#okay this might be a fanfiction

[the-magpie-archives]

Tips for writing London as a setting if you've never been there

London's a popular place to set a story! It's often imagined as sexy, cool, and suave. Whilst this is sometimes true, the thing that it predominantly is, is absolutely and entirely chaotic! So here are some aspects that you may not know about:

-Public transport is absolutely crucial to the infrastructure! Few people drive in London because of how well connected it is, and bus stops and train stations are often used as meeting points or details in directions.

-There's a LOT of crime, like, a lot. All cities have it, but London has a lot of variety. Stabbings are incredibly common (to the extent where it becomes a bit of a joke), almost everyone has a story where they've found or seen a dead body, and there are many money laundering/drug den fronts under the guise of highstreet shops (they're not well hidden).

-Despite it's chaos there's a strong code of etiquette most people hold themselves too. Some are actual rules (stand on the right side of escalators, don't queue jump) but some are simply social expectations (don't stop in the middle of the pavement, keep your bags close to your body, don't take up multiple seats.)

-A lot of tourists to the city are COMPLETELY FERAL and widely hated. They'll stand in the middle of the road, block up bridges, swing around cameras and selfie sticks in busy places, and completely ignore the social standards of polite society. People Do Not Like This. (also American tourists have a tendancy to just randomly start conversation with people? It's a bit weird and generally not done but it's not strictly a bad thing.)

-Rush hour is INSANE. We're talking almost static traffic, trains so packed that you're pressed into people on every side, buses that are so full they can't stop to let more people on. Some days it's better some days it's worse, but if you can avoid travelling at those times YOU DO.

-There are a lot of scam artists on the streets. Most major cities have these, they suck, they're aggressive, and they'll take your money! Some give you flowers and then force you to pay, some take photos of you and boost up the price to get them, there's always new ones, they're relentless, and you've gotta tell them to fuck off.

-Black cabs are not at all popular for normal people! They cater to tourists, rich people, and old people. They're great, the cab drivers are hard working and very knowledgeable, but they're also very expensive. Awful as it is, uber's cheaper if you're desperate, but buses go everywhere so it's just not really worth it.

[rocksalt-and-pie]

for all you fanfiction writers out there who aren't sure which role to put him in, you heard the man

[fuctacles]

Eddie, begrudgingly: Dustin's older brother is kinda fine :/

I had a craving for best friend's older brother AU so I wrote some but it's not my forte I'm out of ideas so that might be it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Edit: jokes on me I guess [Part II] [Part III]

Eddie was about to knock on his freshman friend’s door when there was a loud commotion on the other side and the door opened by itself. A guy, probably around his age, nearly ran into him in his haste to leave the house. He startled, taking Eddie in. And then taking a double take, the way Eddie was used to people doing at the sight of him.

“Who are you?” the guy asked, scrunching his nose and not meeting Eddie’s eyes.

He felt his hackles rise, venom building in his throat and ready to spit. He wasn’t expecting this on a Saturday on his friend’s doorstep, but he guessed this was the kind of town where you just couldn’t wear your battle vest in peace anywhere. His upper lip twitched ready to form a snarl, when suddenly the guy's features softened, a spark of recognition lighting up his eyes.

“Wait. Let me guess. Eddie?”

Eddie faltered, taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. He frowned.

“Yeah?”

The guy's face warmed up with a smile, and Eddie was not ready for that kind of emotional rollercoaster this early in the morning.

“Dustin’s stories do not do you justice,” he says for some reason, eyeing him again. Eddie wants to shrivel up and hide. What the fuck was happening. “He’s waiting for you in the kitchen,” he said, stepping to the side to invite him in. “I have to go to work, so you two be good, okay?” he says before waving a cheery goodbye and closing the door, disappearing just as abruptly as he showed up in front of Eddie. The inside of the house suddenly seemed dull.

Another ray of sunshine peeked from the kitchen, toothy grin and hazelnut curls.

“So you’ve met Steve!” Dustin grinned in place of a greeting.

Eddie gawked at him.

“That,” he pointed at the closed door. The sound of a car leaving the curb tickled his ears. “Was Steve?!”

“The adopted brother Steve? The Star Wars fan Steve? The badass older brother Steve?”

“Yes, all that,” Dustin nodded enthusiastically.

“I thought he was, like, 16!” Eddie flailed and it sounded like a petulant whine even to his ears. He winced.

Dustin frowned at him like he was being stupid. Eddie didn’t like that gaze, but unfortunately at this point, he was getting used to it. His younger friend leaned on the kitchen door frame watching Eddie toe off his shoes.

“He’s 19. What gave you that impression?”

Eddie frowned at his scuffed Reeboks. He nudged them with his toe to line up, looking for an answer.

“The adopted part, I think? He’s almost an adult, who adopts that old?”

He knew he had said the wrong thing as soon as he said it. He looked up at Dustin, whose face twisted uncomfortably.

“Shit, sorry man. I didn’t mean-”

Dusting clicked his tongue impatiently, interrupting him.

“It’s fine. This is an unconventional arrangement,” he said in that way when you heard something repeatedly. “I can tell you more, but after we make that character sheet, okay?”

Eddie nodded, eager to abandon his social faux pas. The Henderson’s were an unconventional unit, and that’s what he loved about them, at least from the stories Dustin shared. The guy was a little freak, just like Eddie, so it checked out his family was just as unconventional. So was Eddie’s after all.

The parallels made him warm up inside, the familiar need to protect his younger friends flaring up.

“Deal,” he nodded, following his friend inside the kitchen, where notebooks and DnD manuals already littered the table.

A couple of hours, two coffees and an unsolved argument about the intricacies of multiclassing later, they decided to take a break and Eddie could finally feast his eyes on the family photos on display. He stood in front of the newest one standing front and centre on the mantle. Steve was smiling shyly to the camera while Claudia Henderson had her arms around his shoulders and Dustin was grinning wide from his other side, hair ruffled by the older boy's hand.

“How long he has been living here?”

Dustin’s head popped out of the kitchen where he was rummaging for snacks.

“About a year. Remember the Starcourt fire?”

“Yeah?” Eddie frowned, taken aback by the seemingly unrelated question.

“Well, he’s been there and-” the boy frowned, fully stepping into the living room and crossing his arms. “Shit, Mom says I shouldn’t be babbling it around. That it’s Steve's story to tell.”

Eddie hummed, cocking his head.

“Your mom is very smart.”

Dustin unwrapped his arms, clenching his hands together.

“I guess I could tell you I mean who are you gonna tell? You just-”

Eddie raised both his hands, stopping him.

“Dude, he interrupted with all the disapproval his drug dealing nonconformist self could muster. “She’s right and that would be breaking your brother’s trust.”

“Uh. Yeah,” Dustin gulped, looking adequately ashamed at proposing the idea. “You’re right., he nodded.

This lasted about half a second because nobody could stop Henderson from being an egocentric know-it-all and since he was wrong he was now going to overcompensate for it. Of that, Eddie could be sure.

“We can go to his workplace and you could ask him!”

Eddie raised his hands again.

“Hold your horses Henderson, we’re not harassing your brother at work.” The boy was actually pouting, the little shit. “I am not that determined to hear it. I’ll just catch him another time I visit.”

That was the wrong thing to say because he wasn’t planning on being a recurring guest initially. Or maybe it was the right thing to say since Dustin positively beamed at the implication.

