#once again lacking on the tags do not prosecute me

[daftlads]

— 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯.

[ofcloudsandstars]

Amber and orchard for the fall asks!

amber - share an unpopular opinion that you may have.

Hahaha this is like cracking open pandora’s box. I feel like I have too many. 

I think my primary one though is I absolutely despise capitalism’s affect on witchcraft. I DO NOT think it’s made it more accessible for people, I feel like the only very minor positive thing is that you can now tell people you are a witch and into tarot cards and they won’t find you as weird anymore. Otherwise people don’t realize how capitalism is a force that actually strips culture of it’s meaning in order to sell it for profit and it’s affects on this practice has left a lot of damage not just to some aspects that are sacred but towards the earth since it’s a practice that works really closely with nature. 

(added a read more to spare you poor scrolling souls from my rant lol)

Anyway what crapitalism does is it takes a culture and turns it into an easily consumable concept- almost like a brand, so that as long as you slap something ‘witchy’ seeming together then it qualifies as that brand. It boils everything down to an aesthetic. And no one has to actually believe in it anymore, or practice it or make any effort towards learning it or incorporating it into their lives. As long as they buy into the brand or embody the aesthetic then they count. Sometimes you can try to express that some traditions and materials and such do have meaning (I mean of course they do no one just sat around and made this shit up) people kind of have this nihilistic view that’s fed from this weird modern capitalist society that like: nothing truly has meaning anymore. But it’s like they are feeding this consumerist culture by repeating this mindset and gaslighting others when they appropriate magical practices or other cultures that are still very much alive and still tended to (often by indigenous people still being prosecuted) that are focused on working with the earth. 

Then you see this ripple effect on places like instagram or the big mainstream like magazines and shit and do not get me wrong cause there are a lot of cool and creative people that practice this that are on there but there is so much cashing into this field now and oversaturation that comes with seedy and shady background stories that show creators being completely disingenuous because they really just want to make money. And then going back to my point that this practice works closely with nature, capitalism exploited the fact that we like working with certain herbs, woods, crystals etc and is overharvesting and mining and tainting the very tools that we want to work with, with greed, pollution, child slavery etc. And it’s irritating cause you can make your own tools and don’t have to import anything and you can tell everyone how bad some industries are but they don’t listen cause they are buying into capitalism’s lie that they can sell you anything at a price, even if it’s sacred. Then if you try to defend your point they tell you that this is the only way it can be accessible to everyone, but it’s NOT accessible to everyone, it strips it away from people that could be working with these tools for generations and protecting the climates that these guides and resources for the tools grow in. It also disempowers people in their craft to begin with because witchcraft is about finding that connection to your own power and magic and the bridge with the universe’s power and magic and when you venture down into this practice you will find tools and guides local to you and find ways to make your own magical tools but capitalism disempowers us by telling us that we are not legit until we can put a price tag on it. So people don’t believe in their ability to find the sacred in themselves or nature, they just keep consuming whatever herb bundle or tool capitalism spits at them because it’s the only way to feel legit in this culture. 

And then since it’s seen more of a title or aesthetic and less of a way of life or set of ethics or practice, you have people interested in this spiritual or witchy community that don’t do any work or want to work on themselves that bring their shadow baggage into it. So you get racism seeping into it, homophobia, I also am so fucking confused how TRANSPHOBIA has made its way into here like transfolx are magical by just existing they are walking manifestations and works of alchemy like wtf; and like if you guys were friends with any queer people and hung out with them, they get the idea of magic, ritual and manifestation so well cause so much of their daily life already embodies some of that. But that’s a whole other topic. I vibed well with my queer friends on this and they were the only ones I could talk to about it before witchcraft became mainstream. 

 Then in general it’s seen as like radical if you tell people that are supposedly practicing witches that our energies should be focusing on restoring balance and we should put our energy towards healing nature or towards human rights (since humans are apart of nature) you will literally have witches being like: don’t tell me what to do!!! Like!! Gurl wtf lmaoo I don’t know how people claim to be empaths or into this but they don’t see that maybe if there was a so called “Great Awakening” to “Empower Ourselves” that’s probably what the fucking point was? Not to say that you need to spend every waking moment protesting (another contribution of capitalism- showing some kind of documented proof on social media that you stand for something instead of little daily actions embedded into your everyday life) but you can find ways to change your daily patterns to make space for the societal change that’s coming to bring in a more compassionate world and better community. But since we are so indoctrinated in this consumerist culture, so many people don’t know how to incorporate their values into their everyday lives anymore. It’s all about quantity and showing off on social media. And that negatively impacts witchcraft cause witchcraft is a daily practice you do little things for everyday that just gets embedded into your everyday life, but people get confused and think to be legit it’s something you gotta buy into or show off as proof with stylistic rituals and of course for many people that’s exhausting or financially inaccessible. 

And for the sake of clarity cause the internet hates using critical thinking sometimes, of COURSE you can have a fun and flashy craft I’m not saying you can’t, but there is a massive imbalance here I am pointing out with how people are developing insecurities because they cannot attain this aesthetic overnight without dropping a shit ton of money. Yes witchcraft is very aesthetic-heavy but that’s because it’s a really creative practice that people pour their creativity and energy into and capitalism saw a way to put a price tag on it and now it’s confusing everyone else that’s mistaking this as something else to consume in exchange for money. 

And then I hate that I feel often I cannot talk about this cause instead of people using their critical thinking braincells and realizing how bad capitalism is, they somehow turn this conversation into thinking that I just don’t like when a culture becomes mainstream cause not everyone should enjoy a culture or whatever and it’s like fucking hell of course I would LOVE more witches and to have more people into celebrating nature or finding their own magic and connecting to the universe and whatever, but capitalism isn’t helping at all. It’s separating us from it’s connection and the meaning behind it’s practice. (Also one day I dream of living in a witchy town or community so yeah, the more the merrier, but right now with capitalism, this method is not the way to get into this practice lol). 

You really see the negative effects of capitalism marketing witchcraft because people now treat it as like this commodity they can jump into without finding a way to genuinely connect with it cause it’s all just a gimmick until the next zeitgeist. This either manifests in two ways where they think they can just buy a book or read some posts and not do any work on themselves or thinking on stuff like cultural appropriation so when they start experimenting they might bring harm to themselves by evoking spirits that do not want to work with them, or taking in some sacred herb or substance that can fuck them up leaving deep psychological damage or death- or they can harm others in a myriad of ways. 

Then the other way it manifests are people feeling like witchcraft is suddenly inaccessible because you need money to practice it because capitalism put that veil over their eyes. It’s now another thing gatekept by money. So they try to reclaim it by being like: it’s just a title you can slap on yourself; but they give capitalism more power because that’s what capitalism was doing all along by stripping the meaning. Stripping it down to a concept that only matters as a label that evokes a brand or idea but not an actual practice. In a way it’s very counter culture to not buy into the aesthetic or put in effort anymore. Even if you want to put in effort you feel like you are not good enough cause you will never fit capitalism’s standards of quantity and money to spend to showcase it on the internet to feel legit. So people develop this no-effort approach to it. And ONCE AGAIN for clarity for the internet’s lack of critical thinking and jumping to conclusions I am NOT referring to anything like spoony witchcraft or energy based witchcraft (I am an energy witch primarily thank you very much) I am talking about people calling themselves witches but then when you want to sit down and chat about the craft they have a blank stare cause they were never serious and sometimes judge you for how much you cared about it cause they don’t really believe in it anyway. Not even cause it’s woowoo it’s cause capitalism doesn’t make you believe any anything anymore. The only thing it wants you to believe in is money and what you can consume with it.  

