – years after Marie Laveau’s death. The reliability of this article is therefore questionable. I think this could be a Damballah / “Grand Zombi” situation, where this “Spirit of Death” bears superficial resemblance to the lwa but isn’t actually him. It is also possible that he is simply a fabrication by journalists.

The defamation of Vodou continued into the early 20th century, as Haiti was occupied by the U.S. between the years 1915 and 1934. I don’t see how worship of the Gede/Bawons could have been transmitted to New Orleans between the end of the Haitian migration wave and year 1934. There’s a good chance that Baron Samedi / Papa Gede only properly became features of New Orleans Vodou during the revitalization movement of the late 20th century.

As such, I propose two hypotheses:

Baron Samedi was not properly worshiped in New Orleans until the late 20th century. He quickly rose in popularity, as he was easily grafted onto the pre-existing worship of the spirits of the dead (ancestors).

Alvarado has correctly identified Baron Samedi / Papa Gede with the “Spirit of Death”; however, this “Spirit of Death” was a radical departure from his Haitian predecessor, taking on a markedly different form from the lwa.

But that’s all just a Theory… A GAME THEORY!!!

…Anyways, annotated bib:

Marshall, Emily Zobel. American Trickster: Trauma, Tradition and Brer Rabbit. Rowman & Littlefield, 2019.

Chapter 1 ("African Trickster in the Americas") describes Dahomean Legba’s origins in the Yoruba deity Eshu.

Cosentino, Donald. "Who is that fellow in the many-colored cap? Transformations of Eshu in old and new world mythologies." Journal of American Folklore (1987): 261-275. https://www.jstor.org/stable/540323.

From the abstract: “Myths of Eshu Elegba, the trickster deity of the Yoruba of Nigeria, have been borrowed by the Fon of Dahomey and later transported to Haiti, where they were personified by the Vodoun in the loa Papa Legba. In turn, this loa was refracted into the corollary figures of Carrefour and Ghede.” Accessed here: https://www.centroafrobogota.com/attachments/article/24/17106647-Ellegua-Eshu-New-World-Old-World.pdf

Haitian immigration : Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. The African American Migration Experience. https://www.inmotionaame.org/print.cfm@migration=5.htm

Describes post-Haitian Revolution migration wave like so: “the number of immigrants [from Haiti to New Orleans] skyrocketed between May 1809 and June 1810… The 1809 migration brought 2,731 whites, 3,102 free persons of African descent, and 3,226 enslaved refugees to the city, doubling its population.”

Fandrich, Ina J. “Yorùbá Influences on Haitian Vodou and New Orleans Voodoo.” Journal of Black Studies, vol. 37, no. 5, 2007, pp. 775–91. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/40034365. Accessed 23 June 2024.

Mentions worship of Ogou Feray as “Joe Ferrai”.

Long, Carolyn Morrow. A New Orleans voudou priestess: The legend and reality of Marie Laveau. University Press of Florida, 2007, p. 247: https://books.google.com/books?id=_XzSEAAAQBAJ&pg=PT247#v=onepage&q&f=false

Mentions worship of Ayizan Velekete as (the male) “Vériquité”.

Anderson, Jeffrey E. Hoodoo, voodoo, and conjure: A handbook. Bloomsbury Publishing USA, 2008, p. 15: https://books.google.com/books?id=TH7DEAAAQBAJ&pg=PA15&lpg=PA15#v=onepage&q&f=false

Relevant quote: "Blanc Dani, Papa Lébat, and Assonquer make the most frequent appearances in both nineteenth- and twentieth-century sources. The first two, in particular, figure prominently in large-scale rituals."

Humpálová, Denisa. "Voodoo in Louisiana." (2012). https://dspace5.zcu.cz/bitstream/11025/5338/1/BP%20Denisa%20Humpalova%202012.pdf

One of several sources that identifies “Grand Zombi” with Nzambi Mpungu.

Posits that “Grand Zombi” could be derived from Nzambi Mpungu, or "may be the invention of journalists inspired by "zombie tales" of Haiti's infamous living dead, combined with Moreau de Saint-Méry’s endlessly repeated description of a snake-worshiping ceremony in colonial Saint Domingue."

Anderson, Jeffrey E. Voodoo: An African American Religion. LSU Press, 2024, p. 46: https://www.google.com/books/edition/Voodoo/O-v3EAAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=%22assonquer%22+%22azewe%22+vodou&pg=PA46&printsec=frontcover

Describes several possible origins for the elusive “Onzancaire”, including a theory that he was a deity related to Ogou Feray.

Long, Carolyn Morrow. A New Orleans voudou priestess: The legend and reality of Marie Laveau. University Press of Florida, 2007, p. 236: https://books.google.com/books?id=_XzSEAAAQBAJ&pg=PT236#v=onepage&q&f=false

One of several sources to describe St. Marron (Jean St. Malo).

Roberts, Kodi A. Voodoo and Power: The Politics of Religion in New Orleans, 1881-1940. LSU Press, 2015, p. 82: https://books.google.com/books?id=EWOkCgAAQBAJ&pg=PT82&lpg=PT82

Describes how Mother Leafy Anderson (founder of the Spiritual Church Movement) “found” St. Black Hawk, introducing him to New Orleans Voodoo.

Alvarado, Denise. Witch Queens, Voodoo Spirits, and Hoodoo Saints: A Guide to Magical New Orleans. Weiser Books, 2022, p. 39: https://books.google.com/books?id=ktlWEAAAQBAJ&pg=PA39&lpg=PA39#v=onepage&q&f=false

Posits that high priestess Betsy Toledano worshiped the Orisha Shango and Oya during the 19th century.

Anderson, Jeffrey E. Hoodoo, voodoo, and conjure: A handbook. Bloomsbury Publishing USA, 2008, p. 15: https://books.google.com/books?id=TH7DEAAAQBAJ&pg=PA15&lpg=PA15#v=onepage&q&f=false

List of deities worshiped in 19th century New Orleans Voodoo.

Alvarado, Denise. Witch Queens, Voodoo Spirits, and Hoodoo Saints: A Guide to Magical New Orleans. Weiser Books, 2022, p. 126: https://www.google.com/books/edition/Witch_Queens_Voodoo_Spirits_and_Hoodoo_S/ktlWEAAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&pg=PA126

Another list of deities worshiped in 19th century New Orleans Voodoo.

Mintz, Sidney & Trouillot, Michel-Rolph (1995) “The social history of Haitian Vodou” in Cosentino, Donald J., ed., Sacred Arts of Vodou, Chapter 4. LA: UCLA Fowler Museum, 123-47. P. 134: https://ghettobiennale.org/files/Trouillot_Mintz_LOW.pdf

Describes Haitian Vodou as a "widely-scattered series of local cults" prior to the Haitian Revolution.

Mintz, Sidney & Trouillot, Michel-Rolph (1995) “The social history of Haitian Vodou” in Cosentino, Donald J., ed., Sacred Arts of Vodou, Chapter 4. LA: UCLA Fowler Museum, 123-47. P. 139: https://ghettobiennale.org/files/Trouillot_Mintz_LOW.pdf

Describes the stabilization of Haitian Vodou into a predecessor of its current form. This occurred between the years following the Haitian Revolution and year 1860.

Deren, Maya. Divine Horsemen : The Living Gods of Haiti. New Paltz, NY: McPherson, 1983 (originally published in 1953), p. 101: https://archive.org/details/divinehorsemenli00dere/page/100/mode/2up

Description of Kalfou (Carrefour) as "no ancient, feeble man...huge and straight and vigorous, a man in the prime of his life."

Marvin, Thomas F. “Children of Legba: Musicians at the Crossroads in Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.” American Literature, vol. 68, no. 3, 1996, pp. 587–608. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/2928245. Accessed 23 June 2024.

Description of “The Devil at the Crossroads” as a musical genius and “limping old black man”: “Most versions of this story instruct the aspiring musician to bring his instrument to a lonely crossroads at midnight and await the arrival of a limping old black man who will tune the instrument, play it briefly, and then return it endowed with supernatural power."

Robert Johnson’s song “Hellhound on My Trail” identifies “The Devil at the Crossroads” with Papa Legba, who is associated with dogs.

Long, Carolyn Morrow. A New Orleans voudou priestess: The legend and reality of Marie Laveau. University Press of Florida, 2007, p. 244: https://books.google.com/books?id=_XzSEAAAQBAJ&pg=PT244&lpg=PT244#v=onepage&q&f=false

Relevant quote: "Mary Washington, born in 1863, said she was trained in the arts of Voudou by Marie Laveau. She remembered a song that was sung at the weekly ceremonies: "St. Peter, St. Peter open the door; I am callin' you, come to me; St. Peter, St. Peter open the door." Mrs. Washington explained that "St. Peter was called La Bas, St. Michael was Daniel Blanc, and Yon Sue was St. Anthony." She also mentioned a spirit called Onzancaire."

Alvarado, Denise. The Magic of Marie Laveau: Embracing the Spiritual Legacy of the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. Weiser Books, 2020, p. 57: https://books.google.com/books?id=SZOMDwAAQBAJ&pg=PA57&lpg=PA57#v=onepage&q&f=false

Relevant quote: “Baron Samedi remains a popular and powerful force in New Orleans Voudou today, along with his wife Manman Brigit. He is syncretized with St. Expedite, among the most popular of saints in New Orleans. We do not hear of St. Expedite in association with Marie Laveau, however, because he did not achieve popularity until the late 1800s or early 1900s in New Orleans (Alvarado 2014).”

Alvarado, Denise. Witch Queens, Voodoo Spirits, and Hoodoo Saints: A Guide to Magical New Orleans. Weiser Books, 2022, pp. 127-128: https://books.google.com/books?id=GsofEAAAQBAJ&pg=PA127&lpg=PA127#v=onepage&q&f=false

This is the strongest evidence I could find that Baron Samedi / Papa Gede was worshiped in 19th - early 20th Century New Orleans.

Deren, Maya. Divine Horsemen : The Living Gods of Haiti. New Paltz, NY: McPherson, 1983 (originally published in 1953), p. 107: https://archive.org/details/dli.ernet.505921/page/107/mode/2up?q=purple

Historical evidence that, since at least the 1930s, Papa Gede’s colors are “black or purple”. To this day, purple is associated with Baron Samedi and the Gede as a whole.

Long, Carolyn Morrow. A New Orleans voudou priestess: The legend and reality of Marie Laveau. University Press of Florida, 2007, p. 250: https://books.google.com/books?id=_XzSEAAAQBAJ&pg=PT250&lpg=PT250

Relevant quote: “The religion that evolved in nineteenth-century New Orleans and was embraced by Marie Laveau and her Voudou society combined traditions introduced by the first Senegambian, Fon, Yoruba, and Kongo slaves with Haitian Vodou, European magic, and folk Catholicism. It also absorbed the beliefs of blacks imported from Maryland, Virginia, and the Carolinas during the slave trade of the 1830s–1850s. These “American Negroes” were English-speaking, at least nominally Protestant, and practiced a heavily Kongo-influenced kind of hoodoo, conjure, or rootwork. New Orleans Voudou is therefore not identical to Haitian Vodou, but represents a unique North American blend of African and European religious and magical Traditions.”

Describes major Senegambian and Kongo influences on New Orleans Voodoo, prior to the Haitian Revolution. Relevant quote: “New Orleans's African population was Kongo dominated with a strong affinity with the spirits of the dead…Dahomeyan influence occurred only indirectly through the Haitian refugees who "flooded" the city after 1808. In 1809 alone, more than 10,000 Haitians arrived, and doubled the city's population. They brought their Vodou religion with them, which ultimately merged with the already existing New Orleans or Louisiana Voodoo traditions. During the French colonial regime, 80% of the enslaved Africans came from one single ethnic group: the Bamana (also called Bambara) people from the Senegal River basin (today's Senegal, Gambia, and Mali), most of them stemming from one single ethnic group, the Bambara people. The majority of the remaining 20% were Kongolese and some Dahomeyans (Hall, 1992). Despite their rather different geographical origins, these two cultures blend easily into one another. Eighteenth-century Louisiana Voodoo maintained a marked Senegambian flavor, with some Kongolese elements blended in, until the end of the 18th century.”

Dubois, Laurent. “Vodou and History.” Comparative Studies in Society and History, vol. 43, no. 1, 2001, pp. 92–100. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/2696623. Accessed 23 June 2024.

An overview of the history of Haitian Vodou, as it pertains to U.S. history. Demonization of Vodou continued past the U.S. occupation of Haiti, until the late 20th century.

#commentary #the loa (hazbin hotel)#baron samedi (hazbin hotel)#big papa legba #in death and in talent robbie d. johnson is truly the gift that keeps on giving!