Maybe it was because the kid’s presence has been a good influence on him as well.

Also, while the story of Steve’s adoption didn’t seem that interesting before, the idea of a mall fire being somehow involved raised questions that were now itching the back of Eddie’s tongue. He had to ask them at some point.

*

“There’s this guy,” Eddie starts one day during lunch break. 

“Oh-ho,” Gareth murmurs with disdain, the crumbs from his sandwich falling from his lips.

“Not like that,” Eddie glowered at him, slapping against his arm. Even though it was kinda like that. “He’s picking up Henderson after Hellfire today and if we run into him, I want you guys to be civil.”

“We’re always civil,” Jeff frowns at Eddie’s backhanded accusations.

“Yeah, especially when you guys are mooning after Mrs. Wheeler.”

The comment raised a wave of loud protests from his friends.

“I am just saying-”

“You’re just saying that guy is hot and we shouldn’t ogle him?” Gareth, the worst friend he has, raised his eyebrow.

“No, I’m just-”

“You calling dibs, Munson?” John the Traitor, the Backstabber, joined in. Johned in, if you will.

‘No!” Eddie protested, maybe a little too loud. A couple of heads turned but when they saw the ruckus was coming from the freaks table, they quickly lost interest. “He’s the worst. A hunk of jock with stupid hair but!” He rose a finger. “He’s Henderson’s family. And what do we do with family members in Hellfire?”

“Lure in.”

“Lull into a fake sense of security.”

“Cast charm person.”

“Exactly,” he smirked, pointing his finger at each of them in approval. “This case is no different.”

“It feels different,” Gareth murmured under his breath, earning himself another smack on the shoulder.

*

Eddie wrapped up the session and was giving out experience points to his players when a soft knock interrupted his counting. He frowned at the door.

“Speak ‘friend’ and enter!” he hollered to his sheep’s utter glee. He grinned at them.

Dead silence was all the response he got, so he assumed whatever normie was bugging them got discouraged. But then, Henderson was turning around in his seat, yelling at the door.

“It’s from Lord of the Rings! You know this one!”

There was a shuffle on the other side where apparently, Steve came already to pick up his brother.

“Oh! Um… Melon? Was that it?”

“You may enter!” Eddie commanded with a grin straining at his cheeks. Dustin was doing a good job educating his jock brother, apparently. 

The guy pushed the door open, taking in the table full of teenagers. He waved hesitantly.

“You guys finishing up?”

“I’m handing out points, we need just a few minutes,” Eddie waved his hand. “And it’s Mellon.”

Steve frowned.

“That’s what I said.”

“Sure you did,” Eddie cocked his head condescendingly, ignoring the eyes of Corroded Coffin members staring at him. “Now sit and wait,” he gratuitously offered, snapping his fingers and pointing at a nearby bench, like Henderson’s older brother was some kind of dog.

To his surprise, he nodded shortly and obeyed, sitting down and watching him expectantly. Eddie took it as his cue to proceed. He coughed to gather his sheep's attention and went back to his meticulous calculations.

*

“That didn’t look like Charm Person to me,” Gareth hissed as soon as the younger members of Hellfire had left.

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Eddie scrunched his eyebrows, throwing him a look while he stuffed his campaign notes into his bag.

“You told us to be nice, but you ordered him around like he was one of the kids,” Jeff pointed out, arms crossing.

“I did not”

“You totally did.”

Eddie’s eyes narrowed as he straightened up.

“What is this? Mutiny? Among my own kin? Ungrateful little herd I had nurtured on my own breast-”

He was interrupted by a cacophony of grossed out noises.

“Spare us the imagery, please.”

Eddie huffed indignantly, closing his bag.

“Then quit yapping. It was a singular lapse of judgement on my part,” he said with finality, throwing his bag over his shoulder. Without looking back, he walked off, hand raised in a goodbye, “Toodles, bitches.”

And he was gone.

Gareth sighed.

“Man, I love Eddie, but sometimes…” John cut himself off, shaking his head. 

“Yeah.”

*

Eddie’s been on the fence about it for some time now. But the time was ticking and he did say more than once that ‘86 was gonna be his year, so maybe it was time to pocket his ego and make some calls.

Some very, very humiliating calls.

Sighing deeply he imagined himself going to the woods and digging up a deep hole. There he imaginary buried his pride, made a fancy map to find it later, hopefully in time for his graduation, and finally dragged himself back home and in front of his phone. Next to it, he tacked on a list of numbers of all his newest sheepies in case of emergencies. Like Hellfire scheduling.

He sighed once more, slumping dramatically before dialling the first of the numbers. As he listened to the dial tone, he squared his shoulders, decided a more confident pose was in order. He was now a man of action, taking his fate in his own hands. His pride was buried deeply in the darkest corners of the forest and only a courageous-

“Har- Henderson residence, this is Steve speaking.”

Eddie’s mind went blank, completely thrown off. Who was he calling again? What for?

“Hello?”

“Is this how you pick up the phone? Did I get the wrong house? Is this the British Queen?”

“... Eddie? Is that you?”

Busted.

“What gave me away?”

“Ah, only the dramatic nonsensical ramblings.” Steve answered, amusement in his voice. 

“Thank you, I pride myself in those.” No pride! Pride is buried deep in the putrid soil of a forgotten battlefield! “But I’m here for the superior Henderson, please and thank you.” Ah yes, the Charm Person again. Somebody could think Eddie buried his Charisma along with the pride.

“Sorry, Claudia is at work right now.”

Eddie scrunched his nose, confused, the gleeful tilt to the voice in his ear irking him. Then he remembered the mom. A staple in most households.

“Har, har, Steven. The smart one.”

“Please never call him that to his face,” the man said with a resigned sigh.

“There wouldn’t be enough space in the room for both our egos if I did.”

Steve laughed then, softly and genuinely, before calling out for his younger brother.

After a loud rattle, Dustin’s lispy voice finally reached Eddie’s trailer.

“What's up?”  

The man braced himself for what he was about to request.

“I need your help with an assignment.”

*

The door opened before he could even knock. Again.

“I thought I told you not to inflate his ego.”

“No, you told me not to call him smart. It is merely a by-product of my desperate attempts at graduating,” Eddie shrugged matter-of-factly. “Besides, I don’t respond to the likes of you.” He punctuated his words by seizing the guy up before brushing past him inside the Henderson’s house.

“The likes of- Excuse me?!”

Eddie was skipping towards Dustin’s room.

“Hey big guy I’m here for my tutoring!” he announced himself, standing in the open door to his friend’s room, who quickly beckons him inside. Steve’s heavy steps follow and soon he’s the one standing in the door frame, arms crossed, while Eddie bounces on Dustin’s bed.

“What do you mean the likes of me?” he asks, almost pouting. 

“Mainstream,” offered Dustin, shuffling through stuff on his desk.

“Jocks,” added Eddie, still bouncing with glee, hair following up and down.

“Normies.”

“Pop listeners.”

“Mom friends.”

“Conformists.”

“Okay, I get it!” Steve threw his hands in the air, stopping the list that probably wouldn’t come to an end otherwise. “You’re the cool guys, have fun having your cool stuff,” he huffed angrily, grabbing the doorknob. Before he closed the door he threw one seething glance at Dustin. “Do not. Ask me for snacks,” he hissed before slamming the door shut.

Eddie flipped back on the bed, a wide grin splitting his face.

“Man, your brother is so easy to rile up,” he chuckled gleefully.