And then when people online try to talk about this and point out it’s a practice these guys get angry with you like you are gatekeeping but it’s like BITCH it’s a FREE FUCKING PRACTICE like GO TALK TO A TREE go COLLECT A ROCK YOU FOUND IN THE CLEAR STREAM OF A BABBLING BROOK and maybe you’d CALM THE FUCK DOWN. Capitalism making it seem like you gotta buy all this shit to be seen as legit is not what this practice is about and it makes me upset how there is like this massive group of people that want to access this culture but are so lethargic about actually doing anything because they are disenchanted and it’s really because they are mentally bogged down by capitalism’s grip on it making them feel like they aren’t shit cause they can’t afford all that bullshit that ain’t gonna help them anyway so they just call themselves witches to get them 2 drops of serotonin and feel included but never really go anywhere beyond that cause capitalism strips the fucking joy and meaning out of everything. The only reason why this bothers me is cause I could be staying in my lane drinking my herbs and shit and chilling but then people either judge me for the effort I put into my practice’s aesthetics thinking I am shallow and buying into this or they think I am being reckless and dangerous believing in something not real by practicing a craft that tbh has a lot of dangerous aspects to it so it’s not rated E for everyone. Like you can fit it to what you want it to be since it’s your journey but it’s always been a bit edgy in some ways and it’s annoying when you get people judging you now for your lifestyle or they wonder why you are so invested cause they don’t get it. 

Anyway that was a rant but you asked for it lol. 

orchard - share one thing that you’d like to happen this autumn.

Get some more weed 

Thanks for the asks lol. Kept the last one short haha but it’s true I have been trying to manifest for a while after my quarantine rations went out. Here are the autumnal asks if anyone else wants to ask or reblog them!

[chromecutie]

Not A Ghost - part 42 (epilogue)

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse.

NEW WARNING - fictional police brutality. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Masterlist on my profile!

Taglist: @emma-frxst  @ra-ra-rasputiin  @holamor ​  @empressme-bitch  @marvel-is-perfection  @hazilyimagine ​ @marvelhead17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash ​ @whitewitchdown ​ @master-sass-blast ​ @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen @emberbent @leo-writer @silver-stormy . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

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

Three years later.

After the Icebox rescue, Piotr had taken another leave of absence from the X-Men until he was sure Rhonda could take care of herself. The Rasputins argued for months about whether he should rejoin at all, knowing all too keenly the possibility of being snatched up by the DMC. They had settled on a reluctant compromise that he would alternate a month of active duty with a month off.

Rhonda never rejoined the X-Men, and never again tagged along with Piotr on a mission, no matter how Wade tried to bait her. She did, however, hammer into every single active duty member about being careful and made them promise that if they ran into DMC, to either kill them or run. Scott and some of the other members shook their heads and whispered about Rhonda being paranoid, but Piotr, Ororo, Ellie, Yukio, Hank, and Kurt knew better, and they frequently drilled simulations of fighting the DMC. Just in case.

When Piotr eventually resumed active duty, Rhonda was so anxious that she would be nauseous until he came home. Though she had been resistant to getting into therapy at first, she’d found an unexpected friend in Michelle. When they got past their tension and awkwardness of seeing each other as “the other woman,” Michelle made a lot of helpful suggestions. Rhonda started seeing someone Michelle had highly recommended - a therapist who was also a mutant and specialized in helping other mutants. They worked together well, and over time Rhonda worked past her trauma to a life she cherished.

--

A dance class sprang up at the Xavier School. It wasn’t quite ballet or modern dance, but it encouraged students to seek out multiple forms of dance and see how they can fit together. Rhonda studied and gained certification to teach aerial silks and started teaching a handful of students in an additional silks class. Yukio was her first silks student, and she became a skilled aerialist in her own right.

Rhonda found she enjoyed making choreography and videos to her favorite songs. She got her prison tattoos completely covered with a floral pattern that matched the zhostovo tray from her in-laws, just like the way Piotr had painted on her a few times. It was a lengthy process, but once her cover-up sleeve was done, Rhonda started posting videos under the pseudonym Zhostovo. When her following had built enough that people in the comments were begging for lessons, she realized she had outgrown the single room in the Xavier house.

A short drive away, Piotr and Rhonda found a great spot to build a larger studio. There was enough space to teach good sized classes and with the equipment put away, it converted to a beautiful soundstage for recording videos. Friends frequently visited and collaborated - Cable moved the camera or Rhonda herself for dreamlike effects, Russell had developed incredibly fine control with his abilities and was sometimes asked to help with some pyrotechnics. Piotr, Ellie, Yukio, and Wade found themselves in front of the camera a few times when Rhonda asked them to feature or perform a duet with her. Yukio was by far her favorite silks collaborator - it helped that they had similar electric abilities and made that part of their choreography as well.

Piotr lent his talents to paint gorgeous backdrops for some of the videos, and painted murals around the exterior of the studio, which eventually came to be called the Rasputin Performing Arts Center.

--

The court case against the DMC was messy, to say the least. Including Rhonda, there had been nine mutants who had been proven to be kidnapped and thrown into the Icebox with none of their rights honored - no phone call, no lawyer, nothing. For most of the Icebox Nine, as the media had called them, there weren’t even records of them in the Department of Mutant Control’s databases. The DMC itself dodged and weaved around accusations, using the lack of official record to try to discredit the prosecution, declaring it a ridiculous conspiracy theory.

Public perception was mired in reconciling the facts that there were many dangerous criminal mutants imprisoned in the Icebox, and also many who had been detained illegally - the true number of which was impossible to determine if they weren’t even on record. Never mind guessing how many had died over the years before they could be rescued. People didn’t want to believe both things were possible and true, and it gave Rhonda and Piotr a sick feeling their case would ultimately go nowhere, no matter how determined their attorney was.

Rumor had it that the DMC had closed the Icebox and had built a new prison in an undisclosed location. Professor Charles Xavier enlisted hackers to once again find whatever plans they could, but came up dry.

--

The Zhostovo YouTube channel grew quickly. Zhostovo herself was known for incredibly expressive choreography. At first, her videos were uncut wide shots of her rolling some floorwork across her studio space, or wrapped in silks in the air with her hair dyed to match, or sometimes moving through thin air, suspended by nothing the camera could see. She started with performing to songs from the early 2000s, before branching out to more recent hits. Her videos became more complex, with multiple camera angles, close ups, and special effects that at first viewers assumed were digital, until she published a video revealing that she was a mutant, and introduced the other mutants who helped make her videos by adding fire, fog, glowing sparks, and numerous other effects. In a matter of months, maybe a year, people started saying they preferred her videos over the musicians’ official, record label-produced videos.