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mysteriouslover1516 · 2 years ago

Text

Loki Laufeyson (Part 1)

(X-reader story based on Tom Hiddleston's portrayal of this beloved villain. [ character name is chosen, but the pronoun you is used]. This kinda follows the attack on NY, but there’s some differences, for example Thor knows that Loki is still alive before this takes place. Also, Clint and Natasha form a couple in this story. Not all of the movies will be mentioned fully in this version, some may be hinted at, but not a lot of time will be spent on them.)

“Loki, you can’t keep bringing me back,” You whisper as your eyes glisten with tears.

“Bridget, I can’t just forget you. I have to see your face, hear your voice, I need you.” Loki pleads.

“I”m not worthy enough for you,” You look at your feet. “I’m only human.”

“You may be mortal, dearest, but you have captured my heart.” Loki gently lifts your chin up so your eyes meet his green ones.

Queen Frigga, Loki’s mother, rushes into the garden of the royal palace. “Loki, you must return her to her homeland, if your father finds out he will be very angry. He is coming!”

Loki quickly makes a portal and throws it at you. “Goodbye, my dearest. I will visit you soon.” He says quietly as the portal envelopes you and everything goes black.

You wake up and start to cry into your pillow, it was the same dream, the same memory. The last time you had seen him was five months ago, no word, no sign that he even cared about you anymore.

You glance at your clock on the nightstand, it was two in the morning. You swing your legs over the side of your bed and wipe your nose with the sleeve of your shirt. You get out of bed and head over to the small kitchen of your apartment and get a drink of water. You place your hands on the sink counter and lean on it, taking deep breaths. You walk back to your bed and bury your head into your pillow, pulling the covers up over your waist. Part of you wished that just then Loki would teleport into your apartment and reassure you that he still loved you and cared for you, to tell you not to cry and that he’d hold you tight. The other part doubted that it would ever come true, he seemed to have vanished from your life, except for all the memories you held.

How had you fallen in love with Loki Laufeyson, the prince of Asgard? How had you captured HIS heart likewise? It happened when he was banished to earth for a year due to his disobedience to his father, Odin, the king of Asgard, and that was four years ago. You smile as you recall your first meeting with the god of mischief.

“Bridget, there is someone at the register.” Your coworker, Maggie said when you heard the bell ring for the counter. “I would get it, but I am sorta in a sticky situation.”

You glanced over to see Maggie with pink frosting all over her hands.

“Piping bag burst,” Maggie explained as she saw your look.

You started laughing and wiped your hands on your apron, then headed out to the front room of the bakery. “How may I help you, sir?” You asked the man who was standing in front of the counter, looking at the display case of pastries.

He had green eyes and shoulder-length black hair. Over his green shirt and dark pants he wore a black, lower-than-waist coat and a gray scarf.

The man stared at you for a few seconds then caught himself, “Um, what do you suggest?” His accent was British-like, but not quite all the way, the rest you couldn’t decipher.

“Well……” You drew the word out as you pondered what to suggest to this new customer. “The eclairs are superb.”

“What is an eclair?” The man asked.

You got one out from the display case and placed it in a napkin then handed it to the man. “This is an eclair.”

The man bites into the oblong, frosted, donut-like pastry filled with boston cream.

“Well?” You smiled.

“It is superb, as you say it is.” The man smirked and his eyes seemed to laugh.

“How many would you like?” You smiled.

“I will desire two, I think. Then I will naturally pay for the one I just consumed.” He said, wiping his fingers off with the napkin.

You smiled at this man, you liked the words he used, he didn’t use the normal words people did, he used unique and more creative words, like you.

“Well the one you just consumed was a freebie, you needed to know if your taste buds mingled with the flavor nicely.”

The man chuckled and said, “My taste buds danced for joy the moment they touched the sweet delicacy.”

You laughed, “I’m glad, I’m Bridget by the way.” You handed the bag to the man, surprised that you gave the man your name, voluntarily.

“Loki,” The man took the bag and your fingertips brushed. You felt a tingle but pushed it aside.

“Looks like you owe us, hmm, seven dollars and fifty-five cents.” You said.

Loki gave you a ten dollar bill, “Keep the change, dearest-”

“Dearest?” Your eyes widened.

“Sorry, um, keep the change, I am so sorry, um, farewell.” Loki fumbled and his face reddened.

“Come back soon, Loki. It’s nice to see a new face,” You smiled, quickly recovering from your shock.

Loki grinned and walked out into the street and you headed towards the backroom.

“Bridget, you okay?” Maggie asked.

“Hmmm, what do you mean?” You asked, smiling.

“You are pink like a rose,” Maggie giggled, “Dearest….”

You laughed as Maggie said the word ‘dearest’, “How much did you hear?” “Every. single . Word.” Maggie emphasized the three words.

You smile at the memory, but it only made you miss him even more and your heart feels like it would now break. Your body shakes as you sob, but you eventually get yourself back together. You take a deep breath and soon your eyes involuntarily close, due to all the crying you have done. As you drift off to sleep, you dream a pleasant dream, a new and reassuring one.

"I still love you, my dearest. I'm so sorry I haven't been able to visit you sooner, and I'm even more sorry that you won't realize the truth. I love you so much, Bridget. Don't cry, darling, my heart belongs to you. I love you more than you could ever imagine, don't ever doubt that." Loki's gentle voice comes to you and you feel the covers being pulled up to your shoulders.

You sigh contentedly, and you feel something, rather someone, gently brush your hair out of your face and kiss your nose.

"Farewell, dearest. I love you so much." Loki says quietly, then your dream is filled with darkness.

You wake up in the morning, covers now over your shoulders. You remember the dream you had, and it makes you smile. The peace in that dream was so real, if only it was reality and not the subconscious wishes of your mind.

You look at the ring on your left ring finger, it was a gift from Loki. The ring was a silver band with a single star in the middle.

Loki had given it to you the night before he left back to Asgard, his banishment over. He wanted to stay, but he knew he had to return to his home and make things right. That was your last date with him, the last time you got to see him without feeling rushed or being scared that someone would catch him with you.

Odin had forbidden that Thor and Loki fall in love with mortals, mere humans. He knew about you, but he didn't know the extent of the relationship you and Loki shared.

The only person from Asgard who knew about you two, was Frigga. When Loki had teleported you to Asgard when his father was away for a while in another galaxy, you had met her. She immediately loved you and was pleased that you had captured her son's heart, she feared it was impossible. Whenever Loki managed to sneak you into Asgard, Frigga looked out for the both of you, preventing Odin from finding out.

The last time you had been on that planet, you were almost caught. It was the last time you had seen Loki, it was the memory that haunted you in your dreams, like last night.

You sigh and get up from your bed, it was your day off and you had promised to spend the day with your cousin, Natasha Romanoff, otherwise known as the Black Widow.

You quickly get dressed in some shorts and a casual shirt and slip your sandals on. Then you brush your hair back and put it in a messy bun, letting some strands fall and frame your face.

On your way out the door you grab a granola bar and a banana for your breakfast of champions. You lock your door behind you and head over to the staircase on the left hand side so you can descend the five flights.

Once you get outside you sprint over to your car, as you near it you smirk at the dent on your front fender. It wasn't terribly big, but it was still a dent, and guess who caused it? Yep, Loki did, it was partly your mistake, but it was still funny now that you thought of it.

You get into your car and start the engine, a few minutes later you are on your way to Stark Tower where you are supposed to pick Natasha up at.

As you drive along you let your mind wander and your thoughts travel to that day that you had trusted Loki to drive.

"Bridget, I don't think this is the brightest idea you've ever had. What happens if I crash and cause damage?" Loki said, hesitantly.

You chuckled as you tossed the keys to Loki, "Come on, don't be a chicken. See? It's an empty parking lot, you won't hit any cars or anything, as long as you don't drive up on the curb." You smirked. You had driven out to the old airport parking lot, the airport had relocated, but it still was an empty driving lot and perfect for a drivers lesson.

Loki sighed, "You're not gonna give up, are you?"

"Nope, I'm a good teacher. Come on! It'll be fun!" With that you slid into the passenger side of your car.

Loki stood outside the door for a few seconds, then finally got in and paused.

"Put the key in the slot," you laughed as Loki held the key in his hand and remained frozen.

He did so and after your instructions he managed to turn the engine on.

"Good, now all you have to do is put the car into driving gear and off we go!" You said, excitedly. "Oh, but put your seatbelt on, just in case….."

Loki noted your voice trail off and he smirked, "Just in case I what, dearest?"

You smiled sweetly at him, "Just in case you crash, you don't want to fly through the windshield do you?"

At that picture Loki's eyes widened and you could see him pale. "Yes, you are quite right." He said as he buckled himself up.

"So the pedal in the middle is the brake, the gas is the small one on the right." You told him, "Now put your foot on the brake and then switch into the driving gear."

Loki did, very slowly, but he obeyed and you smiled.

"Swell, Loki, very swell. Now, gently ease your foot off the brake and push on the gas pedal just a tad bit."

"With what foot?" Loki asked, confused.

You looked at him weirdly, "With the right one, of course."

"But which one is the right one?!" Loki said flustered.

You giggled, "Loki, I meant with your right foot. Not right like in correct."

"Oh," Loki reddened and pressed on the gas pedal a bit too hard.

You let out a small scream and this time Loki laughed. "Scared, darling?"

You glared at him but couldn't help but smirk, "Don't get all cocky, now. You are doing quite well though."

Then you finally caught on after ten minutes, "Loki, are you using your holograms?"

Loki chuckled, "Is that a problem?"

"Loki Laufeyson! I'm trying to teach you how to drive! You should be grateful instead of giving me so much trouble!" You playfully said. "No more illusions."

"As you wish, dearest." Loki sighed and stopped using his magic.

The car was right where it had been when Loki started the engine.

"You little punk," You smirked. "How did you do the illusion of slamming on the gas?"

"It was easy, but I never tell my secrets," Loki winked and you blushed.

"Fine, but I want you to drive for reals this time."

"Now, Bridget, I don't think you should-"

You cut Loki off, "Do it!"

Loki sighed, "Anything for you." Then he put his foot on the gas and shot forward.

You let out a squeal and rolled down your window so the breeze fanned your face.

“You are certainly odd,” Loki commented as he drove along, surprisingly well.

You made a face at him then spotted something on the side of the road. “Loki, pull over!”

“Why?”

“Do it!” You said and as soon as he stopped you jumped out and walked over to the rabbit.

“It’s going to run away,” Loki crossed his arms as he followed behind you.

“Can’t you control it with your powers?” You ask.

“Not my area.” Loki smirked, “Midgardians are certainly interesting.”

The rabbit glanced at you nervously then hopped away.

“You made me pull over for a rabbit?” Loki says unimpressed.

You heard a rumbling noise behind you and a crash, you turned around to see your car plowed into a tree. “Loki! You didn’t put the car in park?!”

Loki’s face grew red and he stuttered “I’m terribly sorry, I-”

"It's fine," You soothed him, "Come on, let's see how the car is."

You ran over and looked at the front fender. "Hmm, not bad, but that's still a dent for sure."

Loki comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, "I'm so sorry, dearest. You should have known better though."

You chuckled and gave him a peck on the cheek, "I did know better, but I chose to have faith in you. You didn't do that bad, but I think that the driving lesson is over for the day."

Loki sighed in relief and kissed you, "Thank you."

You wake up from your memories when you hear a car honk at you.

"Sorry," you say to the car behind you as you go through the green light.

As you pull up to the front entrance of Stark Tower and are waiting for Natasha, you mess with the music in your car.

You jump as you hear a knock on your window and you look up to see the smiling face of a familiar friend.

You get out of your car and say, “Phil Coulson! How have you been?”

“Reasonably well, Bridget. How about you?” A tall man wearing a gray suit and with short dark hair answers as he envelopes you in a hug.

“Could be better, but I’m not complaining. How is the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division treating you?” You ask and smile at how many times you had told Phil that the name needed to be shortened.

“It’s just S.H.I.E.L.D now,” Phil chuckles.

“Thank goodness,” You laugh.

Phil smirks, “I know you knew that by now, Bridget.”

"Been spying on me, have you?" You tease.

Phil straightens his tie, "Don't play with me now, I've read your files."

You blush even though you know he's joking, "And what did you find?"

"You're still single," Phil smiles.

Your mouth drops open and you blush even more.

Phil and you had known each other since you were both fifteen. And it was no secret he constantly flirted with you and had asked you to date him numerous times, but every time you had said no. You thought he would have found someone else by now, but you were apparently wrong.

"Phil, please, don't." You give him a small smile, "I've told you, we're just friends."

Phil smirks, "I haven't lost hope though, Bridget. I still think one day you could be mine." He winks.

"About time you showed up!" Natasha says as she walks over to you, cutting the conversation short much to your relief.

"Hey, Nat." You smile as you give your cousin a hug.