“Right?! He’s so bitchy,” Dusting turned around towards him, signature smile in place. Eddie hollered.

“He is!”

Alas, a slap of palms interrupted his delightful trashing around.

“I believe we have some physics to cover?”

Eddie groaned. Right. He didn’t come here to bother the older Henderson. Booo.

[Steddie masterpost] [Ao3] [ko-fi]

[kevindavidday]

You Give Love a Bad Name: Chapter One

Playlist

[autumnalmess]

A reminder not to feel like you MUST post something special for barricade day (I sure as fuck am not, not during my exams 😱)

It does NOT make you a bad fan!!!!

VICTOR HUGO DOES NOT HATE YOU!!!

YOU'RE FINE!!!

Anyone who does post art or fics or anything is fucking awesome and we love you (I give you a kiss on the forehead)

But you still rock even if you don't.

Hugs and kisses, happy pride

[ezziemagpie]

Fanfic authors, please, I implore you, from one writer to another, DO NOT DELETE YOUR WORKS. Change the account ownership, make a different pseud to put it under, anonymise or orphan them, it doesn't matter, just please, please, PLEASE, do not delete them. Please. Even if you think they're badly written, or out of character, or a decade old, or 'cringe', or whatever, there will be some poor schmuck out there who loves what you've written and will cry over its deletion because they forgot to download it. - Sincerely, some poor schmuck who loves what someone wrote and has spent the last ten hours trying to track it down because he forgot to download it.

[i-may-be-an-emu]

200 FICS ON THE MASTERLIST!!!!! 🥳

I’m so proud of this fandom amazing work everyone

[bernardellinewsagency]

short neuvifuri angst idea

"Oh, did you enjoy the script that she wrote? Did you like the role that you were cast as? I hope you were happy in those five hundred years, Neuvillette, because I never was!"

Furina storms off after pushing him, leaving him drenched to the bone and sitting awkwardly in the waters of the Fountain of Lucine with naught to do but contemplate his long lasting memories. Remembering the way she would smile is an easy endeavor. Furina always looked sincere when smiling; perhaps he wasn't looking hard enough, but surely even fleeting moments between just the two of them had to have brought her some amount of happiness, as small as it may be.

He thinks of one long ago night, during the third century of her reign. Actually, right on the cusp of the new milestone, he recalls the Palais had been eerily silent after wrapping up a week of festivities held in Furina's honor. The people of Fontaine were still celebrating, and would be doing so until the early hours of the morning, but all was still within the Palais. Except for them, that is. She had supposedly retired to her bedchambers, and him to his office, yet the two had bumped into each other within the kitchen.

"Let's go to the Opera," she had told him, in lieu of answering when he asked what she was doing. He supposes that the flecks of pastry crumbs on her clothes answered that, and he didn't ask other questions such as why she wanted to go to the Opera. He followed her as willingly as if she had simply asked for the time.

(Their whole relationship had been like that, hadn't it? A duty that extended beyond just an Archon and her Iudex. He once heard the Traveler mention a sea of flowers at the end of the world, and should Furina declare that she would like to see such a sight, he would tear down Celestia just to make it happen.)

Furina had packed a basket of food to bring, and two bottles of wine to go with. Then they partook perhaps more than they should've, and perhaps he should've questioned if Archons can get drunk, or if a Sovereign should be getting drunk with one. He definitely should have stopped her from going into the storerooms of the Epiclese and procuring even more for them. The memories start to get a little hazy after that, but he can vaguely recall a remark she made about the location not being the best choice, and that she wanted to get away from something. He can't recall who made the decision to go up, and have him help carry her as they climb to the roof, but suspects it was still her doing.

As clear as day, though, he can remember her smile, bathed in the light of the slowly rising sun as it crested over the waters of her dominion. Out of every beautiful sight in Fontaine, she is the one he gets to appreciate most often, but never before in a light like this. He could gaze at that moment for another hundred years and never tire of it. "Dragon of the waters," she had called him, "might you allow an Archon to call you theirs?"

Should she have asked him that at the start of her reign, should they have been in a similar situation, the answer would be clear. He might have even wondered, with the walls of the Court to block them from their peoples' sights, if an Archon so in love with her people would fall like one if he shoved her. But they were not in the past, and he already knew by then that he had come to love her, and thus his answer was "I was under the belief that I already was yours, Lady Furina, both within my capacity as your Chief Justice and without. The people of Fontaine adore you, yet it is my love for you that truly knows no bounds. Nothing would make me happier than to be yours."

"They do, don't they," she had whispered, a note he almost lost to time with how he just barely could hear her. "Promise me this, Neuvillette, if you wish to be mine- promise you will never stray from your duties to Fontaine, and you will always, always, do what is best for her people."

"I will."

"And promise that you will stay by my side forever, then, for another three centuries and beyond that, even if you grow tired of me!"

"Of course, Furina, is... is something the matter?"

It was the first time he had seen her come close to crying, droplets of tears clumping her eyelashes together yet disappearing as she blinked, "Oh, you silly dragon, only the fact that you make me ever so happy."

Leaving the warmth of the memory behind, Neuvillette returns to the cold of an overcast sky dripping with sleet, as a blue silhouette leaves him behind and disappears into the cloudy distance.

[wickjump]

my motivation to do whumptober died the second i put finger to keyboard so im just bullshitting my way through writing right now. anyway yeah cross is dead unless i get too sad at my own writing

[starch1ldz]

Wolfdog: I will kill them.

Hotch, sighing and taking him by his shoulders, pushing gently to lead wolfdog away: You will not kill anyone, you will sit down and have a cup of coffee and a muffin.

Wolfdog muttering: I don't want your stupid muffin

(But he follows along anyway because what else would he do?)

[imari4444]

Shoutout to M (Anya) for taking one look at Durins tragic ending and deciding to just write a fix-it AU (so real: she’s just like all of us, idk if I’m the only one who made the connection that she bacicly said ‘I don’t like it’ and made a Fanfiction )

[cryptidliraz]

Okay hear me out-

Maribat.

WAIT DON’T LEAVE YET!

Listen I thought it was weird ship. I did! Didn’t see it at all. HEAR ME OUT THOUGH!!! Read ONE fic. Read one of the long ones. Cause I did, and it was the funniest, cutest, lovely crackfilled crossover fics that I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading and I don’t remember the name but it led me down a rabbit hole that I didn’t come out of for like three days.

[yourlokalescholar]

Okay so I posted this on Ao3 ages ago but completely forgot I meant to upload here so uh… better late than never?

Anyway this is the first part of my roleswap au :D Working on part two now; I’ll upload it here once it’s done, but there are two chapters on my Ao3 already if anyone wants to check it out!

[miraclesnail]

kk, I'll just start posting the work here. I have about 41-ish chapters already written

Title: (still working on one), chapter 1

chapter: 2 3 4, 5, 6, 7 8,9,10,11, 12,13,14,15, 16,17,18,19

When you think of Travis Stoll, what comes to mind?

Powerful? Important? A main character in the grand scheme of things?

No, right? 

Weak, insignificant, and a side character is more like it, right? 

That’s who he is. A minor character, someone who doesn’t get quests, whose contributions barely make a ripple, who barely did anything in both wars, and only remembered as that one guy who likes to prank. 

So why — why, why, why, why, why — is he being chased by a man in stupid black sweatpants and a stupid black turtleneck in a stupid black motorcycle helmet holding a stupid, blood-stained, 13 inch knife?