Zhostovo’s performances for “Work Song” and “Someone New” by Hozier were what skyrocketed her channel’s popularity. There was a bone-chilling soulfulness she poured into those that resonated with many Hozier fans. Zhostovo made a few TV appearances, always flanked by her husband, whose steel form towered over everyone else, and at least one other mutant from the group she had introduced in her videos. She wasn’t young, but her hair was always dyed bright colors, and she had flower petals tattooed on one cheek, matching the folk painting style of the sleeve on her right arm. She was also an outspoken mutant rights activist, and made it clear that she wanted to show the world - humans and mutants alike - that extraordinary abilities can be used for fun and art and self-expression. She emphasized that most mutants were not the violent monsters conservative news stations made them out to be, and that believing them would cost lives every day.

--

On an early spring day, when things were green but there was still a little chill in the air if the sun wasn't out, Rhonda and Piotr were having a picnic on her grave, a special date they did a few times a year. The plot had been converted into a little garden, with just enough of a clear spot in the middle to fit two people having lunch. The granite headstone still stood with the erroneous year of death chipped away, but it was surrounded with rosemary and wildflowers. The season’s first bees bobbed along, looking for the most open flowers, and Rhonda’s grave was easily the brightest and most lively spot in the private cemetery. 

Rhonda’s smile tugged at the flower petal tattoos that covered the old prison tear drops. She gently waved a bee away from her sandwich before taking a bite. Piotr plucked a little sprig of rosemary and added the leaves to his sandwich before starting in on it. 

“You’re quiet today,” Piotr observed. “You seem like you’re in a good mood, but quiet.” He sipped some of the white wine they had packed. He had armored down, and was now able to hold it for hours at a time. He'd kept his beard - it was thick, neatly trimmed, and had just gotten its first touches of grey.

Her eyes crinkled more as she smiled around her bite of food. When she swallowed, she took a deep breath. “I got an email this morning,” she began. “I didn’t wanna say anything about it until I was sure it was real, you know?”

Piotr regarded his wife carefully, playful suspicion growing. “Sladkaya, an email from who?”

The cemetery was quiet, but she looked around anyway, as if checking for an unwelcome eavesdropper. The wildflowers and herbs rustled in the breeze. She grinned so big Piotr was sure he could count all her teeth. Her shoulders lifted as she took a deep breath, “Hozier wants to collaborate on a music video. A real one, not the copyright infringement videos I do.”

Piotr almost dropped his sandwich before he remembered it was in his hand. He set it down and reached for her. Rhonda jumped to her feet and hugged his head to her stomach, both laughing. “That’s wonderful news!” His fingers pressed into her thighs. “Amazing! Is it for a new song? Or one already out?”

She was bouncing with excitement and squealing for a solid minute or two before she sat down again, still fidgeting and twisting with excitement. “I think a new one! His people sent over a contract and an NDA I have to sign before I can hear the song he wants to work on. Do you think Matthew would look it over? I know he’s not an entertainment lawyer, but a contract’s a contract, right?”

“We can ask,” he agreed as they toasted their plastic wine glasses. He watched her eyes sparkle with tears of excitement, the way her curls bounced as she laughed, dyed dark green to match the foliage in her tattoo. The lush blooms and leaves that filled her arm still had a raised texture of the Xs they covered if you looked closely, but the black spaces and gold scrollwork were striking any time she moved. “Is this what you wanted when we were young?” he asked.

“When I thought I was gonna go to Julliard and join a dance troupe?” She thought for a long minute, then shook her head. “It’s better.”

They shared beaming smiles, Piotr’s eyes brimming with tears for his wife's joy, when a fat little bumble bee landed on one of the flowers on Rhonda’s arm. “Oh!” he exclaimed softly. “Hold still, Sladkaya.”

He pulled out the camera he always brought along for these picnics, and captured the moment of Rhonda's surprise, noticing the bee on her tattoo, as she delicately held her wine glass with her four fingered right hand, her gravestone behind her, sunlight playing on her forest green curls.

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 149 TW - Mentions of sexual assault

Chapter Summary - Tom decides that it has gone on too long, five weeks after the return from his Infinity War junket and if anything, Danielle had become more peculiar. So he cooks dinner and decides to see if he can get her to talk to him.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

Copyright for the photo is the owners, not mine. All image rights belong to their owners

Tom decides that it has gone on too long, five weeks after the return from his Infinity War junket and if anything, Danielle had become more peculiar. So he cooks dinner and decides to see if he can get her to talk to him.

WARNING - this chapter will reference Tom's work with the victims of sexual assault.

1- this chapter will include fictional sexual assault stories (sadly they are not fictional to some people, this shit does happen) including a close call for Sarah, who is a fictional version of Sarah Hiddleston.

2- the school-age jokes Tom makes are also fictional also. I have ZERO knowledge of teenage Tom Hiddleston, this is fictional.

3- Danielle's current situation is actually based on my friend, who talks to me about it and though many could never want it to be them, some women genuinely feel this way and it does impact their lives and relationships.

I have to put this here because so many people these days seem to forget that this is fiction and not an actual depiction of Tom Hiddleston, his friends and family.

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​ @jessibelle-nerdy-mum​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @damalseer​ @hiddlesbitch1​ @winterisakiller​ @fairlightswiftly​ @salempoe​ @wolfsmom1​ @black-ninja-blade

The trip to Suffolk to collect Danielle's bike did little to quell the odd mood Danielle seemed to be in. If anything, it confirmed Tom's concerns as his mother seemed to see something was slightly amiss also. The way that Danielle seemed to try and act around the problem she was clearly having but again, she said nothing, no matter how much Tom and Diana gently coaxed her to.

She spoke with normal frequency and used the time in the area to full effect, getting a few things organised, including a new larger cooker ordered while they were there but still, she seemed to lack some of her usual lustre.

Tom also noticed something else change. Since his return from the last bit of the Infinity War promotion, Danielle had not been the least bit interested in intimacy. She had curled in against him at night and was inclined to touch, kiss and hug him but she had not initiated any form of sexual contact and when he did something that could be considered such, she was clearly reluctant so he ceased rather than make her feel uncomfortable. But it was becoming peculiar now. They had never gone so long in each others presence without some form of sexual activity and it was worrying. Part of him thought it to be because she didn't want him anymore but then she would not curl in against him or even increase her affection in other ways, she would cease all such things. Then he thought it was something to do with her health but surely she would have said something? He was uncertain. She did everything to keep to their normal routine and whatnot outside of it, including going for walks and holding his hand in public, ensuring to smile and give him her attention as she had done before, yet there was something so incredibly different too. It was driving him insane trying to figure out what it was.

*

They returned from Suffolk and Danielle increased her training load with her bike to assist, and even with fewer work hours, she seemed to be gone for large portions of the day, especially if she needed to go somewhere that allowed her to cycle. By night time every day, she was exhausted and more than once fell asleep on the couch watching TV causing Tom to have to wake her or encourage her to bed.