Surprisingly, Natasha hugs you back, she had a reputation for being tough, but she still was friendly when off duty. "Ready to go?" She asks and looks at Phil who had been smiling this whole time.

"Well, goodbye Bridget." Phil says, gives you one last hug and walks off.

"What was that about?" Natasha asks and raises an eyebrow.

You groan, "Don't ask."

Natasha chuckles and plays with the strings on her black hoodie that compliments her black jeans and black tennis shoes.

"You look a little dark," you joke at her outfit, the only thing that really gives it contrast is her short, bright red hair.

"I'm always dark," Nat shrugs and then says, "I'm dying for a coffee, how about you?"

"Sure," you smile and both of you get back into your car.

"You still work at the bakery?" Natasha asks as she looks out the window.

"Yep, it's a good job and I enjoy it." You answer. "What's it like being a spy?"

"Tiring but rewarding." She says, "It's fun to sneak around and uncover things that criminals thought would never be discovered."

"I get that," you nod and keep driving to the nearest coffee shop.

"Was he hitting on you?" Nat asks suddenly.

Your eyes remain on the road, but your cheeks flush red. "Natasha! I said don't ask!"

Nat chuckles, "I'll take that as a yes, then. Why don't you date him? Phil is nice, brave, he-"

"I know his good qualities, Nat," you cut her off. "I just, I don't like him that way."

"So you really don't like anyone?" Natasha presses.

You hesitate, "I didn't say that."

"Who is he?!" She asks way too eagerly.

You laugh, "Not telling."

"What's he like?" Natasha begs.

"Mysterious, charming, mischievous, but mainly just mysterious." You say.

Natasha frowns and crosses her arms when she gets the message you're not going to reveal anymore.

"What about you? Too busy to date?" You ask playfully.

Natasha smirks, "Nah, never too busy to flirt at least."

You shake your head, "That's mean just to lead people along like that."

Nat shrugs, "What if I'm not?"

"It better only be one guy," you answer and she doesn't say anything else on that subject.

After you two get your coffee you decide to walk around central park and enjoy the weather.

You roll your head back in laughter and when you look up your breath catches in your throat as a pair of green eyes capture yours.

"Bridget?" Natasha asks curiously.

You mumble something unintelligent to her and then walk to the person quickly, wondering if it was just a dream or wishful thinking.

"Loki?" You whisper and nearly burst into tears as you realize that he is really there in front of you.

The prince wraps you in a hug and holds you tight, "Hello, dearest."

"It's been too long," you sniffle but are filled with joy.

"I know, and I'm sorry for that, I really am, darling." Loki steps back as Natasha approaches.

"Who is this?" Nat asks suspiciously, eyebrow raised.

"This is Loki Laufeyson." You introduce him to her while he looks slightly uncomfortable.

"Like the norse god?" Natasha asks.

"Kinda," you manage to say with a straight face, if only she knew that he was the norse god.

Loki clears his throat nervously and you hold his hand to reassure him that everything is okay.

"Well, I'll give you two a minute to catch up." Natasha says, getting the hint that you want to be alone with Loki for a moment. She then walks on ahead down the path and doesn't look back.

"Where have you been?" You ask quietly and throw your arms back around Loki's neck.

"I've been away," Loki whispers. "I visited you last night, I wanted to keep you in the dark and let you think it was just a dream, but I couldn't."

You nod, "I heard you so clearly, I was half hoping it wasn't a dream. I'm so glad it was real!"

Loki sighs, "Dearest, I can only stay for a little while, minutes at the most."

"Why?" You ask, devastated.

"I wish I could tell you, Bridget." He hugs you tighter. "I'll explain it all later, just, no matter what happens, never forget that I love you."

You pull back slightly nerved by the desperation in his voice, “Loki, what’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?”

Loki kisses your forehead and then creates a portal, “I’m so sorry, dearest, I’m so, so sorry.” He then disappears before you can say another word.

You stand there shocked and as the realization hits you that he left so soon, makes you start to sob.

Natasha comes running back to you as she sees you wipe your eyes, “What’s the matter, Bridget? Where’d he go?”

You shake your head and try to look brave, “He had to go, I’m okay.”

Natasha could tell you weren’t okay, but she let it slide. “He seems mysterious.” She finally says.

“He is,” you smile, “he’s the one I was telling you about.”

“Interesting,” she furrows her eyebrows. “How’d he leave so quickly?”

“I’ll explain it to you later,” you say sadly. “Want to go back to my apartment?”

Natasha looks at her phone and groans, “I wish I could, Bridget, but I should probably head back to the Tower.

“Ok,” you say, slightly looking forward to being alone in your thoughts. “Want me to drive you back?”

Nat shakes her head, “I’ll take a cab. Thanks for allowing me to hang out with you,” she smiles and gives you a quick hug.

“Let’s do it more often,” you grin and wave as she walks down the path.

You decide to stay in the park a bit longer and you find an isolated park bench and settle down. You look up at the lake and the breeze blows your hair around. You sigh and make a decision, you’d be brave and remember that Loki loved you. You wouldn’t fret so much about him and you would become resolved to wait patiently for your lover.

Hey lovelies ;) I started this story a few years ago, I hope some of you can appreciate it still, lol. Depending on how many reviews and likes I get, I might post more in this series. Thank you for giving me a chance!

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rjalker · 2 years ago

Text

The Terror of Air-Level Six, By Harl Vincent.

Originally published in the July edition of Astounding Stories of Super-Science, which can be read and downloaded here for free on Project Gutenberg.

This story is public domain, meaning the plot, characters, and title belong to everyone and no one. Do whatever you want with it.

= = =

It was a sweltering evening in mid-August, during that unprecedented heat wave which broke Weather Bureau records in 2011. New York City had simmered under a blazing sun for more than three weeks, and all who were able had deserted the city for spots of lesser torridity. But I was one of those unfortunates who could not leave on account of the pressing urgency of business matters and, there being nothing else to do, kept doggedly at my work until it seemed that nerves and body must soon give way under the strain. To-night, as I boarded the pneumatic tube, I dropped into the nearest seat and could not even summon the energy to open my newspaper.

For some minutes I sat as in a daze, wishing merely that the journey was over, and that I was on my own front porch out in Rutherford. After awhile I stirred and looked around. Seeing none of my acquaintances in the car, I finally opened the newspaper and was considerably startled by the screaming headlines that confronted me from its usually conservative first page:[Pg 60]

Second Coast Transport Plane Lost! Disaster Like First in Air-Level Six!

No wonder the newsboys had been crying an extra on Broadway! I had given no heed to the import of their shoutings, but this was real news and well worthy of an extra edition. Since the mysterious loss of the SP-61, only four days previously, the facilities of the several air transportation systems were seriously handicapped on account of the shaken confidence of the general public. It was not surprising that there was widespread reluctance at trusting human lives and valuable merchandise to the mercies of the inexplicable power which had apparently wiped out of existence the SP-61, together with its twenty-eight passengers and the consignment of one-half million dollars in gold. And now the NY-18 had gone the way of the other!

Details were meager. Both ships had failed to reply to the regular ten-minute radio calls from headquarters and had not since been seen or heard from. In both cases the last call had been answered when the ship was proceeding at full speed on its regular course in air-level six. The SF-61 last reported from a position over Mora in New Mexico, and four days of intensive search by thousands of planes had failed to locate ship or passengers. To-day, in the early hours of the morning, the NY-18 reported over Colorado Springs, on the northern route, and then, like the SF-61, dropped out of existence insofar as any attempts at communicating with or locating her were concerned. She, too, carried a heavy consignment of specie, though only eleven passengers had risked the westward journey.

Someone had dropped into a seat at my side, and I looked up from my reading to meet the solemn eyes of Hartley Jones, a young friend whom I had not seen for several months.

"Why, hello, Hart," I greeted him. "Glad to see you, old man. Where in Sam Hill have you been keeping yourself?"

"Glad to see you, too, Jack," he returned warmly. "Been spending most of my time out at the hangar."

"Oh, that's right. You fellows built a new one at Newark Airport, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Got a great outfit there now, too. Why don't you drop around and see us one of these days?"

"I will, Hart, and I want you to take me up some time. You know I have never been in one of these new ships of yours. But what do you think of this mess?" I pointed to the black headlines.

He grinned joyously and flipped back the lapel of his coat, displaying a nickeled badge. "George and I are starting out to-night to look around a little," he gloated. "Just been appointed deputy air commissioners; and we got a couple of guns on our newest plane. Air Traffic Bureau thinks there's dirty work afoot. Twelve-motored planes don't disappear without leaving a trace. Anyhow, we've got a job, and we're going to try and find out what's wrong. How'd you like to come along?"

"What?" I replied. "You know darn well I'm too busy. Besides, I'd be no good to you. Just extra load, and not pay load at that. And then, I'm broke—as usual."

Hartley Jones grinned in his engaging way. "You'd be good company," he parried; "and, what's more, I think the trip would do you a lot of good. You look all shot to pieces."

"Forget it," I laughed. "It's just the heat. And I'll have to leave you here, Hart. Drop in and see us, will you? The wife was asking for you only yesterday."

"Jack, dear," my wife greeted me at the door of my modest suburban home, "Mr. Preston just called, and he wants you to call him right back."[Pg 61]

"Oh, Lord," I groaned, "can't I forget the office for one evening?" Preston was manager of the concern for which I worked.

Nevertheless, though our two fine youngsters were clamoring for their dinner, I made the telephone call at once.

"Makely," came the voice of the boss, when the connection was completed, "I want you to take the night plane for Frisco. Hate to ask you, but it must be done. Townley is sick and someone has to take those Canadian Ex. bonds out to Farnsworth. You're the only one to do it, and after you get there, you can start on that vacation you need. Take a month if you wish."

The thought of Hartley Jones' offer flashed through my mind. "But have you read of the loss of the NY-18?" I asked Preston.

"I have, Makely. There'll be another hundred a month in your check, too, to make up for the worry of your family. But the government is sending thirty Secret Service men along on the SF-22, which leaves to-night. In addition, there will be a convoy of seven fighting planes, so there is not likely to be a repetition of the previous disasters."

That hundred a month sounded mighty good, for expenses had been mounting rapidly of late. "All right, Mr. Preston," I agreed. "I will be at the airport before midnight. But how about the bonds?"

"I'll drive around after dinner and deliver them to you. And thanks for your willingness, Makely. You'll not be sorry."

My wife had listened intently and, from my words, she knew what to expect. Her face was a tragic mask when I replaced the receiver on its hook, and my heart sank at her expression.

Then there came the ring of the telephone and, for some reason, my pulse raced as I went to the hall to answer it. Hartley Jones' cheerful voice greeted me and he was positively gleeful when I told him of my projected trip.

"Hooray!" he shouted. "But you'll not take the SF-22. You'll take the trip with me as I wanted. I tell you what: You be out at Newark Airport at eleven-thirty, but come to my hangar instead of to that of the transportation company. We'll leave at the same time as the regular liner, and we'll get your old bonds to Frisco, regardless of what might happen to the big ship. Also we might learn something mighty interesting."

I argued with him, but to no avail. And the more I argued, the greater appeal was presented by his proposition. Finally there was nothing to do but agree.

Preston arrived with the bonds shortly after the children were tucked in their beds. I did not tell him of my change in plans. He did not stay long, and I could see that he was uncomfortable under the accusing eyes of Marie, for all his own confidence in the safety of the trip in the closely-guarded SF-22.

At precisely eleven-thirty I reached the great steel and glass hangar where Hart Jones and George Boehm carried on their experiments with super-modern types of aircraft. Hart Jones had inherited more than two million dollars, and was in a fair way to spend it all on his favorite hobby, though those who knew him best vowed that he would make many times that amount through royalties on his ever-growing number of valuable inventions.

The immense doors were open, and I gazed for the first time into the hangar whose spacious interior provided storage and manufacturing facilities for a dozen or more planes of Hart Jones' design. A curiously constructed example of his handiwork stood directly before me, and several mechanics were engaged in making it ready for flight. My friend advanced from their midst to meet me, a broad smile on his grease smeared countenance.[Pg 62]

"Greetings, Jack," he said, taking my small bag from my hands. "Right on time, I see. And I can't tell you how glad I am that you are coming with us. So is George."

"Well, I didn't expect to," I admitted; "but there is no need of telling you that I had far rather be in your ship than in the big one."

George Boehm, the same jolly chap I had several times met in Hart's company, but fatter than ever, crawled from beneath the shiny metal body of the plane and scrambled to his feet at my side.

"Going in for a bit of adventuring, Mr. Makely?" he asked, wiping his hand with a piece of cotton waste before extending it.

"Yes," I replied, as I squeezed his chubby fingers. "Can't stick in the mud all my life, George. And I wouldn't want to be in better company for my first attempt either."