This is something Percy gets into. Or Nico. Or Jason.

But not him.

Never him. 

Travis leaps over rubble, feet catching on the granite, and tumbles forward. He curses loudly, but rights himself and continues running. He doesn’t dare look back (he heard the stories. You look back to see where the killer is and you end up tripping and dying and Travis very much would like to live), so he keeps his eyes trained up ahead to the not quite darkness, but close enough darkness that objects are just a dark fuzz. 

Rain is pouring thunderously outside, a drumming so loud it’s like a waterfall. The occasional lightning gives him a clear snapshot of his surroundings and those few milliseconds where he could see the rubble, he engraves in his mind. 

A fallen cabinet, a broken desk, shattered computers. He’s in an office. There’s a houseplant, a family portrait, cracked tile floors, a hole-ridden hand hanging over a toppled swivel chair— 

Nope! Nope, nope, nope, nope. He did not see that. That is not what he thinks it is. That has to be a doll or a mannequin. Something fake and plastic. Not real and made of flesh, because if it is then that means there’s something wrong! Something is killing people! (plague, monsters, aliens) And Travis don’t have time to think about that just yet. 

There’s a turn up ahead. Left? Right? Right is always right so right it is. 

He slows only a little bit, if only to make sure he doesn't crash into the wall, before running full speed again. He prays to his dad that there’s no rubble in his way. 

And like his prayer is answered, lightning flashes, thunder booms and Travis skids to a stop, sneakers barely gripping the wet tiles that otherwise would have sent him careening over the edge of the crumbled building wall. He clasps his shaking hands together and takes a deep breath, commanding his pounding heart to calm down, that no, you did not die. You almost died, but you didn’t. So stop beating so fast.  

He takes in the surroundings, noting the clouds first. They’re dark gray and expand as far as the broken, tilted buildings allow him to see. It blots out the sun and explains the darkness even though just a few minutes ago, it was as sunny as Camp Half Blood could be. His eyes lower to the horizon, to the rows of buildings, all with broken windows, missing sections of bodies, and most tilted too precariously to be considered stable. He lowers his eyes even further and gulps when he can't see the bottom. A heavy fog permeates a couple feet down that not even the heavy rain could dissipate. For all he knows, the fall could be 20 feet or 150 feet.

Is there a way to get to the floor below him? Maybe if he just clings to the wall and — nope, the moment his hand touches where the wall meets air, it crumbles. There’s no way he can descend to the floor below. 

This is a dead end. 

If he’s fast enough, maybe he can head the other way before the guy blocks him. He turns around, fumbling and tripping over his untied laces, but freezes. 

Someone is turning the corner. And the glint of that wicked knife in their hand tells him it’s not Chiron dressed as Santa Clause. 

Cheese sticks, he’s trapped. Maybe he could hide before the man sees him and wait till — the man turns to the aisle towards him and walks right in the middle towards him. 

Oh holy sandals. Travis takes a step back and his heel pushes the rubble off the ledge, a grim reminder that there’s no exit behind him. He glances behind him, a who-knows-how-high-drop into the abyss, then back to the front, a cynical man with a loose grip on his knife. 

Which is the better chance? Should he just jump? Does he even know if the man is dangerous? 

He has a knife and it’s stained with blood! Of course he’s dangerous! 

If Connor was here, he would know what to do. 

The man is drawing scarily close now, close enough for Travis to see the black, tight-fitting sport shirt with long sleeves and collar up to his chin. Close enough for him to see his belt ladles with all sorts of pointy objects. Close enough to see the brand of his black Adidas joggers. Close enough to see black, well-worn, hiking boots and definitely close enough to see the ocean blue of his eyes past the tinted shield of his motorcycle helmet.

They’re cold, terrifying cold. 

If Travis wasn’t so scared for his life, he would ask the man where he shops. He’s sure Nico would like to know. 

He glances over his shoulder to the abyss again and stiffens. He can’t survive a high fall. He’s not Percy or Jason. There’s no way he could buffer his fall either like how Nico does with the skeletons, but he’s a good talker. He’ll talk his way out of this like he always has with his pranks. So he snaps his eyes back forward and steels himself for the biggest debate of his life. 

“H-Hey!” 

AH NO his voice cracked! 

“Pal, buddy, amigo, friend, I don’t know if this is your idea of a joke or a prank or just a very elaborate plan to get me to pee my pants, but you did it! I’m terrified! So can you please stop?”

The man didn’t even falter, didn’t even miss a step. 

“Look, I applaud you. Your dedication to your role is amazing, like your costume is some A+ design.” 

Oh gods, he’s still coming. And he’s actually tightening his grip on his knife! 

Dad, Hermes, I’m begging you, if you really love me, then please bless me with some +1 charisma and speech skill right now. 

“Unless you really are here to kill me, to which I say, please don’t. I don’t even have a weapon to protect myself! That’s not fair, you know?! Don’t you care about making things fair?!” 

Crap. 

Nothing’s working. 

He’s going to have to fight his way out and Travis so does not want to do that. Not when he’s in this much of a disadvantage. 

But finally, finally, finally, the man stops walking towards him, only standing two arms length away. He raises his free hand and Travis jerks his body into a defensive position, but the rising hand only rubs the man’s neck. He raises his chin and talks, voice muffled through the helmet. “Are you done, Connor? I don’t have time for your jokes.” 

“I’m Travis.”

The response is automatic, years of being called the wrong name ingrained this reflex in him. It’s natural to him, something he doesn’t even think about.

The man falters and so did he. 

Most people have never heard their voice before, most probably can’t identify their voice. But Travis hears his voice every day and before he left for college, every second of his life. They all said he shares everything with Connor, even their voices are the same apparently. 

“You… have the same voice as me,” Travis says hesitantly. 

The man isn’t advancing, his wide eyes train on Travis. He could see shock, surprise in those eyes. Or maybe it’s mania. It’s hard to differentiate emotions when all you have is the eyes. He stares for a few more seconds, looking up and down his entire body although his stare linger most on his Camp Half Blood shirt. 

“You’re… not Connor?” he whispers.

There’s no mistaking it. That’s definitely his voice and there’s only one person Travis knows who shares the same voice as his. All tension, all fear and worry leaves his body and he sighs in relief. 

“Connor, this has got to be the least funniest prank you ever pulled. You really scared me!” The man — Connor — freezes at his words, but Travis doesn’t really pay much attention to that. More importantly, this is the last time he’s eating the last Goldfish crackers without buying a replacement pair. Lesson learned. A very hard lesson learned. 

Still though, isn’t this a bit too much? To go this far for some measly $3 snack that they can literally buy at any grocery store? Like, Travis knows Connor loves his snacks. But this is going way too far. He kicks the rubble which definitely seems real. 

“But I have to admit that the special effects are really cool. You went all out for this, huh? Who did you bribe to help you set this up? Hazel? Lou Ellen? Percy and Annabeth? This place is so realistic. You really outdid yourself. And your costume is so cool. Did you get it from Nico?” 

He walks in front of Connor with ease, but his grin falters. Something is off. Connor is backing away from him. Through the visor, he can see … trepidation? Confusion? Fear? But Connor fears nothing. 

“Connor?” Travis asks, worry creeping into his voice. He looks behind him. Maybe there’s a monster coming towards him. But there’s nothing outside other than the rain. “What’s wrong?”