Also in that time, a full five weeks in each other's company for the majority of the time and not once had Danielle sought him as she had before. It was beginning to take its toll and if he was honest, Tom was becoming angered. Not at the lack of sex in itself, he had gone far longer periods without girlfriends before and he, of course, respected and loved her, so he did not “need” sex with her but because of the lack of communication and the lack of even discussing the matter, that irked him. He simply wanted to know what was the issue.

The evening came where he decided to do something about it and ignoring the precooked meals that Danielle had prepared and frozen for convenience for them and cooked a lovely roast dinner and wore a tighter fitted sweater and pants that he knew that she found appealing. He pulled out all the stops and when he got a text to say she was on her way home from a swimming session, he readied the last of his plans and took out a good white wine for them.

Hearing the key in the front door, he inhaled and prepared for the evening. 'Hey handsome boys.’ Her good humour was apparent as she greeted the dogs. 'What... Tom?’ The smell of the dinner clearly made its way to Danielle. 'Tom?’ She came into view of the kitchen table and her eyes widened before she turned to face Tom and she swallowed as she took in his appearance. 'I...What…? Wait, am I forgetting something? I am, aren't I?’ Her voice was higher than usual as she spoke.

'No, no this is just something I wanted to do. I was hoping we could talk actually.’ Tom explained. He paid close attention to her reactions and for a moment, he saw reluctance. 'Unless you rather not?’ He decided to test another theory and pulled up the sleeve of his jumper and reveal his forearms. On seeing his do that, Danielle visibly took a slight step back and gasped. 'Elle?’

'I...Sure, no...I mean, why wouldn't I...I...why...yes.’ She could not form a cognitive sentence as she looked at him. When he stepped forward, she looked at though she wished to take a step back but found herself stuck to the stop, his larger frame in front of her. 'Tom?’

'Yes, Darling?’

'I...you smell good.’ She looked him in the eye, allowing him to see the physical reactions she was having to him, which, though she had not been willing to do anything about in considerable time, was showing her pupils dilate and betray her arousal. 'I..mean…’

He leant down and kissed her gently, noting her somewhat startled reaction before she pressed her lips against his and pulled herself against his body, continuing to kiss him with more and more intensity. When he pressed her against the wall and pulled back for a moment he looked at her and noticed the force she had to use to stop herself. 'Elle?’

'The dinner…’

'Can wait.’

'No, we should eat.’ She insisted, walking around him and to the table. 'It should be illegal for you to dress like that, you'll give women weakness if you do that in public.’ She joked as she went to the table and took a wine glass. 'I don't think I have seen a wine like this before?’

'It's from a small private vineyard in Italy, it's dark than other wines, stronger.’

'Are you planning on getting me drunk, Mr Hiddleston?’ She smiled playfully.

'Perhaps I am, is there a problem with that?’ He smirked.

'That depends on what the purpose is?’

'Interrogation purposes, to lower your inhibitions and get you to reveal all your secrets to me.’ He stated, waiting for her reaction.

'I don't have many secrets, I dare say that would be a boring and uninteresting endeavour for you.’

'Nothing is uninteresting about you, Danielle Hughes, not to me. So what are these secrets you have from me?’

'Nothing of importance.’ She dismissed. 'So what is it you wished to discuss?’ She asked as she took the wine and drank a large gulp of what was in the glass.

Tom was not as convinced. 'I am doing more of those interviews with these women at present. I just wanted to…’

'Why didn't you say?’ Danielle demanded, putting down her wine glass and rushing over to him, her hands around him. 'Talk to me.’

The concern and care she immediately had for him on him telling her such things rubbished a lot of thoughts he had regarding her not caring for him. 'I am just exhausted from them, I mean, I know this is not about me…’

'But even listening to what they have experienced is exhausting, Tom. Counsellors themselves need to unload from simply listening to people. That is entirely natural. Come on, we'll sit down to this incredible dinner you made and you tell me what is irking and bothering you.’ She encouraged.

Tom swallowed, it was clear that Danielle was very concerned, her reaction was as he always knew it would be in such a situation but yet the way she had reacted when he said that he wanted to talk to her said a lot also. He got the food from the kitchen and placed the plates next to each other, watching how she would react. Surprisingly, her only reaction was to get the wine and bring the glasses over to the two seats, but then she paused and got her plate. He thought for a moment that she was going to sit away from him but instead, she simply sat on the other side of him where the corner of the table separated them but gave her an opportunity to look at him more. 'How...I spoke to a woman today, she is a sex worker.’ He began. Danielle's face was one of understanding as she listened and nodded. 'Several times it happened and she never reported.’

'One, she feels she would be prosecuted as her line of work is illegal and two, she is a sex worker, many people, including women in the #MeToo movement do not see them as victims because they sell sex, but yes, they are, they suffer and they never really report, if they did, numbers would skyrocket. They estimate one in five would become one in three. That numbers of assaults reported would go up too. It's a reason many want the profession legalised, they argue it would help those in the profession be safer. Others argue it makes it easier for sex trafficking, I personally think something needs to be done to protect these women. I've seen it myself in my training. They build up this skin and accept it as an occupational hazard. I mean a slight burn from hot pots is an occupational hazard, not being raped and beaten. My heart goes out to them and I feel they are so brave to come forward. How are you after that? Tell me what's it causing you to think.’

Tom sighed. 'I just feel...I don't really know how to describe it. I cannot imagine the fear it is to be a woman these days.’

'There is no “these days”, it has always been something that has occurred. Take a look at Jack the Ripper in 1888, women have, throughout history been nothing short of objects. That is why this is a step forward. You listening is a way to start getting men to understand. It is so important to educate, you can talk to others. The harsh reality is many men won't listen to a woman as they do a man.’

'Then I was talking to a friend of mine, from college. I nearly choked on my drink when she turned up in front of me and she told me what a casting director told her to do to get a role...she has never worked in that part of the industry, he made her not want to. But when she said no…’

'He did not accept no and got what he wanted anyway and declined her the role to boot.’ Danielle nodded. 'That is very hard to listen to.’ She took his hand in hers. 'You are so incredible to give these women someone to talk to who empathises and does not want to take their stories and make them about yourself. For so many, saying it is hard, so to have someone listen as you have, it matters so much.’

'Sarah told me something too. She spoke to me about it a few weeks ago, when I said I was doing this. She told me about a time in college where if one of her friends had not called a guy to come over and help, she could have been...’ He said. 'My sister. She...she never told us.’

‘Many people go their whole life without saying anything to anyone about what happened them.’ Danielle stated, looking at the food on her plate. 'Many don't think what they endured is not worthy of the attention that they feel should be focused on other victims. Some think sexual assault without penetration is not as bad as rape so they just stay quiet.’

Tom shook his head. 'When I was younger, we used to joke in school about girls and….I feel so bad about it now.’

'Did you ever hurt a girl? Or a boy for that matter, in all of this, we have to remember there are men that have been assaulted also.’