"Nor we," he returned, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Rather have a greenhorn on the Pioneer than some government agent, who'd be butting in and trying to run everything. Think you'll be scared?"

"Probably," I admitted; "but I guess I can stand it."

"Hear the latest news broadcast?" interrupted Hart Jones.

"No. What was it?" I asked.

"There has been a report from out near Cripple Creek," said Hart solemnly, "that a pillar of fire was observed in the mountains shortly after the time the NY-18 last reported. The time and the location coincide with her probable position and the report was confirmed by no less than three of the natives of that locality. Of course the statements are probably extravagant, but they claim this pillar of fire extended for miles into the heavens and was accompanied by a tremendous roaring sound that ceased abruptly as the light of the flame disappeared, leaving nothing but blackness and awe-inspiring silence behind."

"Lot of bunk!" grunted George, who was vigorously scrubbing the back of his neck.

"Sounds like a fairy tale," I commented.

"Nevertheless, there may be something in it. In fact, there must be. Three of these mountaineers observed practically the same phenomenon from quite widely separated points, though one of them said there were three pillars of fire and that these looked more like the beams of powerful search-lights. All agreed on the terrific roar. And, after all, these two liners did disappear. There must be something quite out of the ordinary about the way in which they were captured or destroyed, and this occurrence may well be supposed to have a bearing on the matter."

"Possibly they were destroyed by some freak electrical storm," I suggested.

"Where then are the wrecked vessels?" asked Hart. "No, Jack, electrical storms do not destroy huge air liners and then suck them out into space beyond our vision. These two ships are no longer on the surface of the earth, else they would have been long since located. The magnetic direction finders of the transportation people have covered every inch of the United States, as well as Mexico and Canada."

"Of course they might have been carried halfway around the world by a wind of unprecedented velocity." I commenced a silly argument in favor of the theory that the elements had accounted for the two vessels, but was interrupted by the mounting roar of great engines throbbing overhead.

"Hurry up there, George!" shouted Hart. "It's the SF-22 coming in. We have to be ready for the take-off in five minutes!"

He hastened to take George's place at the washbowl and all was activity within the confines of our hangar. George and I left the office and went out to the landing field, which[Pg 63] was now brilliant with the glare of floodlights. The Pioneer had been trundled into the open and stood ready for the flight. Not a hundred feet above the field, the huge silver moth that was the SF-22 swept by in a wide circle that would bring her into the wind. The roar of her engines died as she swung out of the circle of light into the surrounding darkness.

The crowds which had gathered to witness her landing buzzed with excited comment and speculation. Her nose brought slightly up, she dropped to a perfect three-point landing, the brakes screeching as she was brought to a standstill at the hangar of the transportation company.

"Come on now, you fellows," came the voice of Hart Jones from the hangar entrance, "there's no time to lose. The Pioneer takes off immediately after the big fellow."

We hurried to the waiting ship, which seemed like a tiny toy when compared with the giant SF-22. I had observed very little of the construction of the Pioneer, but I could now see that she was quite different in design from the ordinary plane. A monoplane she was, but the wing structure was abnormally short and of great thickness, and there were a number of tubes projecting from the leading edge that gave the appearance of a battery of small cannon. The body, like all planes designed for travel in air-level six, was cigar-shaped, and had hermetically sealed ports and entrance manholes. A cluster of the cannon-shaped tubes enclosed the tail just back of the fins and rudder and, behind the wing structure atop the curved upper surface of the body, there was a sphere of gleaming metal that was probably three feet in diameter.

Before I could formulate questions regarding the unusual features of the design, we were within the Pioneer's cabin and Hart Jones was engaged in clamping the entrance manhole cover to its rubber seat. A throbbing roar that penetrated our double hull attracted my attention and, looking through a nearby porthole, I saw that the convoy of army planes had taken off and was circling over the SF-22 in anticipation of her start. Trim, speedy fighting ships these were, with heavy caliber machine-guns in turrets fore and aft and normally manned by crews of twelve each. The under surfaces of their bodies glistened smooth and sleek in the light from the field, for the landing gears had been drawn within and the openings sealed by the close-fitted armor plate that protected these ordinarily vulnerable portions when in flight.

The SF-22 was ready to take off and the crowds were drawing back into the obscurity beyond the huge circle of blinding light. One after another her twelve engines sputtered into life, and ponderously she moved over the field, gathering speed as the staccato barking of the exhausts gradually blended into a smooth though deafening purr. The tail of the great vessel came up, then the wheels, and she was off into the night.

Hart Jones sat at a bewildering array of instruments that covered almost the entire forward partition of the cabin. He pressed a button and the starting motor whined for a moment. Then the single engine of the Pioneer coughed and roared. Slowly we taxied in the direction taken by the SF-22, whose lights were now vanishing in the darkness. I saw George open a valve on the wall and Hart stretched the fingers of his left hand to what appeared to be the keyboard of a typewriter set into the instrument board. He pressed several of the keys and pulled back his stick. There was a whistling scream from astern and I was thrown back in my seat with painful force. With that, the motor roared into full speed and we had left the airport far behind.

"What on earth?" I gasped.

"Rocket propulsion," laughed Hart.[Pg 64] "I should have warned you. Those tubes you saw outside at the tail and along the leading edge of the wings. Only used three of them, but that was sufficient for the take-off."

"But I thought this rocket business was not feasible on account of the wastage of fuel due to its low efficiency," I objected.

"We should worry about fuel," said Hart.

I looked about me and saw that there was very little space for the storage of this essential commodity. "Why?" I inquired. "What fuel do you use?"

"Make our own," he replied shortly. He was busy at the moment, maneuvering the Pioneer into a position above and behind the SF-22 and her convoy.

"You make your own fuel enroute?" I asked in astonishment.

"Yes. That sphere you saw on top. It is the collecting end of an electrical system for extracting nitrogen and other elements, from the air. This extraction goes on constantly while we are in the atmosphere and my fuel is an extremely powerful explosive of which nitrates are the base. The supply is replenished continuously, so we have no fear of running short even in the upper levels."

George had crawled through a small opening into some inaccessible region in the stern of the vessel. I pondered over what Hart had just told me, still keeping my eyes glued to the port, through which could be seen the fleet we were following. The altimeter registered thirty-five thousand feet. We were entering air-level six—the stratosphere! Below us the troposphere, divided into five levels, each of seven thousand feet, teemed with the life of the air. The regular lanes were filled with traffic, the lights of the speeding thousands of freight and pleasure craft moving in orderly procession along their prescribed routes.

Up here in the sixth level, which was entirely for high-speed traffic of commercial and government vessels making transcontinental or transoceanic voyages, we were the only adventurers in sight—we and the convoyed liner we were following. The speed indicator showed six hundred miles an hour, and the tiny spot of light that traveled over the chart to indicate our position showed that we were nearing Buffalo.

Glancing through one of the lower ports, I saw the lights of the city shining dimly through a light mist that fringed the shore of Lake Erie and extended northward along the Niagara. Then we were out over the lake, and the luminous hue was slipping rapidly behind. I looked ahead and saw that the distance to the SF-22 and her convoy had somewhat increased. We were a mile behind and some two thousand feet above them. Evidently Hart was figuring on keeping at a safe distance for observation of anything that might happen.

Our motor was running smoothly and the angle of the propeller blades had been altered to take care of the change in air density from the lower altitudes. It flashed across my mind that this was an ideal location for an attack, if such was to be made on the SF-22.

Then, far ahead, I saw a beam of light stab through the darkness and strike the tossing surface of the lake. Another and another followed, and I could see that the SF-22 and her convoy were surrounded by these unearthly rays. They converged from high above to outline a brilliant circle where they met on the surface of the waters, and in the midst of the cone formed by the beams, the liner and its seven tiny followers could be seen to falter, and huddle more closely together.

It all happened in the twinkling of an eye—so quickly, in fact, that Hart and I had not the time to exchange remarks over the strange occurrence. For a moment the eight vessels hovered, halted suddenly by this inexplicable force from out the heavens. Then[Pg 65] there rose from the apex of the inverted cone of light a blinding column of blue-white radiance that poured skyward an instant and was gone. To our ears came a terrific roaring that could be likened to nothing we had heard on earth. The Pioneer was tossed and buffeted as by a cyclone, and George came tumbling from the opening he had entered, his round face grown solemn. Then came eery silence, for the Pioneer's motor had gone dead. Ahead there was utter darkness. The liner and her convoy had completely vanished and the Pioneer was slipping into a spin!

"What's up?" asked George of Hart, who was tugging frantically at the controls.

"The liner has gone the way of the first two," he replied: "and the yarn about the pillar of fire was not so far wrong after all."

"You saw the same thing?" asked George incredulously.

"Yes, and so did Jack. There came some beams of light from the sky; then the pillar of fire and the roaring you heard, after which the vessels were gone and our electrical system paralyzed."

"Holy smoke!" ejaculated George. "What to do now?"

As he spoke, the Pioneer came out of the spin, and we were able to resume our positions in the seats. None of us was strapped in, and we had been clinging to whatever was handiest to keep from being tossed about in the cabin. Hart wiped his forehead and growled out an oath. The instrument board was still illuminated, for its tiny lamps were supplied with current from the storage battery. But the main lights of the cabin and the ignition system refused to function. We were gliding now, but losing altitude rapidly, having already dropped to the lower limits of level five.

"Can't you use the rocket tubes?" I inquired hesitatingly.

"They are fired in the same manner as the motor," replied Hart; "but we might try an emergency connection from the storage battery, which is ordinarily used only in starting and for the panel lights."

George was already fussing with the connections in a small junction box from which he had removed the cover. Meanwhile, the black waters of Lake Erie were rushing upward to meet us, and the needle of the altimeter registered twelve thousand feet.

"Here's the trouble!" shouted George, triumphantly holding up a small object he had removed from the junction box. "Ignition fuse is blown."

"Probably by some radiations from the cone of light and the column that destroyed the liner. Lucky we were no closer," were Hart's muttered comments.

George produced a spare fuse and inserted it in its proper place. The cabin lights glowed instantly and the motor started at once.

"Well, I'm going up after the generators of this mysterious force that is destroying our cross-country ships and killing our people," asserted Hart. "The rays came from high above, but the Pioneer can go as high as anything that ever flew—higher."

He snapped a switch and a beam of light that rivalled the so-called pillar of fire bored far into the night, dimming the stars by its brilliance. Again his fingers strayed to the rows of white keys and the rocket tubes shrieked in response to his pressure. This time I was prepared for the shock of acceleration, but the action was maintained for several seconds and I found the pressure against my back growing painful. Then it was relieved, and I glanced at the altimeter. Its needle had reached the end of the scale, which was graduated to eighty thousand feet!

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. "Do you mean to tell me that we are more than sixteen miles in the air?"

"Nearly thirty," replied Hart, pointing to another dial which I had not[Pg 66] seen. This one was graduated in miles above sea-level, and its needle wavered between the twenty-nine and thirty mark!

Again Hart pressed the rocket buttons, and we shot still higher into the heavens. Thirty, forty, fifty miles registered the meter, and still we climbed.

"Great Scott!" blurted a voice I knew was my own, though I had no consciousness of willing the speech. "At this rate we'll reach the moon!"

"We could, if we wished," was Hart's astounding reply; "I wish you wouldn't say too much about it when we return. We have oxygen to breathe and an air-tight vessel to retain it. With the fuel we are using, we could easily do it, provided a sufficient supply were available. However, the Pioneer does not have large enough storage tanks as yet, and, of course, we cannot now replenish our supply with sufficient rapidity, for the atmosphere has become very rare indeed—where we are. My ultimate object, though, in building the Pioneer, was to construct a vessel that is capable of a trip to the moon."

"You think you could reach a great enough velocity to escape the gravitational pull of the earth?" I asked, marveling more and more at the temerity and resourcefulness of my science-minded friend.

"Absolutely," he replied. "The speed required is less than seven miles a second, and I have calculated that the Pioneer can do no less than twenty."

Mentally I multiplied by sixty. I could hardly credit the result. Twelve hundred miles a minute!

"But, how about the acceleration?" I ventured. "Could the human body stand up under the strain?"

"That is the one problem remaining," he replied; "and I am now working on a method of neutralizing it. From the latest results of our experiments, George and I are certain of its feasibility."

The Pioneer was now losing altitude once more, and Hart played the beam of the searchlight in all directions as we descended. He and George watched through one of the floor ports and I followed suit. We were falling, unhampered by air resistance, and our bodies were practically weightless with reference to the Pioneer. It was a strange sensation: there was the feeling of exhilaration one experiences when inhaling the first whiff of nitrous oxide in the dentist's chair—a feeling of absolute detachment and care-free confidence in the ultimate result of our precipitous descent.