Faster than a blink of an eye, Connor kicks Travis’s feet out from underneath him. There hadn’t even been time to react. Which is bizarre. Connor was never this fast. If anything he’s the faster one by a mere second or two.

Either way, Travis is falling backwards and he hits the ground hard on his back. And before he could process what the heck is happening, there’s a dagger in his face just inches from his eyes. That’s not celestial bronze, he thinks. 

The hand holding the dagger that’s looming dangerously over his face is shaking. Shaking rather badly actually. Like, shaking bad enough that it can drop. He wonders if he could ask Connor if he could just move that dagger out of the way a bit so it’s not over his eye in case it does slip. 

“What—” ‘Connor’ says in what is definitely Connor’s voice except it’s trembling even worse than the hand, “What game are you playing, Connor?” 

“...I’m Travis, not Connor,” he says meekly, still eyeing the dagger that’s now a bit closer than last time. Travis clenches the bracelet over his wrist. He can probably block it if need be. But this guy in front of him is… fast. A lot faster than any opponent he ever faced. What if he doesn’t? Gods, he hopes it doesn’t end up poking his eye out. Will can fix a lot of injuries including something as delicate an organ as the eye, but that doesn’t mean he wants to experience what a stab there feels like. 

Mr. Dark and Mysterious and maybe-not-Connor stays silent for a moment, hopefully not contemplating about poking his eye out. The face is entirely unreadable underneath that helmet. But after an eternity, the guy removes the dagger from his face and steps back. Travis gets to his feet uneasily and eyes the dagger still in the guy’s hand.

“So… are we—” Travis begins. 

But Mr. Helmet cuts him off sharply. “What were you doing before you got here?”

Before he got here in this weird, gray dystopia? He shrugs. “Nothing much. I was doing my usual morning jog around the camp perimeter.” 

Mr. Helmet’s hand squeezes the dagger. “Camp? As in Camp Half Blood?”

“The one and only,” Travis says with a smile and a finger gun. 

It did not lighten the mood like he hoped. 

“And Camp Half Blood is okay? It’s still standing? There’s people there? It’s not flooded at all?” 

Travis blinks at the weird barrage of questions. 

It makes no sense actually. Flooded? Still standing? Okay? At what point was Camp never okay? Sure it came close to being destroyed like a billion times, but it always pulled through with the power of teamwork and Percy Jackson. 

Mr. Helmet/Maybe-Connor must see the confusion in his eyes because he’s digging through a pouch on his belt. Travis stiffens and grabs his bracelet again at the sudden movement, but the guy just pulls out a large four leaf clover. 

With a flick of his finger, the clover twirls in a spiral down to the ground. The air ripples as it descends, shimmering and distorting the space. The gray boring disintegrating canvas that is the wall becomes a patch of beautiful healthy green grass and the familiar tree trunks bordering the camp’s main area and the forest. 

“This. You saw this and ran inside?” Mr Helmet says, pointing a gloved hand at the distortion in an disbelieving tone. It’s not said but Travis can practically hear the accusation. You saw a strange, portal-like thing and ran inside like a complete idiot without investigating it first?

He can just hear Annabeth’s sigh of immense disappointment. Which is really unfair. He would never do it on purpose. Like all things in his life, it was an accident. 

“To be fair,” he starts off because all situations need context, “I was in the zone and was trying to break my personal best.”

Mr. Maybe-Connor blinks at him and stays silent, as if waiting for more. 

So Travis provides some more context. “And I might have not been looking at where I was going.”

More silence.

And alright, more context. “I couldn’t sleep and running always helps me with my nerves.”

“So, you did run through. You came from the other side. Then… that means… are you really— ” 

The whistle of air.

Like an arrow piercing through the sky.

They both hear it at the same time. 

Travis takes a wild guess and steps back instinctively, turning his head towards the source. And so does Mr. Maybe-Connor, the same exact motion as him at the exact same time. 

A feathered arrow snags Mr. Maybe-Connor’s shoulder, the speed and force of it pushing him back.

Pushing him back into the portal with pretty grass and sunkissed trees. 

There’s only enough time for their eyes to meet before Mr. Helmet completely passes through the portal and the shimmering canvas disappears. The man is gone. Travis is all alone sans for the crunch, crunch of boots stepping on broken tile. 

He hears a click. That’s his only warning before another click and the whistle of air again. 

Travis ducks this time, the arrow zooming over his head. 

He doesn’t get time to think of the next step. A third arrow embeds itself into his khaki while he is still crouched and pins him to the tile. He yanks it out just in time to feel the cold press of metal against his crown. He freezes at the touch and it’s enough of a pause for the stranger to yank his arms behind his back and shoves his face into the dirty tile. A knee digs into his shoulder to keep him in place and the metal goes back to resting against his head. 

On one hand, this is a bad situation. He’s dead for sure. No way is he surviving an arrow to the head. On the other hand, holy cow. What amazing marksmanship! The best Travis has ever seen! It’s enough to rival a hunter of Artemis. Enough to rival even —

“That was surprisingly easy, Travis. The hell?” 

Travis’s thoughts grind to a halt. That voice.

“Who was that second person you were with?”

His blood runs cold. That voice. 

“And what are you wearing?”

That voice, it’s him. It’s definitely him. But it can’t be. He died years ago. There’s no way. He’s imagining it. He’s hallucinating. There’s no way it’s him. But curiosity is eating at him. He wants to look. There’s a voice in his head yelling at him to Don’t do it! Stop! You’re being reckless! You’re going to get yourself killed! 

But he has to know. He has to. 

So he looks, tilting his face just enough to peek over his shoulder. 

He looks past the metal arrow inches from his face.

Past the body of the handcrafted mahogany crossbow.

Past the sleeved arm holding the weapon.

To the scrunched up face that’s gut-piercingly familiar. 

Not much has changed at all. His hair is still the same shade of black. His eyes are still the same shade of brown. He’s still short. Still 4’6”.  He’s still scowling. His face is still scrunched up like he stared down the shaft of his arrow for too long. 

Michael.

Michael Yew. 

It’s the same. Everything about this Michael is the same as the Michael he knows, is exactly as he remembers before Michael had sacrificed himself on that bridge years ago. 

Almost the same. Nearly the same.

The only difference is that the Michael he knows preferred a traditional bow, not a crossbow.

And that Michael never —

Travis could hear his heart hammering in his chest as Michael’s knee — warm and solid and definitely real — grinds and pushes harder against his shoulder blade. 

That Michael never looked at him with such a cold and conflicted expression. 

xxxxx

The arrow hooks the threads of the fabric on his shoulder. Not enough to touch his skin and break the vow, but enough that the momentum pushes him backwards.

The preciseness of it all still amazes him even after all these years. Michael is simply incredible. Then it strikes him that the portal is behind him. That he’s going to fall through the portal.

[Ground your feet.]

He can’t. 

Twist, lunge, don’t fall in.

[I can’t.] 

Summon some — [There’s no time.]

[grab something.] Like what?

His eyes meet the boy’s with the painfully bright orange shirt and they’re wide, clueless. 

[Him. Grab him.]

He reaches out, praying, hoping that his fingers snag on his.

But it doesn’t. 

And he’s falling.

.

falling 

.

falling.

.

The ground comes faster than he expected as his back collides with dirt. He scrambles to his feet, maybe the portal is still there and he can hop through. But it’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s— 

It’s dry. The air is dry. 

[It’s not raining.]