'No, never. I felt awkward laughing along back then, but I never….I always thought of Emma and Sarah.’

'That's natural, we project. We often all do that. “Imagine that it was us and ours” sort of thing. You can comprehend the severity of something without doing that, but when we project ourselves and our families into a situation, we feel it more. It's natural. You were able to look at the children in Sudan and see them, see their suffering and feel heartbroken but if you imagined your own niece in that situation, it hits you harder and that is because as much as their lives matter to you, our own families are always one step closer to us and we feel that more. It is the same with this.’ Tom nodded. 'How old were you when those guys made those jokes?’

'Fifteen or sixteen, I think. It doesn't make it right.’

'No, it doesn't. But be the man to tell boys that age that that's not the right thing to do. Make it that if Emma has a little boy in the future, that he knows that is not how we talk about the opposite sex. Learn from it, teach from it. And don't be under any false impression that girls are not sometimes idiots too. I went to school with girls, I am a girl, I can assure you, some young women need a good dose of cop on too. I mean, they are grabbing men by the package and saying very inappropriate things to the opposite gender too. I think this generation will either make or break equality, depending on the level of self and general accountability. if people acknowledge self fault and fault among us all, we could come out of this far better a world, we can only hope and see, so long as we work on ourselves.’

'What is your fault then?’

Danielle's brows rose. 'We have to go to bed sometime this week, I cannot start listing now. I am not perfect, Tom. I know this and I never pretend to be. I suffer jealousy, envy, other such things. I suppose I also have to work on a few things. Though, thankfully, I don't see men as sex objects, so I have that one down.’ She joked.

'Except me of course?’ He gave a playful smile.

'Oh, you are not included there, especially with the pant and sweater combo mixed with that cologne.’ She grinned before she bit her lip and looked at her dinner again.

'Elle?’ She looked at him again but it took a minute as she did not seem to want to. 'I need to ask, have I done something to you?’

'What?’ She had not expected him to say such a thing. 'No.’

'What has changed. You are not the same recently. I am worried, everyone is starting to worry. Mum, me, Sarah, you won't even meet Sophie or Emma.’ Danielle chewed her lip, unable to keep eye contact with him. 'At first, I thought you were homesick, you only have that Radio na Gaeltachta on all the time now, but now I am fairly certain it's not that and you are filling your schedule up again rather than having any free time and you used to do that before because you were avoiding being lonely, but you have me and our friends and family, so why are you doing it? Is it me?’

'No.’ She answered quietly.

'No what? No, you're not homesick? No, you're not avoiding being lonely? No, you don't have me, our friends and family? Or no, it's not me?’

'No, it's not any of that, it's me.’ She looked at her hands.

'I...is there something wrong?’

'Not physically, no.’ Tom's concern only rose. 'No, I don't have depression or that either.’ She assured him. 'It's...fuck, I...if I tell you, you'll literally run away and tell me to get out of your home.’ There were genuine fear and tears in her eyes.

‘Elle, talk to me, please, Darling. I am going mad not knowing what is getting you down.’

'It's so stupid.’ She sniffed, wiping away a tear.

'If it makes you like this, I doubt it.’

'But…’

'No, Elle, no buts. Even if it is just in your head, if it's not really something serious and you know it is not but your mind is still telling you that it is, that is very important. I am not going to run away. After a year and a half together, we have been through some difficult times, no matter what it is, we can overcome it.’ He urged her. 'But you really have to tell me. We cannot work if you refuse to open up.’

'I...I just feel so odd recently. I went to the doctor about it, well, I went about ensuring I was okay to do an Ironman, but I mentioned it too and I was just told it happens sometimes and if I feel the same on a few weeks, to change my contraception.’ Tom frowned, thinking such to be an odd diagnosis. 'I think it is hormone related.’

'What?’

'I...I am scared to say.’

'Tell me, please.’

'I can't even look at Emma and today I went to the swimming pool and as I was going in, a class was coming out and I felt so fucking envious, I fucking cried, how stupid is that?’ Danielle scoffed.

‘Envious of what?’ Tom asked.

'That they were pregnant.’ Tom's eyes widened. 'See, I can see it in your face.’

'Wait, so this is about pregnancy?’ Tom asked, needing clarification. 'You want a baby?’

'No, I don't. I am not ready for one, I know I'm not. I am so busy with work, we're not there yet, it's the worst timing but literally, everywhere I look there are babies, all the people around me are having babies and my stupid brain is telling me I should have one and I don't want one yet. I see cute little outfits and instead of my usual “Get this for Sophie or for Emma”, I think I need it. I don't fucking need it. I have my bar and I am not losing you and my head is so messed up and I really have no idea how to stop it. I thought if I took the job and did my goal of the Ironman and its training it would calm it but it's not and I have no idea what to do. I miss my friend but seeing her makes me feel so bad and I am sorry I am a fucking mess.’

Tom just looked at her for a time, trying to figure out what to even say. He was incredibly relieved it was not some of the scenarios that his brain had created such as she stopped loving him or she had been having an affair with the guy from work under the guise of training that he knew were preposterous, yet his brain still pondered. But also he could see the turmoil this had created in her. She was clearly having severe problems in her own mind settling this. He had heard of it, more than once. Hell, even Ben had confessed it have been why the relationship with his last girlfriend ended. He wanted kids and she never did, so they agreed to do what they both wanted even though that meant ending their relationship. To have such an argument with one's self clearly did not go well, going by Danielle's current situation.

He had to agree, they were not ready. He wanted her to himself for another time yet, he wanted to wait a little longer before they would consider such things as a family. Were her bar to fail and she got pregnant, he would not see it as a catastrophic event but if they could decide when suited them and did it then, it would be idyllic. 'Well, it explains a lot.’ He stated, feeling a little dumb saying only that.

'I am sorry for being such a terrible partner and for...well, neglecting us. I just, my brain is all warped and it correlated sex and babies, which, really, it does go from to the other really and this is what happened.’

'I wish you told me sooner, I have been so worried.’

'I was terrified you'd run away from me.’

'Elle, we've mentioned the possibility of children before now. This is not a new subject matter to us. In time, I very much would love to have children with you. And the idea that your body is telling you that you should ignore logic and have a baby with the fine gentleman you have procured for yourself is a great compliment to my ego.’ Danielle could not help laughing at his statement as she looked at him lovingly. ‘When you are happy in work, when you have achieved your goals, however utterly bonkers they are, then we will talk about taking that thing out of your arm and having a baby but until then, I really cannot see Emma declining a hand with Ava.’

'I think it's a fight between Eva and Lucy now.’ She informed him.

'For fuck sake, she is due within the fortnight and they have decided to change the name eighty times at this stage.’

'Could you imagine after all of this, the ultrasound was wrong and it was a boy?’

Tom laughed. 'He will start school nameless.’ Danielle joined in. 'I can't say I understand what is going on with you fully, Elle, but I do know it's real to you and it is causing you a lot of unrest and it hurts me to see that. But it is hurting Emma too, you being distant has been hard on us, we all miss that spark in you that we all love and I think she should have you there for her, if you can be.’