I found considerable amusement in pushing myself from side to side of the cabin with a mere touch of a finger. There was no up nor down, and sometimes it seemed to me that we were drifting sideways, sometimes that we fell upward rather than downward. Hart and George were unconcerned. Evidently they were quite accustomed to the sensations. They bent their every energy toward discovering what had caused the disaster to the SF-22 and its convoy.

For several hours we cruised about on the strangest search ever made in the air. Alternately shooting skyward to unconscionable altitudes and dropping to levels five and six to replenish our fuel supply, we covered the greater portion of the United States before the night was over. But the powerful searchlight of the Pioneer failed to disclose anything that might be remotely connected with the disappearance of the SF-22.

For me it was a never-to-be-forgotten experience. Lightning dashes from coast to coast which required but a few minutes of time—circling many miles above New York or Washington or Savannah in broad daylight with the sun low on the up-curved horizon; then shooting westward into the darkness and skirting the Pacific coast less than fifteen minutes later, but with four hours' actual time difference. Space and time were almost one.[Pg 67]

Hart had not provided the Pioneer with a radio or television transmitter, but there was an excellent receiver, and, through its agency we learned that the world was in a veritable uproar over the latest visitation of the mysterious terror of the sixth air level. All commercial traffic in levels four, five and six was ordered discontinued, and the government air control stations were flashing long messages in code, the import of which could but be guessed. Vision flashes showed immense gatherings at the large airports and in the public squares of the great cities, where the general populace become more and more excited and terrified by the awful possibilities pictured by various prominent speakers.

The governments of all foreign powers made haste to disclaim responsibility for the air attacks or for any attempt at making war on the United States. News broadcasts failed to mention Hart Jones or the Pioneer, since the mission had been kept secret. The phenomenon of the rays and the roaring column of light had been observed from many points on this occasion and there was no longer any doubt as to the nature of the terror as visible to the eye, though theories as to the action and source of the rays conflicted greatly and formed the basis of much heated discussion.

Eventually the advancing dawn reached San Francisco, and with its advent Hart decided to make a landing in that city so that my bonds could be delivered.

Jones was apparently a very much mystified and discouraged man. "Jack," he said, "it seems to me that this thing is but the beginning of some tremendous campaign that is being waged against our country by a clever and powerful enemy. And I feel that our work in connection with the unraveling of the mystery and overcoming the enemy or enemies is but begun. It's a cinch that the thing is organized by human minds and is not any sort of a freak of the elements. Our work is cut out for us, all right, and I wish you would stick to George and me through the mess. Will you?"

"Sure," I agreed, readily enough. "After these bonds are delivered I am free for a month."

"Ha! Ha!" cackled George, without mirth. "A month! We're doggoned lucky if we get to the bottom of this in a year."

"Nonsense!" snapped Hart, who was considerably upset by the failure to locate the source of the disastrous rays. "There is nothing supernatural about this, and anything that can be explained on a scientific basis can be run to earth in short order. These rays are man-made and, as such, can be accounted for by man. Our greatest scientists must be put to work on the problem at once—in fact, they have quite probably been called in by the government already."

He was maneuvering the Pioneer to a landing on the broad field of the San Francisco airport. Hundreds of idle planes of all sizes lined the field, and, unmindful of the earliness the hour, a great crowd was collected in expectation of sensational reports from the occupants of arriving ships. The unusual construction of the Pioneer attracted considerable attention and it was with difficulty that the police kept back the crowd when she rolled to a stop near the office of the local government supervisor. We hustled inside and were greeted by that official with open arms.

"Glory be!" he exclaimed. "Hart Jones and the Pioneer. Every airport in the land has been on the lookout for you all night. It was feared you had been lost with the SF-22 and the others. Code messages to the supervisors of all districts advised of your mission, though it has been kept out of the general news, as has the message from the enemy."

"Message from the enemy!" gasped[Pg 68] Hart, George and I, echoing the words like parrots.

"Yes. A demand that the United States surrender, and a threat to descend into the lower levels if the demand is not complied with in twenty-four hours!"

"Who is this enemy?" asked Hart, "and where?"

"Who they are is not known," replied the official gravely; "and as to the location, the War Department is puzzled. Direction finders throughout the country took readings on the position of their radio transmitter and these readings differed widely in result. But the consensus of opinion is that the messages originate somewhere out in space, probably between fifty and one hundred thousand miles from our earth."

"Great guns!" Hart glanced at George and me, where we stood with stupidly hanging jaws. "And what does the government want of me now?"

"You are considered to be the one man who might be able to cope with the problem, and are ordered to report to the Secretary of War, in person, immediately."

Hart was electrified into instant activity. "Here," he said in a voice of authority that commanded the official's attention and respect, "see that this package of bonds is delivered at once to the addressee and that the addressor is advised of its safe arrival. We're off at once."

Suiting action to the words, he thrust my packet into the hands of the astonished supervisor. Then, turning sharply on his heel, he flung back, "Advise the Secretary of War that I shall report to him in person in less than one hour."

As we stepped through the entrance of the Pioneer, he shot a final look at the official and laughed heartily at his sudden accession of energy. We had not the slightest doubt that Hart's orders would be immediately and efficiently carried out.

In precisely forty-five minutes, we stood before the desk of Lawrence Simler, then Secretary of War, in Washington.

"You are Mr. Hartley Jones?" inquired the stern-visaged little man.

"I am, Mr. Secretary, and these are my friends and co-workers, George Boehm and John Makely."

The Secretary acknowledged the introduction gravely, then plunged into the heart of the matter at hand with the quick energy for which he was famed.

"It may or may not be a serious situation," he said, "but certainly it has thus far been quite alarming. In any event, we have taken the matter out of the hands of the Air Traffic Bureau. We are prepared to defy the ultimatum of the enemy, whoever he may be. But we want your help, Mr. Jones. Every ship of the Air Navy will be in the upper levels within the prescribed twenty-four hours, and we will endeavor to stave off their attacks until such time as you can fit the Pioneer for a journey to their headquarters."

"How can your antiquated war vessels, capable of hurling a high explosive shell no more than fifty miles, fight off an enemy that is thousands of miles distant?" asked Hart.

"It is believed by the research engineers of the government that, though their headquarters may be located at a great distance, the raiders drop to a comparatively low altitude at the time of one of their attacks, returning immediately thereafter to their base."

Hart Jones shook his head. "The engineers may be correct," he stated; "but how on earth can you expect a little vessel like the Pioneer to battle an enemy who is possessed of these terribly destructive weapons and who has sufficient confidence in his own invulnerability to declare war on the greatest country on earth?"

Secretary Simler dropped his voice to a confidential tone, and his keen gray eyes flashed excitement as he unfolded the details of the[Pg 69] discoveries and plans of the War Department. We three listened in undisguised amazement to a tale of the unceasing labors of our Secret Service agents in foreign countries, of elaborate experiments with deadly weapons and the chemicals of warfare.

We heard of marvelous new rays that could be projected for many miles and destroy whole armies at a single blast; rays that would, in less time than that required to tell of the feat, reduce to a mass of fused metal the greatest firstline battleships of the old days of ocean warfare. We heard of preparations for defensive warfare throughout the civilized world, preparedness that insured so terrible and final a war that it was literally impossible for a great world conflagration to again break out. We learned that the present mysterious signs of a coming war could not possibly have originated in any country on earth, else they would have been known of long in advance, due to the network of the Secret Service system. This war, so unexpectedly thrust upon us, was undoubtedly a war of planets!

"But," objected Hart, "the messages were in English, were they not?"

"They were," continued Secretary Simler, "and that puzzled our experts in the beginning. But, it may well be that our enemy from out the skies has had spies among us for many years and could thus have learned our languages and radio codes. In any event, we are to meet destructive rays with others equally destructive, and you, Hartley Jones, are the man who can make our effectiveness certain."

"I?"

"Yes. How long a time will be required in fitting out the Pioneer for reliable space flying?"

Hart Jones pondered the matter and I could see that he was overjoyed at the prospect of getting into the thing in earnest. "About one week," he replied, "providing you can send a force of fifty expert mechanics to my hangar at once and supply all material as fast as I shall require it."

"Excellent," said the Secretary. "We'll have the men there in a few hours and will obtain whatever you need, regardless of cost, for immediate delivery. Incidentally, there will be several scientists as well, who will supervise the installation of two types of ray generators and their projecting mechanisms on the Pioneer. You will need them later."

"I don't doubt we shall," said Hart. "And now, with your permission, we shall leave for the hangar. I'm ready to start work."

"Capital!" Secretary Simler pressed every one of a row of buttons set in his desk top. We were dismissed.

"Well," said I, when we reached the outside, "he has given you quite a job, Hart!"

"You said something," he replied. "But, if this threat from the skies proves as real and as calamitous as I think it will, we all have our work cut out for us."

"Do you really believe this enemy comes from another planet?" asked George as we entered the Pioneer for the trip home.

"Where else can they be from?" countered Hart. "But, really it makes no difference to us now. We have to go after them in earnest. Don't want to quit, do you, George?"

"Wha-a-at?" shouted George, as he jerked savagely at the main switch of the Pioneer. "You know me better than that, Hart. Did I ever let you down in anything?"

"No," admitted the smiling Hart, "you never did, bless your heart. But Jack here is another matter. He has a wife and two kids to look after. That lets him out automatically."

My heart sank at the words, for I knew that he meant what he said. And, truth to tell, I saw the justice in his remarks.

"But, Hart," I faltered, "I'd like to be in on this thing."

"I know you would, old man. But I[Pg 70] think it's out of the question, for the present at least. You can help with the reconstruction of the Pioneer, however."

And meekly I accepted his dictum, though with secretly conflicting emotions. Little did I realize at the time that Hart knew far more than he pretended and that he had merely attempted to salve his own conscience in this manner.

I was very anxious to return to my family, and, as I sped homeward in a taxicab after the Pioneer landed at her own hangar, my mind was filled with doubts and fears. Secretary Simler had been very brief in his talk, but his every word carried home the gravity of the situation. What if these invaders carried the war to the surface? Suppose they seared the countryside and the cities and suburbs with rays of horrible nature that would shrivel and blast all that lay in their path? My heart chilled at the thought and it was a distinct relief when I gazed on my little home and saw that it was safe—so far. I paid the driver with a much too large bank note and dashed up my own front steps two at a time.

A few hours later I tore myself away and returned to the hangar, where the Pioneer now reposed in a scaffolded cradle. The sight which met my eyes was astonishing in the extreme, for the hangar had been transformed into a huge workshop with seemingly hundreds of men already at work. It was a scene of furious activity, and, to my utter amazement, I observed that the Pioneer was already in an advanced stage of disassembly.

I had no difficulty in locating Hart Jones, for he was striding from lathe to workbench to boring mill, issuing his orders with the sureness and decision of a born leader of men. He welcomed me in his most brisk manner and immediately assigned me to a portion of the work in the chemical laboratory—something I was at least partly fitted for.

We labored far into the night, when a siren called us to rest and food. This was to be a night and day job, and not a man of those on duty gave thought to the intense nervous and physical strain. Sixty-five of us I learned there were, though it had seemed there were several times that number.

During the rest period, Hart switched on the large television and sound mechanism of the public news broadcasts. Great excitement prevailed throughout the United States, for there had been a leak and the news had gone abroad regarding the message from the enemy. There was widespread panic and disorder and the government was besieged with demands for authentic news. The twenty-four hours of grace had nearly expired.

Finally the public was told of what actually was happening. Our entire fleet of one thousand air cruisers was in air-level six, waiting for the enemy. America was going to fight in earnest!

Flashes of our air cruisers in construction and in action came over the screen; voice-vision records of the popular officers of the fleet followed in quick succession. Then came the blow—the first of the strange war.

Two vessels of the air fleet had been destroyed by the triple rays and pillar of fire! Fifty cruisers rushing to the scene had been unable to find any traces of the source of the deadly rays. And, this time, there was an alarming added element. The pillar of fire had risen from a point near Gadsden in Alabama and, in its wake, there spread a sulphurous, smoldering fire that crept along the ground and destroyed all in its path. Farms, factories, and even the steel rails of the railroads were consumed and burned into the ground as if by the breath of some tremendous blast furnace. Hundreds of inhabitants of the section perished, and it was reported that the fumes from the strange fires were drifting in the direction of Birmingham, terrifyingly visible in blue-green clouds of searing vapor.[Pg 71]

With the first news of the disaster came a wave of fear that spread over the country with the rapidity of the ether waves that carried the news. Then came stern determination. This enemy must be swept from the skies! Gatherings in public places volunteered en masse for whatever service the government might ask of them. The entire world was in an uproar, and from Great Britain, France, Germany and Russia, came immediate offers of their air fleets to assist in fighting off the Terror.