His breaths come faster and faster as he looks around him. 

Trees. Trees with leaves — actual green leaves — full and bustling and to the brim. 

His head tilts back and — something bright and painful blinds him and he hisses pulling his head back down. 

[The sun. That was the sun. And the sky, I can see the sky.]  

He stumbles forward on uneven legs. It’s too hot. It’s too warm. It’s suffocating. He rips the helmet off and tosses it aside. But it isn’t better. He can see more, hear more, smell more.  [The clouds, the wind, the birds, the chirping, the trees, the leaves, the soil] 

Someone’s breathing heavily and he spins around out of instinct, but only seeing more trees [pine trees, birch trees, willow trees]

It’s him. He’s breathing too loud and he stops gulping air, holding it in. And then letting it go. He can’t panic here. He needs to find a way back over. If Michael is there, then the others must surely be there too. He needs to get back now.

He fumbles with his thigh pouch [the ground, it’s so dry] his hands won’t stop shaking [The sky is so blue] he could see the inklings of the green clover among the black inside of his pouch [the sun feels so warm] and he grasps it in his gloved hand, pulling it out. 

Only for them to disintegrate into dust that the wind blows away. 

He stares at their remains, not comprehending, not understanding.

[Was that all of it?] That was all of it. 

[Then are we stuck here?] We’re stuck here. 

This is a dream. It has to be a dream. There’s no possible explanation.

His neck twinges, aches, burns and he rubs it. He digs his fingers in. He squeezes it until it hurts and the burning, screaming, aching dies down.

What… what should he do next? What is he supposed to do? [Let’s sit down and we can analyze the situation.]

He starts when a branch cracks behind him and before he could turn around, a man’s voice rings out,

“Travis! There you are!” 

A familiar voice. A not so familiar pitch. 

“Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you for over an hour.” 

A remnant of a memory from so long ago floats to the surface. 

“Come on, I have arts and crafts with your cabin. Tyson is stoked for it.” 

And he twirls around to see him. The one that haunts his dreams. That terrorizes his sleep and stalks his consciousness.  The one with black hair (caked with blood) that hangs over sea-green eyes (filled with bloodlust) and a grin (a glower) on his face with a 6 (6?) beaded necklace over a sickening bright, orange T-shirt.

Son of Poseidon, Perseus Jackson.

His blood freezes.

His heart stops. 

His throat closes. 

A hazy, belligerent red washes over him. 

I’m going to kill him. 

[Don’t. Don’t fight him. Not when we don’t know anything.] But he — 

[I know. But we need him and we can’t afford to lose another person.] But— 

[Don’t.] But—

“Travis? What’s the matter?” Perseus asks, his voice infuriatingly friendly, light-hearted.

Perseus takes one step towards him [don’t] and another and one more till he’s within arms reach.

[Don’t.]

[Stop it.]

[Just run away.]

[We need to figure out what’s happening.]

[Don’t do it. For gods’ sake, don’t—]

“Travis? You okay? You look like you’re out of it.” 

A hand touches his shoulder. 

He pulls the knife from his belt and lunges forward with every intention of stabbing Perseus’s face clean of skin, muscle, and bone. But his other hand grabs his wrist before he could get close.

[I said don’t!] 

Guilt roils in his gut but anger overrides that. 

Perseus leaps back a safe distance, yelling, “Hey! What are you doing?”

He shoots forward. The chest is just as good as the face. Probably more painful too. And the pain will last longer too. But his left ankle bumps into his right shin and he misses again. [Wait and listen to me for a second —]

“Travis! What the heck! What’s wrong? Hey!”

He doesn’t answer, to Perseus, to him. All that matters is getting his dagger into (unmarred?) flesh and twisting it free and thrusting it back in. Again and again and again. Till he’s dead as much as the others. 

And maybe Perseus sees that unreasonableness too. The son of Poseidon shoves him to the ground, turns tail, and runs. 

He follows, uncaring of anything else. 

“Crap, crap, crap!” 

He catches up in a minute, longer than he would have liked and only because he keeps tripping, but he manages to throw his dagger at the heel of Perseus’s foot so he’ll tumble to the ground. He’s on him the next second, pulling the flailing arm behind Perseus’s back and pushing the shoulder out of its joint. The hiss of pain that follows didn’t quench the red haze. He raises his knife. Perseus bucks and tries to throw him off and he nearly did, but he locks down more. A knife in the spine should stop his struggling. He tightens his hold on his handle, lift it higher and — 

someone rips it from his hand.

Another pulls him back by the shoulder till he’s off Perseus completely, pushing until he’s falling on his back. 

And a third is pinning his left arm down with a knee against his elbow and ordering the second person to get his right arm too.

He slips his dagger from behind his back and jabs the knife right above where the kneecap should be. He slices, digging the blade in and swiping out quickly. Blood splatters across his face and screams break out in multiple directions. One in pain. Several in terror. [Wait! That was a person you just stabbed! A real person! Not a zombie!] The knee retracts and he rolls out from under the restraint, spitting blood out of his mouth. 

Shit. Fuck. What did he do? 

[Are you done? Can we run away now and rethink?] Yeah. I’m sorry. I just— [It’s fine. It’s fine! Apologize later but right now, just get out of here.]

But a hand is already on his upper arm the next second. He grabs the owner’s arm and their ugly orange shirt, sweeps his leg out, and tugs down. The fourth person fell. 

But a fifth and sixth person already have hands on him and they shove his face into the dirt and pin his wrists behind his back. [This is bad.]

He struggles for all he’s worth, but there’s more hands and more force and more yelling. So he struggles harder. [This is so very bad.] 

“Shit. What the fuck is wrong with you, Travis!” 

He kicks a shin. [Should I—]

“Clarisse! Clarisse!! Oh my god. Oh my GOD!”

He bites a hand. [Do you want me to—]

“Get out of my way. I’m going to kick his teeth in!”

He headbutts someone in the balls. [I’m going to use—]

“Dude, calm down! Piper, charmspeak his ass or something!”

[Piper?] and he stops struggling. 

Hands are locking his wrists together. 

[Piper? But Piper—]

“Forget charmspeaking. Someone get Connor! Wait, I see him. Connor, get over here! Your brother lost his marbles.” 

“Travis.”

He raises his head an inch and stares at a monster. At the man. At the horse. A centaur. A familiar face. A face from before. What was his name? 

“Travis,” the man, horse, centaur begins with wary, uncertain eyes, “What is ailing you? Why are you attacking your fellow campers? Your friends?” 

What is his name? What is his name?

“Travis? Can you hear me?”

What was it? Chase? Chance? Camdyn? Caelan?  Charon? Chiron? 

“Do you understand what I’m asking, Travis? ”

Chiron. It was Chiron.

“Travis?”

Chiron Chiron Chiron Chiron Chiron. That’s Chiron. But Chiron abandoned them. Chiron sided with the gods and left them all. Chiron is dead so how, why, what?

“Tra… vis?”

And he traces the new voice to the source, eyes landing on the face he sees everyday. The ocean-blue eyes he has etched down to memory. The unruly, unbrushed brown hair he knows down to the last curl. But the orange shirt. The brown khakis. The 9 beaded necklace. That thin line of scarred tissue running across his left brow. The surprise, the worry, the unsureness, that’s all new. 

That isn’t his brother.

That can’t be his brother. 

The beads don’t match up. The scars don't add up. Something’s wrong. Everything’s wrong. 