'You're right. I am not being a good friend. I just feel so weird.’

'I understand, in a manner. I don't understand your thoughts per se, but I understand that you don't feel yourself either.’ He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

'I don't deserve you.’

'No one does really.’ He barely got the last word out before she hit him with her napkin playfully.

[timelordthirteen]

Killing Time 21/35

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: Belle and Weaver start working their new lead, and relationship status, with some surprising results.

Notes: This was a rough one to get out and I'm sorry it took so long. Here on out there will be two parallel plots: Belle's recovery and relationship with Weaver, and solving the murder of Eloise Gardener. Warnings in this chapter for discussion of PTSD, Belle's attack, and mention of her miscarriage.

Warnings: Miscarriage reference and discussion in some chapters. Please see AO3 for complete warnings and tags.

[AO3]  Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20]

The room smelled like paper and tea, a comforting and warm contrast to the steady rain that was falling outside.

Belle pressed her hands over the front of her skirt and looked around the office of Dr. Archibald Hopper. There was a leather sofa flanked by two bookcases with a set of three black and white prints in thick black frames hanging above it. The shelves were arranged with a mix of artistic pieces and leather bound volumes of medical and legal books, looking so perfectly put together that combined with the rest of the room it all had less the feel of Archie, her friend and colleague, and more last month’s Pottery Barn catalog.

“Nice office,” she said finally.

Archie smiled and took a seat in the high backed leather chair across from her. “Thanks. It beats the south wing of the hospital.”

She laughed lightly, recalling the rather dilapidated old patient rooms that had once made up a sizable bed tower and part of the original hospital where Archie had once worked. While the rest of the building was expanded and renovated over the decades, the south wing had been largely ignored and converted into office space for those who didn’t rate mid century modern credenzas and floor to ceiling glass that overlooked the bay.

“Yeah, it definitely does,” she agreed, glancing around the room. “You’ve certainly moved up in the world.”

“It was those excessive bonuses the city paid me for all the consulting hours you demanded.”

His lips curved, and Belle shook her head. “Yes, well, good to know my budget overages were well spent.”

They shared a laugh, and then Dr. Hopper shifted in his seat, mentally moving from friend and colleague to therapist with no more than an adjustment of his body and the picking up of his pen.

“I’m assuming that what brought you here wasn’t a desire to reminisce about the city's lack of funding for prosecution experts.”

Belle looked down at her hands. “How did you ever guess?”

Archie flashed her a weak smile, and let out a breath. “Belle, I know what happened to you - not the details, of course, but enough - and I know that it’s policy to have a psychological review before returning to work. However -”

“That’s not what this is,” she interrupted. “I mean, yeah, I’ll probably need you to fill out the official form at some point, but I’m already back at work.”

Hopper frowned slightly. “I see.”

Belle glanced up. “Midas knows me well enough to know that I feel better being back at work than taking two weeks of leave.”

“And how do you feel being back at work so soon?”

She gave him a look. “Fine. We’re making some progress on, um, the body that was found in the community garden.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because -” she paused and licked her lips, spreading her hands over her thighs as her palms started to feel clammy. “Because it’s when I’m not at work that, um, that I don’t think I’m fine.”

He nodded and made some kind of mark on his pad. “What makes you think that you aren’t fine?”

Her head rolled back against the sofa as she blew out a breath between her lips. “Is this how it works? You just turn my answers into questions?”

“How else would you like it to work?”

Belle’s head lifted, her eyebrow arching. “Ha ha.”

Archie smirked and then made another mark on his notepad before setting it aside. “Look, this is like any other doctor’s appointment, right? You have to tell me your symptoms, as it were, so I know what’s going on and where to start. Right?” She nodded, and he continued, “So, what’s been going on?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, leaning forward to lean her elbows on her knees. “Got attacked by a serial killer in my own apartment, stabbed him in the leg, and now...”

“Now...what?” Hopper coaxed.

She sighed. “I can’t sleep unless my ex-husband is with me. I keep sort of - reliving what happened, but the memories are - are weird. I feel...I don’t know, like tired but jittery all the time? I only feel okay when I’m at work, when I can focus on the case, focus on doing something about what happened, you know?”

She left out that the only other times she seemed to feel normal was when she was playing house with her ex, eating, sleeping, and fucking like nothing had happened in the last two years, like they hadn’t made a mess of everything.

Archie raised his eyebrows when she mentioned Weaver, and folded his hands. “So, you and Detective Weaver are...?”

She shrugged and straightened. “I don’t know what we are. I stayed with him while my apartment was a crime season, but it’s been cleaned and released. I just haven’t gone back. I haven’t wanted to, I guess.”

“Okay, let’s, um, let’s park the relationship stuff for now,” he said. “Tell me - tell me about your memory of what happened. When does it come to you? What do you recall?”

“Usually when I’m alone,” she replied. “Day or night, doesn’t matter. It’s flashes, mostly, feelings. Cold from his - his leather jacket, pressing against my back. I was told that he’d been hiding out on the balcony, waiting until - until I got home.”

Archie swallowed and crossed his arms. “And?”

“Heat,” she continued. “Like my face is flushed, but it’s - it’s from, uh -

She lifted her hair at the front, exposing the red line where her skin was still healing even weeks later. “He hit me and it, um, made it hard to see. Everything was - was red.”

Dr. Hopper pressed his lips together, his eyes narrowing as her hair dropped back over the wound. “You said that your memories were off. Could you tell me more about that?”

She held his gaze for a long moment, as she bit her lip. His eyes softened and the corner of his mouth curved slightly as he gave her a brief nod. The room started to feel too warm, and she leaned forward to take a sip of the water he’d set out for her.

“It’s strange,” Belle said finally, sitting back against the cool leather. Her hands fidgeted with the ring on her right hand. “Remembering, I mean. It’s like - it’s like I’m outside of myself, but not - not in any kind of weird out of body experience way, more like... I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe it.”

Dr. Hopper gave her a small smile and nodded. “Try. Tell me one thing at a time, and take as long as you need.”

She sighed. “I feel - heavy. Like I can’t move my arms or legs no matter how much I want to. There's pressure too, in my head. It’s kinda like a sinus headache, but without being stuffed up at all, if that makes any sense.”

“It does.” Then he shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. “Does your heart rate increase or is it hard to breathe?”

Belle shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I just have this strange feeling, and there’s a flash of light. Then I look down and - and there’s -”

Hopper’s head tilted. “What? What do you see?”

She breathed in and out through her nose as her eyes fixed on the glint of the light as she twisted the white gold band of her ring back and forth. It was a square sapphire in a pale blue color, about a half carat in size. Weaver had given it to her for their first anniversary. She’d worn it nearly every day while they were together, but as soon as she left the divorce attorney’s office, it had been relegated to a small wooden box at the back of her dresser drawer where she kept some of her mother’s old jewelry. The first night they’d retrieved her things from her apartment, she’d grabbed it without thinking as she was rummaging for some socks.