In less than an hour there were nearly five thousand cruisers in air-level six, patroling its entire depth from thirty-five thousand to one hundred thousand feet altitude.

We resumed work in the hangar, but the news service was kept in operation as far as the amplifiers were concerned, though the television screen was switched off on account of the likelihood of its distracting the workers.

Again came the report of a major disaster, this time over Butte in Montana. Four American vessels and one British were the victims in level six. And the city of Butte was in flames; blue, horrible flames that literally melted the city into the ground. Again there was no trace of the invaders.

How puny were the efforts of the five thousand air cruisers! Marvels of engineering and mechanical skill, these vessels were. Deadly as were the weapons they carried—weapons so terrible that war on earth was considered impossible since their development—they were helpless against an enemy who could not be located. Though our vessels were capable of boring high into the stratosphere, the enemy worked from still higher.

"Holy smoke!" gasped Hart Jones, who had stopped at my side. "What a contract I have on my hands!"

He looked in the direction of the partly dismantled Pioneer, and I could see by the fixedness of his stare that he was thinking of her insignificant size in comparison with the job she was to undertake.

Above the din of the machines in the hangar rang the startled voice of a news announcer. Panic-stricken he seemed, and we stopped to listen. Another blow of the terror of the skies—and now close by! Over Westchester County in New York State there was a repetition of the previous attacks. Only two of the cruisers had vanished this time; but several towns, including Larchmont and Scarsdale, were pools of molten fire!

Sick at heart, I thought of my little home in Rutherford and of the dear ones it contained. I thought of telephoning, but, what was the use? There was no warding off of this terrible thing that had so suddenly come to our portion of the world. It was the blowing of the last trumpet, the way things looked.

The announcer had calmed himself. His voice droned tonelessly now, as was the custom. Another raid, on the Mexican Border now. We were stupefied by the rapidity of the enemy's attacks; then electrified once more by the most astounding news of all. Alexandria, in Egypt, was the base of a pillar of fire! Fully half of the city was wiped out, and the remainder in a mortal funk, terrorized and riotous. The United States was not alone in the war!

The foreign fleets which reinforced our own were ordered home immediately. But to what avail? The world was doomed!

In the morning, after nine fearful attacks during the night, there came another message from the enemy and this was repeated in five languages and addressed to the entire world:

"People of Earth," it read, "this is our final warning. One chance has been given and you have proved stubborn. Consider well that your civilization be not entirely destroyed, and answer as the expiration of forty-eight[Pg 72] hours, using our transmitting frequency. Our hand is to be withheld for that period only, when, unless our demands are met, all of your large cities and towns will be destroyed. Our terms for peace are that we be permitted to land without resistance on your part; that you surrender farm and forest lands, cities and towns, able-bodied men of twenty to forty, selected women of seventeen to thirty, and tribute in the form of such supplies and precious metals as we may specify, all to the extent of forty per cent of your resources. No compromise will be accepted."

That was all. It was during a rest period at the Jones hangar and I had brought Hart and George to my home for breakfast. We sat at the table when the news instrument brought the message. Marie was pouring the coffee, and my two small boys, Jim and Jack, had gone to the playroom, from whence their joyous voices could be heard. We four were struck dumb at the announcement, and Marie looked at me with so awful an expression of dread that my coffee turned bitter in my mouth. Marie was just twenty-eight!

"What beasts!" cried Hart. "Allow them to land without resistance? I should say not! Rather we should fight them off until all of us perish."

He had risen from his chair in his anger. Now he sat down suddenly and shook a forefinger in my face.

"Say!" he exploded. "You can't tell me that some master mind of our own world is not back of this!"

"I'm not telling you," I replied, startled at the fierce fire that flashed from his eyes.

"I know. I'm just trying to think aloud and I'm liable to say anything. But this sort of business is the work of humans as sure as you're born. Still I believe that what Simler says is true. I can't believe that any country on earth is back of the thing. It must be an attack from beings of another planet, but I think they have as a leader a man who is of our own earth."

Marie's eyes opened wide at this. "But how could that be?" she asked. "Surely no one from our earth has made the trip to one of the other planets?"

"It may be that someone has," replied Hart. "Do you remember Professor Oradel? Remember, about ten years ago, I think it was, when he and a half dozen or more of extremely radical scientists built a rocket they claimed would reach the moon? They were ridiculed and hissed and relegated to the position of half-baked, crazy inventors. But Oradel had a large private fortune, and he and his crowd built themselves a workshop and laboratory in a secluded region in the Ozarks. Here they labored and experimented and eventually the rocket ship was constructed. No person was in their confidence, but when the machine was completed they issued a statement to the press to the effect that they were ready for the voyage to the moon, and that, when they returned, a reckoning with the world was to be made for its disbelief and total lack of sympathy. Again the press subjected Oradel to a series of scathing denunciations, and the scientific publications refused to take cognizance of his claims in any way, shape or form."

"Then, one night, a great rocket roared into the heavens, leaving a terror-stricken countryside in the wake of its brilliantly visible tail. Several observatories whose telescopes picked up and followed the trail of the contraption reported that it described a huge parabola, mounting high into the stratosphere and falling back to earth, where it was lost in the depths of the Pacific Ocean. There the thing ended and it was soon forgotten. But I believe that this rocket ship of Oradel's reached Mars or Venus and that the peoples of whichever planet they reached have been prevailed upon and prepared to war upon the world."

"That would explain their knowl[Pg 73]edge of our languages and codes." I ventured, "and would likewise account for the fact that the first of our ships to be attacked were those carrying large shipments of currency. Though if these were destroyed by the fire columns, I can not see what good the money would do them."

"Don't believe the first three were destroyed," grunted Hart. "You'll remember that in these cases the pillars of fire, or whatever you want to call them, were of a cold light, whereas now they are viciously hot and leave behind them the terrible destructive fires that spread and spread and seemingly never are extinguished. No, I think that the force used is something of the nature of an atom-disrupting triad of beams and that these set up the column as a veritable tornado, a whirling column of roaring wind rushing skyward with tremendous velocity. The first ships, I believe, were carried into the stratosphere and captured intact by the enemy.

"Since the declaration of war the nature of the column has altered. The three beams, instead of meeting at or near the surface of the earth, now join high in the heavens and the column strikes downward instead of expending its force upward. An added energy is used which produces the terribly destructive force below. And now we are able to locate fragments of the ships destroyed above, whereas previously there were no traces."

"Sounds reasonable," commented George. "But why have they not landed and waged their war right here without warning, if that is what they now intend to do?"

"A natural question, George. But I have a hunch that the space flier or fliers of the enemy are conserving fuel by remaining beyond gravity. You know, in space flying, the greatest expenditures of energy are in leaving or landing on a body and, once landed, they might not have sufficient fuel for a getaway. They know we are not exactly helpless, once they are in our midst, and are taking this means of reducing us to the point of complete subjection before risking their precious selves among us."

The telephone startled us by its insistent ring. It was a call from the hangar for Hart. The news broadcast announcer was in the midst of a long dissertation regarding the discovery only this morning that there were certain apparent discrepancies in the movements of the tides and unwonted perturbations of the moon's orbit. There flashed on the screen a view of the great observatory at Mount Wilson, and Professor Laughlin of that institution stepped into the foreground of the scene to take up the discussion so mechanically repeated by the announcer.

"Must leave for the hangar at once," declared Hart, returning from the telephone. "Simler and his staff are there and we are wanted immediately."

"Oh, Jack!" Marie begged with her eyes.

"Got to be done, Honey," I responded, "and, believe me, I am going to do what little I can to help. Suppose we surrendered!"

I shuddered anew at the very thought and took hurried leave of my family, Hart and George awaiting me in the hall. Had I known what was to transpire before the end of the war, I am certain I would have been in much less of a hurry.

We rushed to the hangar, where Secretary Simler and his party awaited us in the office. Rather, I should say, they waited for Hart Jones.

"Mr. Jones," said the Secretary of War, when the introductions were over, "it is up to you to get the Pioneer in shape to go out after these terrible creatures before the forty-eight hours have expired. We have replied to their ultimatum and have told them we will have our answer ready within the appointed time, but it is already agreed between the nations of the World Al[Pg 74]liance that our reply is to be negative. Better far that we submit to the utter destruction of our civilization than agree to their terms."

"I believe I can do it, Mr. Secretary," was Hart Jones' simple comment. "At least I will try. But you must let me have an experienced astronomer at once with whom to consult."

"Astronomer?"

"Yes—immediately. I have a theory, but am not enough of a student of astronomy myself to work it out."

"You shall have the best man in the Air Naval Observatory at once." Secretary Simler chewed his cigar savagely. "And anything else you might need," he concluded.

"There is nothing else, sir." Hart turned from the great men who regarded him solemnly, some with expressions of hope, others with plain distrust written large on their countenances.

They left in silence and we returned to our work with renewed vigor. Within an hour there arrived by fast plane an undersized, thick-spectacled man who presented himself as Professor Linquist from the government observatory. He was immediately taken into the office by Hart and the two remained behind closed doors for the best part of four hours.

Meanwhile the hangar hummed with activity as usual. We in the chemical laboratory were engaged in compounding the high explosive used as fuel in the Pioneer. This was being compressed to its absolute limit and was stored in long steel cylinders in the form of a liquid of extremely low temperature. These cylinders were at once transferred to a special steel vault where the temperature was kept at a low enough point to prevent expansion and consequent loss of the explosive, not to speak of the danger of destroying the entire lot of us in its escape.

The generating apparatus of the Pioneer was to be dispensed with for this trip, since it was of no value outside the atmosphere where there was no air from which to extract the elements necessary for the production of the explosive. Instead, the entire supply of fuel for the trip was to be carried aboard the vessel in the cylinders we were engaged in filling. Hart had calculated that there was just sufficient room to store fuel for a trip of about two hundred thousand miles from the earth and a safe return. We hoped this would be enough.

On the scaffolding around the Pioneer there were now so many workers that it seemed they must forever be in one another's way. But the work was progressing with extreme rapidity. Already there projected from her blunt nose a slender rod of shining metal which was the projector of one of the destructive rays whose generator and auxiliaries were being installed under the supervision of the government experts. The force had been trebled and was now working in shifts of two hours each, the pace being so exhausting that highest efficiency was obtained by using these short periods.

Additional rocket tubes were being installed, and the steel framework of a bulge now showed on the hull, this bulge being an additional fuel storage compartment that would provide a slight additional resistance and consequently lower speed in the lower levels, but would prove little hindrance in level six and none at all in outer space.

When Hart emerged from his office he appeared to be very tired, indeed, but his face bore an expression of triumph that could not be mistaken. He and this little scientist from Washington had evidently arrived at some momentous conclusion regarding the enemy.

"Jack," he said, when he reached my bench during his first round of the hanger, "celestial mechanics is a wonderful thing. I had a hunch, and this astronomer chap has proved it correct[Pg 75] with his mathematics. Our friend the enemy is out there in space at a point where his own mass and velocity are exactly counteracted by those of the earth and its satellite, the moon. He is just floating around in space, doing no work whatsoever to maintain his own position. He has temporarily assumed the rôle of a second satellite to us and is revolving around us at a definite period that was calculated by Lindquist. The gravitational pull of the moon keeps him from falling to the earth and that of the earth keeps him from approaching the moon. The resultant of the set of forces is what determines his orbit and the disturbance in the normal balance is what has been observed by the astronomers who reported changes in the tides and in the moon's orbit."

"But Lindquist's figures prove that the vessel or fleet of the enemy must be of tremendous size to produce such discrepancies, infinitesimally small though they might seem. We have a big fellow with whom to deal, but we know where to find him now."

"How can he work from a fixed position to make his attacks on the earth at such widely separated points?" I asked.

"It isn't a fixed position in the first place, and besides the earth rotates once in twenty-four hours, while the moon travels around the earth once in about twenty-eight days. But, even so, the widespread destruction could not be accounted for. He must send out scouting parties or something of that sort. That is one of the things we are to learn when we get out there. We'll have some fun, Jack."

"Will the Pioneer be ready?" I asked. Evidently I was to go.

"She will, with the exception of the acceleration neutralizers. But I'm having some heavily-cushioned and elastic supports made that will, I believe, save us from injury. And I guess we can stand the discomfort for once."

"Yes," I agreed, "in such a cause, I, for one, am willing to go through anything to help keep this overwhelming disaster from our good old world."

"Jack," he whispered, "we must prevent it. We've got to!"

Then he was gone, and I watched him for a moment as he dashed headlong from one task to another. He was a whirlwind of energy once more.

Forty-three hours and twenty minutes had passed since the receipt of the enemy's ultimatum. The last bolt was being tightened in the remodeled Pioneer, and Secretary Simler and his staff were on hand to witness the take-off of the vessel on which the hopes of the world were pinned. The news of our attempt had been spread by cable and printed news only, for there was fear that the enemy might be able to pick up the broadcasts of the news service and thus be able to anticipate us. As usual, there were many scoffers, but the consensus of opinion was in favor of the project. At any rate, what better expedient was there to offer?