Another man comes up beside Chiron. He looks familiar too. But he recalls his name in an instant. Dionysus. An Olympian. And alive too. 

He doesn’t get much chance to dwell on it before Dionysus waves a hand and his eyes fall shut without permission. 

[ianales]

illicit affairs (Cheater!Lo’ak x Omatikayan! Reader)

a/n: hope you guys enjoy this! there might be a part 3? hopefully you guys would like this mini series?

after outing Lo’ak as a cheater, things happened…

disclaimer: maybe hinting towards as Neteyam x reader?? tell me what you guys think!

ps. gif is supposed to be like neteyam’s reaction to lo’ak cheating LOL

sorry for a late post, life has been hectic lately :(

part 1 ——— part 2

“L-Lo’ak is this true?” Tsireya questioned.

“No- no i don’t know what she’s talking about”- He responds, stuttering. He turns to look at his brother, Neteyam, he was pissed.

Neteyam walked over to (name) and gave her a side hug and greeted (name)

“I told you it wasn’t a good idea Lo’ak! you never listen”

“Lo’ak.. its true…?” Tsireya had this look in her eyes, it was difficult to read, like she was heartbroken, but there was more. there was disappointment.

she sat in her tent, fidgeting with the promise bracelets they shared, she looks back in her own memories, come to think of it, his own wrist seemed to miss one, he threw it away, she took the bracelet off her own wrist, throwing it towards the tent’s opening.

her eyes traveled as a blue hand catching the bracelet. Neteyam.. she recognised almost immediately at the arm band he wore

“this is your bracelet, tìyawn…” love

“did you know?” she asked, ignoring the nickname he used, which he gave her when they were teenagers.

“i knew, everyone knew… everyone disapproved.. we have no way of communicating, tìyawn.. i couldn’t tell you if i wanted to…” he says, walking in the tent and sitting next to her.

“i know… i shouldn’t blame you… its all his fault that”-

“skxwang?” he chuckles light heartedly

“yeah… skxwang..” she gives the same energy back, she leans her head on Neteyam’s shoulder, “why would he do this, Teyam? is it me? am i not talented enough? am i not pretty enough?”

“thats nonsense tìyawn.. you’re the best na’vi there is…”

before she got to respond, a gentle voice called out from outside the tent. “hìtxoa…? (excuse me) u-um.. its Tsireya.. i know you probably wouldn’t want me to talk to you but i just wanna talk and”-

she looks up from Neteyam’s shoulder, “n-no um… you can come in… you seemed just as shocked as me..”

Tsireya walks in, a gentle smile on her face, and a basket of fruits “im… im so sorry.. i had no idea he was already mated with another.. he told me there was no one.. and the others failed to inform me…”

She accepts the fruit bowl and smiles painfully at Tsireya, “its…. its okay… i mean it hurts.. but its not your fault… it’s Lo’ak’s really… for being unfaithful.. and for lying to you…”

“Lo’ak told us.. that he.. he already told you about (name)….” Neteyam spoke up.

“N-no there was nothing.. he told me he was the only one he loved and everything..”

(Name) felt more pain, holding Neteyam’s hand for support, which he gladly allowed.

“y-yeah… he tends to say.. that type of stuff.. thanks for the fruits by the way…” she said to Tseriya.

“no problem… i hope theres no bad blood between us..”

“oh god no! no.. you were hurt too.. betrayed…”

“yeah… i.. i hope to talk this out with him… hopefully.. i… i don’t know why im talking about this with you..”

“its alright…. im… i just need some time”

the rest of the day Neteyam was comforting (name) in every way possible, he brought her out to make a new bracelet, a matching one with him, he brought her to go hunting with him, which she doesn’t normally do but cheered him on once he caught something, now they sat by a stream, their feet dipped in the ankle length water.

“you don’t deserve him tìyawn….” he spoke from the silence. “you need someone who will appreciate you.. who will…. be there for you when you need them.. who will support you and love you…someone like…”

“you?” she said sarcastically.

“no.. not me.. i guess..” he chuckled awkwardly. “i mean only if you”-

“you’re like a bother to me Neteyam.. a very supportive brother… thank you..”

“yeah… im glad that you see me.. as a brother.. we should head back now tìyawn..”

she nods taking his hand in hers and head back to camp, little did they know, another navigator stood in the shadows, jealous eyes on them.

@ok-boke @myh3artttt @idcalol @cherrybomb5000 @tealtadpole566 @random-3455 @slayingqueenchal @hgccs-blog @emery-333 @papichulo120627 @littlewinchester1 @optimisticsandwichgladiator @r3d0n33 @neteyams-wh0re @satankilledmyghosts @zorosthreesworldstyls

[ad-astra-per-aspera-1389]

Okay, so I don't usually post my fics directly on tumblr (usually just on ao3 with a link on here) but ao3 is down atm and I finished the dbd x mphfpc fic!

Tagging @fellow-fandom-fruitifier bc he asked :)

Um...I'll add what would be tags here:

Fandoms: Dead Boy Detectives (TV), Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children (Books)

Not really any necessary content warnings. Just a nice little case without anything dangerous, for once.

Word Count: 2069

The Case of the Lost Boys

Summary: The Dead Boy Detectives find themselves on the island of Cairnholm, investigating the whereabouts of a wandering ghost and his unfinished business.

While London alone was teeming with ghosts with issues to solve, occasionally ghosts brought cases from farther away. Typically, these cases were much simpler than what would, 25 years later, lead them to Port Townsend.

One of these cases, back in 1998, was The Case of the Lost Boys. 

The ghost of a young woman arrived in their office one afternoon. While the case didn’t necessarily concern her directly, she had spent a lot of time with the affected ghost. A young boy, around Charles and Edwin’s age, had been wandering the island of Cairnholm for decades, the woman said. He was looking for something—someone—that just wasn’t there. The woman paid them sufficiently, and Charles and Edwin agreed to take the case.

Mirror hopping led the two detectives through the mirror inside a bathroom, which was attached to a motel room, which was above a tavern. The sheer amount of noise coming from below caused Edwin to simply walk through the wall to get outside, instead of going down the stairs and through the tavern on the ground floor. It was one of several things that freaked Charles out every time Edwin did it. To his credit, however, Edwin was trying to do it less when Charles reminded him of it. However, that didn’t mean he didn’t still forget from time to time.

Edwin walked through a second floor wall and landed on his feet on the ground outside. A few minutes later, Charles was next to him, having taken the long way around. “Mate, you can’t keep doing that! I know you’re fine, but I still forget we’re dead sometimes.”

“Right, my apologies. I’ll use the door next time. I simply didn’t care to walk through such a loud establishment.”

“Next time, we’ll take the stairs and walk through a wall on the first floor, yeah?”

“Agreed. Now, let us track down this wayward ghost, shall we?”

After a bit of walking, the two detectives found the place their client had mentioned the boy to frequent. They had to wait a while, but, sure enough, the boy wandered through the bog and up near the old, previously bombed out house on the far side of the island. Once they were sure he’d stay there for a while, Charles and Edwin followed him up, Charles holding his cricket bat out in front of him.

“Excuse me,” called Edwin, “but we were called because we were told you might need help.”

The boy turned around. He’d been tearing through pieces of the house, searching. “My sister. She was here.”

“When it was bombed during the war?” asked Charles. He hadn’t quite gotten around to explaining the second world war to Edwin, but Charles knew London and other parts of the region had taken a lot of damage. He’d paid some attention during his history classes.