“Belle, what do you see?” Dr. Hopper repeated.

Belle swallowed and looked up, meeting his eyes. “Blood.”

Hopper nodded, pressing his lips together again as his pen tapped against the pad next to him. It was an action she’d seen from him often when he’d consulted on a case, usually when he was thinking through his response to a question.

“Yours or - or his?”

“Both,” she said quickly, the hitch in his voice making hers waver as well.

He gave her a sympathetic look and took a breath before he asked his next question. “And, um, where is the blood?”

She breathed out again, slowly and took another swallow of water. “On my hands.” She set the drink down and looked down at her palms, blinking a few times as the image of the red, dripping stains flashed into her mind. “My blouse. The counter. The floor.”

Then she took another breath. “And sometimes it’s um -”

Dr. Hopper’s head tilted. “It’s what?”

Belle blinked hard. “Um, on my - my legs.”

“Why only sometimes?”

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as she tried to force the image away. “Don’t know.”

The slight shift in Archie’s expression revealed he didn’t believe her, but he seemed willing to let it go for now, and she sighed again.

“Let’s go back to your relationship with Detective Weaver.”

She frowned. “Why?”

Dr. Hopper sat back, crossing his legs, and smiled. “I suspect some of this starts a little further back than Jack Branson.”

Belle huffed and shook her head. “It doesn’t. And you already know the story. We were married, then we got divorced.”

“And?”

“And?” She raised her eyebrows and held Archie’s gaze. “What?”

“And now you’re...?”

There was a low throb starting in her head as she pulled at her ring again, sliding it over her knuckle until it spun freely around her finger. “I told you, I don’t know what we are, not right now.”

“Can you tell me what you’d like to be?”

“No.” Then she sighed. “I let things go too far while we were working on the case, and before you ask, you know exactly what I mean by ‘too far’ Mr. I Accidentally Screwed the Waitress Who Was Also a Witness.”

Archie’s face flushed, and Belle flashed him a brief smile. His affair with Ruby had been problematic at the time, and it had forced him to step back from his role as an expert consultant. Now that they’d been together for a couple of years, it was all water under the bridge, and the switch back to private practice was overall better for everyone. She sighed. “Now everything is...I don’t know. It’s good, but it’s also temporary, so I’m trying not to get complacent or get used to anything, you know?”

Hopper shifted in his seat, his lips pursing for a moment. “Why does it have to be temporary?”

“Because we’re divorced,” she answered flatly.

“Why?”

Belle pushed her ring back on her finger and paused. “Why what? Why are we divorced?” Dr. Hopper’s head tilted again, and she gave him an annoyed glare. “I’m not dredging up our marital issues, Arch. I’ve been there, done that.”

“Have you?” he asked. “Been there, done that?”

She made a face. “Well not like this, obviously, but I think I’ve rehashed it enough in my head for ten therapists, thanks.”

Archie chuckled at that and shook his head. “Fair enough. Though I do get the impression there’s a piece I’m missing here.”

“How do you mean?” She folded her arms over her middle and mirrored Archie by crossing her legs.

He sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “You and Ian were good together, Belle. We all saw that. I have to admit that when I heard you two were splitting up, it was - it was quite a shock.”

Belle looked away as he spoke, clenching her jaw as she swallowed against the lump in her throat. She’d heard the same statements from others before, during, and immediately after the divorce. Everyone thought they were so perfect together, but of course none of them had to live with a reticent police detective who didn’t know how to let anyone in. She always thought he’d change, that he’d soften with time, open up more the longer they were together. The night he chose a murder over her and their baby, she’d realized she’d been wrong.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “It was to me too.”

Hopper pursed his lips again and watched her as she tugged on her ring again, slipping it over her knuckle to spin it around her fingertip. She paused to wipe at her eye, and he sat back with another heavy sigh.

“Belle -”

“I had a miscarriage.”

Archie blinked and frowned at the words she’d blurted out. “You - what?”

He licked his lips as his mind grasped for words. Confusion and shock had made him lose his usual quiet coherence, and he leaned forward again. “I’m sorry, I’m just - I’m trying to understand. Was this after - after your attack, or -?”

“No,” Belle said quickly. She met Dr. Hopper’s eyes, her stare firm in spite of the tear that was trickling over her cheek. “No, it was - before. It’s why - why we divorced.”

“Okay,” he breathed. “So -”

She felt her face heat as her vision blurred. There was a faint ringing in her ears that made her shake her head, sending a volley of tears down her face. She was vaguely aware of the tissue box sliding closer, pushed by Dr. Hopper, when she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and then lurched forward. Her feet stumbled over each other, her shoe coming loose as she stood and tried to walk around the coffee table that was between her and Archie. He said her name as she moved, one hand stretched out in front of her to catch the bathroom door and push it open while the other was pressed to her mouth.

Belle sniffled again, wiping at her nose with the battered tissue before tossing it in the trash can and exiting the small bathroom.

Archie stood up quickly. “Are you alright?”

She nodded and blew out a breath. “Yeah.”

She was surprised how true it felt in spite of how upset she’d been a few minutes ago. It had been a long time since she’d said the words out loud, and once she had it was like the dam had broken, flooding her body with emotions she’d kept at bay for over two years. In hindsight, the miscarriage had bled into the situation with Ian, leaving everything a jumbled mess well before her encounter with Jack.

Archie was right.

“So, Arch, how fucked up am I?” she asked, letting out a humorless laugh.

Dr. Hopper sighed and came closer, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. “No more so than any of the rest of us.”

She shook her head. “I doubt that.”

“Belle, what’s happening to you is normal,” he started. “You were physically attacked in your own home, by a man whose pathology I can’t even fathom right now. Having some PTSD from that is completely expected. Everything else on top of that...? I can’t imagine what all you’ve been through.”

She breathed out, feeling a strange sort of relief at his words. “Yeah.”

“I think,” Archie started, cautiously, “that it would be a good idea for you to keep talking about this.”

“With you?” She blinked up at him, her expression pulled as the steady pulse of a headache grew.

He shrugged. “With whomever you like, whoever you feel comfortable talk to. That’s the only way this is going to get better.”

Belle reached up and pushed her fingers into her hair, rubbing at her scalp. “I don’t think I’d want to talk to anyone else, if that’s okay.”

His mouth curved slightly. “Of course it is. Whatever I can do to help, Belle.”

Belle checked her makeup in the mirror one last time and ran a hand through her hair, trying to smooth it into place. She looked passable, if a bit tired, but then that had been her almost perpetual state since the case had started. Her heels thudded softly on the carpet as she made her way back to her office, her gait stuttering briefly when she spied Weaver sitting at the conference table.

Shit.

She’d been hoping he was still at the station following up on Nick Branson’s former employer in Las Vegas. When she’d made the appointment with Dr. Hopper, she’d had every intention of telling Weaver that she was going, but in the end every moment that might have been right, wasn’t. He’d be supportive, of course, he had been when she’d first mentioned it a week ago, and their history with Archie had only raised the psychologist’s esteem in his eyes. Yet she’d held back that morning when he’d asked her what she was going to get up to while he was tiring his eyes out at a computer screen.