The huge airport, now unused on account of the complete cessation of air traffic, was closed to the public. But there was quite a crowd to witness the take-off, the visitors from Washington, the officials of the field, and the two hundred workers who had enabled us to make ready for the adventure in time. There were four to enter the Pioneer: Hart, George, Professor Lindquist, and myself. And when the entrance manhole was bolted home behind us, the watchers stood in silence, waiting for the roar of the Pioneer's motor. As the starter took hold, Hart waved his hand at one of the ports and every man of those two hundred and some watchers stood at attention and saluted is if he were a born soldier and Hart a born commander-in-chief.

We taxied heavily across the field, for the Pioneer was much overloaded for a quick take-off. She[Pg 76] bumped and bounced for a quarter-mile before taking to the air and then climbed very slowly indeed, for several minutes. Our speed was a scant two hundred miles an hour when we swung out over New York and headed for the Atlantic. And then Hart made first use of the rocket tubes, not daring to discharge the hot gases below while over populated land at so low an altitude. He touched one button, maintaining the pressure for but a fraction of a second. The ocean slipped more rapidly away from beneath our feet and he touched the button once more. Our speed was now nearly seven hundred miles an hour and we made haste to buckle ourselves into the padded, hammocklike contrivances which had been substituted for the former seats. In a very few minutes we entered level six and the motor was cut off entirely.

A blast from a number of the tail rockets drove me into my supporting hammock so heavily that I found difficulty in breathing, and could scarcely move a muscle to change position. The rate of acceleration was terrific, and I am still unable to understand how Hart was able to manipulate the controls. For myself, I could not even turn my head from its position in the padding and I felt as if I were being crushed by thousands of tons of pressure. Then, the pressure was somewhat relieved and I glanced to the instruments. We were more than a thousand miles from our starting point and the speed indicator read seven thousand miles an hour. We were traveling at the rate of nearly two miles a second!

Another blast from the rockets, this one of interminable length, and I must have lost consciousness. For when I next took note of things I found that we had been out for nearly two hours and that the tremendous pressure of acceleration was relieved. I moved my head, experimentally and found that my senses were normal, though there was a strange and alarming sensation of being wrong side up. Then I remembered that I had experienced the same thing when we first searched the upper levels of the atmosphere for the origin of the destructive rays of the enemy.

But this was different! I gazed through a nearby port and saw that the sky was entirely black, the stars shining magnificently brilliant against their velvet background. Streamers of brilliant sunlight from the floor ports struck across the cabin and patterned the ceiling. Looking between my feet I saw the sun as a flaming orb with streamers of incandescence that spread in every direction with such blinding luminosity that I could not bear the sight for more than a few seconds. Off to what I was pleased to think of as our left side, there was a huge globe that I quickly made out as our own earth. Eerily green it shone, and, though a considerable portion of the surface was obscured by patches of white that I recognized as clouds, I could clearly make out the continents of the eastern hemisphere. It was a marvelous sight and I lost several minutes in awed contemplation of the wonder. Then I heard Hart laugh.

"Just coming out of it, Jack?" he asked.

I stared at him foolishly. It had seemed to me that I was alone in this vast universe, and the sound of his voice startled me. "Guess I'm not fully out of it yet," I said. "Where are we?"

"Oh, about sixty thousand miles out," he replied carelessly; "and we are traveling at our maximum speed—that is, the maximum we need for this little voyage."

"Little voyage!" I gasped. And then I looked at George and the professor and saw that they, too, were grinning at my discomfiture. I laughed crazily, I suppose, for they all sobered at once.

Traveling through space at more than forty thousand miles an hour, it seemed that we were stationary. Move[Pg 77]ment was now easy—too easy, in fact, for we were practically weightless. The professor was having a time of it manipulating a pencil and a pad of paper on which he had a mass of small figures that were absolutely meaningless to me. He was calculating and plotting our course and, without him, we should never have reached the object we sought.

Time passed rapidly, for the wonders of the naked universe were a never-ending source of fascination. Occasionally a series of rocket charges was fired to keep our direction and velocity, but these were light, and the acceleration so insignificant that we were put to no discomfort whatever. But it was necessary that we keep our straps buckled, for, in the weightless condition, even the slightest increase or decrease in speed or change in direction was sufficient to throw us the length of the cabin, from which painful bruises might be received.

The supports to which we were strapped and which saved us from being crushed by the acceleration and deceleration, were similar to hammocks, being hooked to the floor and ceiling of the cabin rather than suspended horizontally in the conventional manner. This was for the reason that the energy of the rockets was expended fore and aft, except for steering, and the forces were therefore along the horizontal axis of the vessel. The supports were elastic and the padding deep and soft. Being swiveled at top and bottom, they could swing around so that deceleration as well as acceleration was relieved. For this reason the controls had been altered so that the flexible support in which Hart was suspended could rotate about their pedestal, thus allowing for their operation by the pilot either when accelerating or decelerating. How he could control the muscles of his arms and hands under the extreme conditions is still a mystery to me, however, and George agrees with me in this. We found ourselves to be utterly helpless.

My next impression of the trip is that of swinging rapidly around and finding myself facing the rear wall of the cabin. Then the tremendous pressure once more at a burst from the forward tubes. We had commenced deceleration. For me there were alternate periods of full and semi-consciousness and, to this day, I can remember no more than the high spots of that historical expedition.

Then we were free to move once more, and I turned to face the instrument board. Our relative velocity had become practically zero; that is, we were traveling through space at about the same speed and in the same direction as the earth. The professor and Hart were consulting a pencil chart and excitedly looking first through the forward ports and then into the screen of the periscope.

"This is the approximate location," averred the professor.

"But they are not here," replied Hart.

George and I peered in all directions and could see nothing excepting the marvels of the universe we had been viewing. The moon now seemed very close and its craters and so-called seas were as plainly visible as in a four-inch telescope on earth. But we saw nothing of the enemy.

The earth was a huge ball still, but much smaller than when I had first observed it from the heavens. The sun's corona—the flaming streamers which the professor declared extended as much as five million miles into space—was partly hidden behind the rim of the earth and the effect was blinding. A thin crescent of brilliant light marked the rim of our planet and the rest was in shadow, but a shadow that was lighted awesomely in cold green by reflected light from her satellite.

"I have it!" suddenly shouted the professor. "We are all in very nearly the same line with reference to the sun, and the enemy is between the blazing[Pg 78] body and ourselves. We must shift our position, move into the shadow of the earth. We have missed our calculation by a few hundred miles, that is all."

All! I thought. These astronomers, so accustomed to dealing in tremendous distances that must be measured in light-years, thought nothing of an error of several hundred miles. But I suppose it was really an inconsiderable amount, at that.

At any rate, we shifted position and looked around a bit more. We saw nothing at first. Then Hart consulted the chronometer.

"Time is up!" he shouted.

On the instant there was a flash of dazzling green light from a point not a hundred miles from our position, a flash that was followed by a streaking pencil of the same light shooting earthward with terrific velocity. Breathlessly we followed its length, saw it burst like a bomb and hurl three green balls from itself which sped at equally spaced angles to form a perfect triangle. They hovered a moment at about two thousand miles above the surface of the earth, according to the professor, who was using the telescope at the time, and shot their deadly rays toward our world. We were too late to prevent the renewal of hostilities!

Another and another streak of green light followed and we knew that great havoc was being wrought back home. But these served to locate the enemy's position definitely and we immediately set about to draw nearer. We were still somewhat on the dark side of the object, which had prevented our seeing it. Now we swung about so that it was plainly visible. And, what a strange appearance it presented, out here in space!

Fully fifteen miles in diameter, it was a huge doughnut, a great ring of tubing with a center-opening that was at least eighty per cent of its maximum diameter. There it hovered, sending out those deadly missiles in a continuous stream toward our poor world. As we approached the weird space flier, we saw that a number of objects floated about within the great circle of its inner circumference. The NY-18, the SF-61 and the SF-22, without doubt! The theory of Hart's was correct in every detail.

We were still at about ten miles distance from the great ring and the streaking light pencils were speeding earthward at the rate of one a minute now. There was no time to lose. Already there was more destruction on its way than had been previously wrought—several times over.

Hart was sighting along a tiny tube that projected into the forward partition and he maneuvered the Pioneer until she was nose on to the great ring. He pulled a switch and there came a purring that was entirely new. A row of huge vacuum tubes along the wall lighted to vivid brilliancy and a throbbing vibration filled the artificial air of the cabin.

He pulled a small lever at the side of the tube and the vessel rocked to the energy that was released from those vacuum tubes. The thin rod which had been installed at the Pioneer's nose burst into brilliant flame—orange tinted luminescence that grew to a sphere of probably ten feet in diameter. Then there was a heavy shock and the ball of fire left its position and, with inconceivable velocity, sprang straight for the side of the great ring. It was a fair hit and, when the weird missile found its mark, it simply vanished—swallowed up in the metal walls of the monster vessel. For a moment we thought nothing was to result. Then we burst into shouts of joy, for a great section of the ring fused into nothingness and was gone! Fully a quarter of the circumference of the ring had disappeared into the vacuum of space. Truly, the governments of Earth had developed some terrible weapons of their own!

We watched, breathless.[Pg 79]

The green light pencils no longer streaked their paths of death in the direction of our world, which now seemed so remote. The great ring with the vacant space in its rim wabbled uncertainly for a moment as though some terrific upheaval from within was tearing it asunder. Then it lurched directly for the Pioneer. We had been observed!

But Hart was equal to the occasion and he shot the Pioneer in the direction of the earth with such acceleration that we all were flattened into our supports with the same old violence. Then, with equal violence, we decelerated. The ring was following so closely that it actually rushed many hundreds of miles past us before it was brought to rest. From it there sprang one of the light pencils, and the Pioneer was rocked as by a heavy gale when it rushed past on its harmless way into infinity. The enemy had missed.

Meanwhile, Hart was operating another mechanism that was new to the Pioneer and again he sighted along the tiny tube. This time there was no sound within, no ball of fire without, no visible ray. But, when he had pressed the release of this second energy, the ring seemed to shrivel and twist as if gripped by a giant's hand. It reeled and spun. Then, no longer in a balance of forces, it commenced its long drop earthward.

His job finished and finished well, Hart Jones collapsed.

Following his more than three days and four nights of superhuman endeavor, it seemed strange to see Hart slumped white and still over the control pedestal. He who had energy far in excess of that of any of the rest of us had worn himself out. Having had no rest or sleep in nearly a hundred hours, the body that housed so wonderful a spirit simply refused to carry on. Tenderly we stretched him on the cabin floor, the Pioneer drifting in space the while. The professor, who was likewise something of a physician, listened to his heart, drew back his eyelids, and pronounced him in no danger whatever.

We slapped his wrists, sprinkled his face and neck with cold water from the drinking supply, and were soon rewarded by his return to consciousness. He smiled weakly and fell sound asleep. No war in the universe could have wakened him then, so we lifted him to his feet—rather I should say, we guided his practically floating body—and strapped him in George's hammock, preparing for the homeward journey. Though dangling from the straps in a position that would be vertical were we on earth, he slept like a baby. George took the controls in Hart's place and the professor and I returned to our accustomed supports.

The return trip was considerably slower, as George did not wish to push the Pioneer to its limit as had been necessary when coming out to meet the enemy, nor was he able to keep control of the ship against a too-rapid acceleration. Consequently, the rate of acceleration was much lower and we were not nearly as uncomfortable as on the outgoing trip. Thus, nearly ten hours were required for the return. And Hart slept through it all.

In order to make best use of the small amount of fuel still in the cylinders, George circled the earth five times before we entered the upper limits of the atmosphere, the circles becoming of smaller diameter at each revolution and the speed of the ship proportionately reduced. An occasional discharge from one of the forward rocket tubes assisted materially in the deceleration, yet, when we slipped into level five, our speed was so great that the temperature of the cabin rose alarmingly, due to the friction of the air against the hull of the vessel. It was necessary to use the last remaining ounce of fuel to reduce the velocity to a safe value. A long glide to earth was then our only means of landing and, since we were over the[Pg 80] Gulf of Mexico at the time, we had no recourse other than landing in the State of Texas.

Passing over Galveston in level three, we found that the Humble oil fields and a great section of the surrounding country had been the center of one of the enemy bombardments. All was blackness and ruin for many miles between this point and Houston. At Houston Airport we landed, unheralded but welcome.

The lower levels were once more filled with traffic, and one of the southern route transcontinental liners had just made its stop at this point. The arrival of the Pioneer was thus witnessed by an unusually large crowd, and, when the news was spread to the city, their numbers increased with all the rapidity made possible by the various means of transportation from the city.