“Yes, but it always reset before anyone got hurt.”

“What do you mean, reset?”

“The bird reset it to the night before the house was destroyed. We would watch the show each night before bed. Then I went out one night, and I died. I can’t get back in. I haven’t seen her in years!” The boy punched a wall, causing chunks of it to fall out. Charles pulled Edwin backwards, out of the house entirely.

“I think he’s lost his mind,” said Charles, once he and Edwin were alone again. The two of them were poring over Edwin’s notes.

“It seems he’s lost his sister, and, though the house was bombed with her in it, he believes she’s alive.”

“He mentioned it all being reset. Sounds like a time loop, doesn’t it?”

“That it does, Charles, but we cannot see it, and therefore we cannot break it.”

“Is that even the problem, though? If he just sees his sister, he’ll move on.”

“That would be quite easy, Charles, if only we knew where the sister was.”

They didn’t even know the ghost’s name, and now they needed to find his sister, too? This wasn’t as easy as they thought it would be.

Charles and Edwin returned to the island the next day, after spending the night in the office reading up on time loops and delirium in ghosts. This time, they used the stairs to exit the tavern, and by the time they reached the old house it was midday. Despite the sun being high in the sky they still couldn’t see very well in the old charred house. Charles pulled two flashlights from his backpack and the search continued.

Eventually, Charles found a hole in the floor. “Edwin, come look at this!”

The boy in question followed Charles’s voice until they were both looking down into the hole. Edwin went down into the hole while Charles stood lookout, just in case the ghost boy made another appearance.

Inside the hole in the ground, Edwin found a trunk of old photos, featuring children doing largely impossible or supernaturally odd things. As he sifted through them, a second light appeared above his head. It was a soft glow, like a fireplace, and Edwin looked up right as Charles called, “Edwin?”

A girl stood next to Charles, holding a ball of flames above the hole to see into it better. Edwin heard her voice echo as she asked Charles, “What are you doing here? Who are you?”

“Stay back,” warned Charles, pointing his cricket bat at her.

“What. Are you doing. In our house?” asked the girl, punctuating each set of words with a few steps forward. Behind her, Charles soon noticed, were a smaller girl, likely about seven years old, and a boy the older girl’s age that gave off a faint buzzing sound if it was quiet.

“We were just leaving, actually.” Charles took a step back.

“Good,” said the girl.

“Emma,” said the younger girl, “we should go before we’re late for lunch.”

Emma grimaced, turning around towards the two that were with her. “I suppose so. The bird will be angry if we’re late.” She cast one last warning glare over her shoulder at Charles, and then the three of them were gone.

Edwin climbed back out of the hole, with help from a rope Charles had in his backpack, and reported his findings to Charles. “It appears to be a group of syndrigasti: a variant of human with an extra soul. These extra souls give them special abilities, such as the boy’s ability to do so much damage around this place, and the girl’s fire.”

“So, his sister must be one too?”

“Not necessarily. It’s a relatively rare condition, however, it is especially likely in this case. If he cannot find her, and neither can we, she’s likely in a time loop for the living. Only syndrigasti can enter, and we are not that.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad then, does it? He can go in himself and find her.”

“Not if he died in a certain way. If the creature that killed him consumed his extra soul, then he can no longer enter the time loop, as he said before. We will need to get the sister to leave the loop temporarily.”

“How do we do that?”

“I do not know. I suppose if we can find another occupant of the time loop, we may be able to get a message across. For that, however, we’ll need more information from the boy.”

“What about that girl, Emma? She had abilities, didn’t she?”

“We don’t know for sure that she lives there, though it is likely. Unfortunately, they’ve gone, and we still do not know how to enter the time loop.”

Later in the day, the detectives found the boy in the same place as the day before. Charles stood by with his bat while Edwin questioned the wayward ghost. They learned that the boy’s name was Victor, his sister’s name was Bronwyn, and that he had, in fact, died in the way Edwin had suspected. 

The one good thing about all this was that he remembered how to enter the time loop. Charles suggested writing on the cave’s wall and hoping they’d see it when one of them left again. Edwin, however, thought it might frighten the children if they saw a note reading “Bronwyn, your brother is looking for you”, considering Victor had been dead for decades.

Instead, Edwin wrote out a neat note and attached it to the wall of the cave:

Bronwyn Bruntley,

I am from the Dead Boy Detective Agency. We were called in about your brother. His ghost is still on the island in the present day. Until he has closure, he will not move on to his afterlife. Victor’s unfinished business is seeing his sister again. Once you receive this, it would help both of us if you could leave the time loop temporarily to reunite with your brother.

Sincerely,

Edwin Payne

Edwin and Charles stayed on the island late into the evening, watching the mouth of the cave for someone to take Edwin’s note. Eventually, the note seemingly disappeared on its own. It moved like it was being removed from the wall by a hand, but there was no hand. It floated through the cave and disappeared through the other end.

Less than an hour later, two girls and a floating hat emerged from the mouth of the cave, each of them able to see Edwin and Charles (or so they assumed). One of the girls, the one that wore trousers and a shirt, asked, “Are you Edwin Payne?” She held the note in her hands.

“I am Edwin Payne. You must be Bronwyn.”

“I am. You found my brother?”

“We did.”

Victor, who had been all but dragged over near the bog by Charles earlier, stepped closer to the girls.

“Wyn?”

“Victor!”

The two siblings embraced so tightly that anyone else might have bruised a rib from it. Edwin and Charles gave them a bit of space for their little reunion, until, eventually, Edwin had to burst their bubble.

“I do not mean to bring down the room, but since your unfinished business has now been finished, Death will be coming to collect you shortly. Therefore, Charles and I must be going, now.” Edwin turned on his heel and began to walk away, Charles shortly behind him. 

Then, the other girl, Emma, called out, “Wait!” and Edwin stopped. He turned back around to look at her.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know if you work with the living at all, but I’ve been looking for a certain boy since the last war. If I give you a name, can you send the results to our post box in town?”

Edwin’s expression softened slightly, and he pulled out his notebook and pen. “Of course. What is the name?”

“Abraham Portman.”

This second, smaller case did not require that the Dead Boy Detectives remain on Cairnholm. The two of them did, however, have to use their disguises that would allow them to appear living. They searched computers and phone directories until they found the man Emma had been looking for.

The two ghosts finally found Abraham’s house in Florida, in the United States. Mirror hopping there was easy. The difficult part was deciding how to explain it to Emma. Abraham was married by then. He had a wife, two children, and his son even had a son of his own. So much time had passed since Emma was this young. Edwin understood far better than he’d have liked to.

Edwin ultimately wrote Emma, sending the letter to the postbox she gave the address to. Charles looked it over for sensitivity purposes, and then off it went. A week later, Edwin received a letter in return, thanking both he and Charles for putting in the effort to help her, even though she didn’t get the answer she wanted. Attached were a few paper bills as payment.

Although Edwin continued to be baffled as to how she was returning his letters, he continued sending them. As it turned out, despite having so many other children living with you, the novelty of a ‘pen pal’, as she called it, was slow to wear off. 

Letters were sent back and forth between Cairnholm and London regularly for a solid twelve years, and then, suddenly, they stopped. Edwin, unsurprisingly, began to worry. That is, until he received a letter from Florida, instead of Cairnholm.

Emma, it seemed, was doing just fine.