So it was that Hart Jones, after we finally succeeded in awakening him and getting him to his feet, was hailed by a veritable multitude as the greatest hero of all time. The demonstrations become so enthusiastic that police reserves, hastily summoned from the city, were helpless in their attempts to keep the crowd in order.

It was with greatest difficulty that Hart was finally extricated from the clutches of the mob and conveyed to the new Rice Hotel in Houston, where it was necessary to obtain medical attention for him immediately. He was in no condition at the time to receive the richly deserved plaudits of the multitude, and, truth to tell, we others from the Pioneer were in much the same shape.

To me that night will always be the most terrible of nightmares. My first thought was of my family and, when I had been assigned to a room, I immediately asked the switchboard operator for a long-distance connection to my home in Rutherford. There was complete silence for a minute and I jangled the hook impatiently, my head throbbing with a thousand aches and pains. Then, to my surprise, the voice of the hotel manager greeted me.

"Mr. Makely," he said softly, and I thought there was a peculiar ring in his voice, "I think you had better not try to get Rutherford this evening. We are sending the house physician to your room at once and—there are orders from Washington, you know—you are to think of nothing at the present but sleep and a long rest."

"Why—why—" I stammered, "can't you see? I must communicate with my family. They must know of my return. I must know if they're safe and well."

"I'm sorry, sir," apologized the manager, "Government orders, you know." And he hung up.

Something in that soft voice brought to me an inkling of the truth. An icy hand gripped my heart as I heard a knock at the door. With palsied fingers I turned the key and admitted the professor and a kindly-faced elderly gentleman with a small black bag. One look at the professor told me the truth. I seized his two arms in a grip that made him wince.

"Tell me! Tell me!" I demanded, "Has anything happened to my family?"

"Jack," said the professor slowly, "while we were out there watching Hart destroy the enemy vessel, Rutherford was destroyed!"

It must be that I frightened him by my answering stare, for he backed away from me in apparent fear. I noticed that the doctor was rummaging in his bag. I know I did not speak, did not cry out, for my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. It seemed I must go mad. The professor still backed away from me; then, wiry little athlete that he was, he sprang directly for my knees in a beautiful football tackle. I remember that point clearly and how I admired his agility at the time. I remember the glint of a small instrument in the doctor's hand. Then all was blackness.[Pg 81]

Eight days later, they tell me it was, I returned to painful consciousness in a hospital bed. But let me skip the agony of mind I experienced then. Suffice it to say that, when I was able, I set forth for Washington. Hart Jones was there and he had sent for me. But I took little interest in the going; did not even bother to speculate as to the reason for his summons. I had devoured the news during my convalescence and now, more than two weeks after the destruction of the Terror, I knew the extent of the damage wrought upon our earth by those deadly green light pencils we had seen issuing from the huge ring up there in the skies. The horror of it all was fresh in my mind, but my own private horror overshadowed all.

I was glad that Hart had been so signally honored by the World Peace Board, that he was now the most famous and popular man in the entire world. He deserved it all and more. But what cared I—I who had done least of all to help in his great work—that the Terror had been found where it buried itself in the sand of the Sahara when falling to earth? What cared I that the discoveries made in the excavating of the huge metal ring were of inestimable value to science?

It gave me passing satisfaction to note that all of Hart Jones' theories were borne out by the discoveries; that Oradel and his minions were responsible for this terrible war; that the planet they aligned against us was Venus and that more than a hundred thousand of the Venerians had been carried in that weird engine of destruction which had been brought down by Hart.

It was interesting to read of the fall of that huge ring; how it was heated to incandescence when it entered our atmosphere at such tremendous velocity; of the tidal waves of concentric billows in the sand that led to its discovery by Egyptian Government planes. The broadcast descriptions and the television views of the stunted and twisted Venerians whose bodies were recovered from the partly consumed wreckage were interesting. But it all left me cold. I had no further interest in life. That the world had escaped an overwhelming disaster was clear, and it gave me a certain pleasure. But for me it might as well have been completely destroyed.

Nevertheless, I went to Washington. I felt somehow that I owed it to Hart Jones, the greatest world hero since Lindbergh. I would at least listen to what he had to say.

A fast plane carried me, a plane chartered by the government. To me it seemed that it crawled, though it was a sixth-level ship, and made the trip in record time. Why I was impatient to reach Washington I do not know, for I was absolutely disinterested in anything that might occur there. It was merely that my nerves were on edge, I suppose, and everything annoyed me.

Hart met me at the airport and greeted me like a long-lost brother. He talked incessantly and jumped from one subject to the other with the obvious intention of trying to get my mind off my troubles until we reached his office in the Air Traffic building.

On his door there was the legend, "Director of Research," and, when we had entered, I observed that the office was furnished with all the luxury that suited his new position. I dropped into a deeply upholstered chair at the side of his mahogany desk, and, for the space of several minutes, Hart regarded me with concern, speaking not a word.

"Jack, old man," he finally ventured. "I can't talk to you of this thing. But it makes me feel very badly to see you take it so hard. There are many things you have to live for, old top, and it is to talk about these that I sent for you."

"You mean work?" I asked.

"Yes. That is the best thing for us all, in any emergency or under any[Pg 82] circumstances whatever. Preston wants you back for one thing, and he authorized me to tell you that the job of office manager is waiting for you at double your former salary."

My eyes misted at this. Preston was a good old scout! But I could never bear it to return to the old surroundings, even in the city. "No, Hart," I said, "I'd rather be away from New York and from that part of the country. Associations, you know."

"I understand," he replied, "and that is just what I had hoped you would decide. Because I have a job for you in the Air Service. A good one, too.

"You know there is much reconstruction work to be done on earth. More than forty cities and towns have been wiped out of existence and these must be rebuilt. That will occupy the minds and energies of thousands who have been bereaved as you have. But, in the Air Service, we have a program that I believe will be more to your liking. The log of the Terror, in Oradel's handwriting, was found intact, as were a number of manuscripts pertaining to plans of the Venerians.

"These misshapen creatures were quite evidently educated by Oradel to a hatred of our world. We have reason to believe that other attacks may follow, for they were obviously intending to migrate here in millions. And, according to records found aboard the Terror, they are of advanced scientific accomplishment. We may expect them to construct other vessels similar to the Terror and to come here again. We must be prepared to fight them off, to carry the war to their own planet if necessary. My work is to organize a world fleet of space ships for this purpose, and I'd like you to help me in this. The work will take you all over the world and will keep you too busy to think about—things."

It was just like Hart, and I thanked him wordlessly, but from the bottom of my heart. Yes, I would accept his generous offer. Though I was no engineer, I had a knowledge of scientific subjects a little above the average, and I could follow instructions. By George, it was the very thing! Suddenly I grew enthusiastic.

There was the sound of voices in the outer office, and Hart's secretary entered to announce the arrival of George Boehm and Professor Lindquist. This was great!

Chubby George, red-faced and smiling as ever, embraced me with one short arm and pounded me on the back with his other fist in his jovial, joking manner. It was good to have friends like these! The professor held forth his hand timidly. He was thinking of that tackle and the half-Nelson he had used on me while the doctor slipped that needle into my arm back there in Houston.

"Don't remove your glasses, Professor," I laughed; "I'm not going to hit you. That was a swell tackle of yours, and you did me a big service down there in the Rice Hotel."

He beamed with pleasure and gripped my hand—mightily, for such a little fellow. George was whispering to Hart, and I could see that they were greatly excited over something.

"Jack," said Hart, when the professor and I finished talking things over, "George here wants you to take a little trip over to Philly with him. He has something there he wants to show you."

I looked from one to the other for signs of a hoax. These two, under normal circumstances, were always up to something. But what I saw in their expressions convinced me that I had better go, and somehow, there rose in my breast a forlorn hope.

"All right," I agreed. "Let's go!"

Once more we four took off together, this time in a speedy little first-level cabin plane of Hart's design, piloted by the irrepressible George. I was brimming with questions, but George kept up such a run[Pg 83]ning fire of small talk that I was unable to get in a single word throughout the short trip to the Quaker City. It was quite evident that something was in the wind.

Instead of landing at the airport, George swung across the city and dropped to the roof landing space of a large building which I recognized as the Germantown Hospital. We had no sooner landed when I was rushed from the plane to the penthouse over the elevator shafts. We were soon on the main floor and George went immediately to the desk at the receiving office, where he engaged in earnest conversation with the nurse in charge.

"What are you doing—committing me?" I asked, half joking only. For, from the mysterious expression of my friends' faces, I was not sure what to expect.

"No," laughed Hart. "George learned of the existence of a patient here who may turn out to be a very good friend of yours."

I turned this over in my mind, which did not yet function quite normally. A friend? Why, I had very few that could really be termed good friends outside of those that accompanied me. It could mean but one thing. Possibly one of my children—or even my dear wife—might have escaped somehow. I followed in a daze as a white-capped and gowned nurse led us along the corridor and into a ward where there were dozens of high, white beds.

Some of the patients were swathed in bandages; some sat up in their beds, reading or just staring; others lay inert and pale. The reek of iodoform pervaded the large room.

We stopped at the bedside of one of the staring patients, a young woman who looked unseeingly at our party. Great heavens, it was Marie!

A physician stood at the other side of her bed, finger on her pulse. The others drew back as I approached her side, raised her free hand to my lips and spoke to her.

"Marie, dear," I asked gently, forcing the lump from my throat as best I could, "don't you know me? It's Jack, Honey."

The fixed stare of the great blue eyes shifted in my direction. It seemed that they looked through and past me into some terrible realm where only horror held sway. She drew her hand from my grasp and passed it before those staring, unnatural eyes. There was an audible gulp from George. But the doctor smiled encouragement to me. I tried once more.

"Marie," I said, "where are Jim and Jackie?"

The hand fluttered to her lap, where it lay, blue-veined and pitifully thin. The stare focussed on me, seemed to concentrate. Then the film was gone from the eyes and she saw—she knew me!

"Oh, Jack!" she wailed, "I have been away. Don't you know where they are?"

My heart nearly stopped at this, but I sat on the edge of the bed and took her in my arms, looking at the doctor for approval. He nodded his head brightly and beckoned to the nurse.

"Bring the children," I heard him whisper.

My cup was full. But I must be calm for Marie's sake. She had closed her eyes now and great tears coursed down her waxen cheeks. Her body shook with sobs.

"She'll recover?" I asked the doctor.

"You bet. Just an aggravated case of amnesia. Hasn't eaten. Didn't even know her children. Cured now, but she'll need a few weeks to build up." He snapped shut the lid of his watch.

Those succinct sentences were the finest I had ever heard.

Marie clung to me like an infant to its mother. Her sobs gradually ceased and she looked into my eyes. Little Jim and Jack had come in and were clamoring for recognition.

"Oh, Jack," Marie whispered, "I'm so happy."[Pg 84]

She relinquished me and turned her attention to the children. I saw that my friends had left and that an orderly was placing screens about us. So I'll close the screen on the remainder of this most happy reunion.

It was several days before I had the complete story. Being lonesome during my absence when we were preparing for the voyage into space, and not knowing just when I would return, Marie had packed a grip and taken the train for Philadelphia, deciding to spend a few days with her Aunt Margaret, or at least to remain there with the children until I returned.

She had boarded the train at Manhattan Transfer at about the time we reached the location of the Terror and the train was just pulling out of the station when there came the first of the new attacks of the enemy. She thought that the pillar of fire rose from the approximate location of Rutherford, but was not sure until they reached Newark, when the news was spread throughout the train by passengers who boarded it there. She worried and cried over the loss of our little home and had worked herself into a state of extreme nervousness and near-hysteria by the time they reached New Brunswick.

Then, as the long train left New Brunswick, there was another attack, this one on the town they had just left. The last two cars of the train were blown from the track by the initial concussion, and the remainder of the train brought to a grinding, jerking stop that threw the passengers into a panic.

Already hysterical, Marie was in no condition to bear up under the shock, and the loss of memory followed. Jack and Jim clung to her, of course, and were taken to the Germantown Hospital with her when the wreck victims were transferred to that point. She had no identification on her person, and it was by sheerest luck that George, who was visiting a friend in the same hospital, chanced to see her and thought he recognized her.

That was all of it, but to me it was more than enough. From the depths of despondency, I rose to the peaks of elation. It was true that we would have to establish a new home, but this would be a joy as never before. Those I had given up as lost were restored to me and I was content. Hart would have to make some changes in the duties of that new job—the world travel was out of the picture. I had had my fill of adventure.

Besides, the hot spell was over.

#The Terror of Air-Level Six #Harl Vincent #Astounding Stories of Super-Science #science fiction #scifi #public domain books #public domain stories #public domain characters

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