She let out a steadying breath and pushed open the door to the office.

Weaver twisted and looked over his shoulder at her, smiling. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said, brightly, hurrying over to her desk to set her purse down.

“I was surprised you weren’t here when I got back.”

“Oh, I ran a quick errand after lunch.” She shrugged and looked up at him, knowing full well by the way his eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly that he didn’t quite believe her. “Find anything?”

“Couple addresses,” he replied. “Some names to follow up on. The construction company Branson worked for went out of business a couple of years ago, but I have contact information for the holding company that took over its assets.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“I guess.” Then he frowned slightly, and pushed back from the table, twisting to face her. “Are you okay?”

Belle sighed and busied herself with sorting through some papers on her desk. “Yeah, fine. Why?”

His expression was inscrutable as he stood and came to stand in front of her desk. “I don’t think we’re going to get much more done today, if you want to take off early.”

She glanced up at him. “Why would I do that?”

Weaver shrugged. “You’re tired.”

She sighed again and straightened, knowing from his flat tone that he hadn’t believed her, but he was still offering her a way out anyway. It annoyed her and she wasn’t sure why. “Well it’s been a long...month.”

He gave a slight nod as his lips pressed together. “Yeah, and we worked a lot of weekends in the last little while. You need some down time.

She shot him a look. “I’m fine, Ian.”

He gave her a look and moved around the side of the desk until he was next to her. “Belle, you look absolutely shattered.” Then he took hold of her hand and started tugging her away from her work. “Come on.”

“Ian...” She pulled her hand away and crossed her arms.

He turned on his heel and faced her. “Belle...”

They stood for a moment, staring at each other with equal exasperation, until Belle’s shoulders sagged. She was tired, that went without saying, both from her appointment with Archie and the weeks and months that had preceded it. There was a standard level of fatigue that she’d dealt with her whole career, brought on by long days in court, and longer nights of composing motion documents and briefs. But this was new. This was a less familiar bone deep weariness that weighed her whole body down, pulling her to the Earth. It didn’t feel like being grounded so much as it felt like being drowned, sucked down under the dark waves and suffocated.

Belle’s head dropped as she exhaled. “I went to talk to Archie after I left Midas’s office.”

Weaver seemed to startle a bit at her words, shifting his stance as his eyes went wide. “Okay...and?”

“And, it was... a lot.” She looked up and blinked almost dazedly.

He moved closer, taking the kind of slow steps one might when they were approaching a skittish cat. When he came within arm's length, she reached for him, all but grabbing the front of his white shirt as he closed the distance between them. She turned, falling against him as he moved to hold her, and buried her face in his chest.

"You sure you're all right?"

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, breathing in his warm, earthy scent. “Yeah,” she replied, slightly muffled. He made a grunting noise, and she looked up. “What?”

One of his eyebrows lifted slightly. “Let’s go home.” She stiffened and he squeezed her against him. “You can take a hot bath, I’ll make the scallops I picked up on my way back form the station, and -”

“You got fresh scallops?”

His lips quirked as her eyes widened hopefully. “You won’t know until you get home.”

Belle pulled back and swatted at his chest. “You don’t play fair.”

He laughed softly, and she shook her head, knowing that what he was suggesting was for her own good. They both needed a break, and the lull while they waited for courts and county clerks to process a pile of paperwork and red tape might just be the thing.

“Yeah, okay. I can write up the rest of the records requests on my laptop.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said, dryly, dropping his arms and taking a step back. “Just not in the bath this time, not after what happened with your iPad.”

She slung her purse strap over her shoulder and shot him a glare with significantly less venom than usual. “Shut up.”

Weaver pulled open the office door, still smirking, and held it for her as she stepped through into the hallway. “Yes, dear.”

[sultrysirens]

Blue Blood [Part 17]

Universe: Detroit: Become Human

Rating: PG-13 (swearing)

Characters: Connor, Evelyn (OFC)

Tags: interspecies, romance, fluff, detective, law enforcement, original character, continuation, sex

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The next day at work wasn’t quite so pleasing. Guerrero pulled them in for a talk as soon as they arrived, before they’d even had a chance to sit down.

Connor stood before the captain with his hands clasped in front of him. Evelyn, he noted, clasped her hands behind her back -- a military stance. Guerrero, on the other hand, looked tired, perched at the edge of his desk.

He began, “You brought in two men for android assault.”

“That, we did,” Evelyn agreed.

“Android assault isn’t a thing yet,” he pointed out. “There’s still no laws--”

“So that means we should just let them assault people?” she demanded.

He gave her a hard look. “You interrupt me entirely too often, Forbes.”

That got her to glance down. “Sorry, Captain,” she said.

“It’s a problem of yours, and you need to get that sorted,” he impressed.

She shifted, uncomfortable.

“If I may,” Connor cut in, a hand held up for patience.

Guerrero sent him a measuring look, then nodded. “Sure,” he allowed.

His tone wasn’t exactly inviting, Connor thought, but he took the opportunity nonetheless. “It’s not just android assault. I’m a detective here, too -- they assaulted a government official. And even if we can’t prosecute them, those men were being aggressive and violent. They need to know it’s not acceptable behavior in a civilized world.”

Evelyn gestured him. “Spoken better than I could’ve,” she noted.

The captain ducked his head, rubbing his buzzed scalp with a sigh. At length, he looked up again, saying, “We had to let them go. There were no charges to give--”

“No charges -- they incited a riot,” she snapped, agitated.

“Forbes,” he returned, a warning to his tone.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just...they need some kind of punishment. We can’t sweep this under the rug just because it happened to an android--”

“Forbes,” he repeated, more firm; she fell silent. “I understand. You feel this is an injustice and your job is to provide that justice -- particularly in defense of your own partner. But there’s still no android laws,” he impressed. “And as for a riot -- I read the report. They were threatening neither persons nor property, and until the laws get updated, androids are neither persons nor property.”

A deep, burning resentment took hold of Connor then, hearing that. Guerrero wasn’t wrong -- thanks to the president declaring androids as people, they no longer had the protection of being property, and until they were included in the law as a people, that meant they were nothing. Neither people nor property...they were honestly better off before.

At least before people could be fined for damaging an android. Now they didn’t even have that in their favor.

Guerrero continued, “Any judge would throw out the case, and then the D.A. would have a field day with the press -- especially because you were off duty,” he intoned. “You shouldn’t have been making any arrests to begin with. At this point we’ll be lucky if they don’t turn around and press charges against the precinct.”

She looked away, radiating both chagrin and frustration.

He took a breath, sighed. “There’s nothing we can do about this that won’t make things worse for the precinct. And until we have a stronger back from the community,” he continued, “we need to be cautious, whatever your moral compass says. We don’t have the numbers to deal with actual riots. Not anymore.”

She huffed, clearly unhappy with this call, and Connor empathized with her. But he could see things from Guerrero’s point of view, too; the captain was thinking of the precinct as a whole and he was trying to keep them in the community’s good graces. Connor couldn’t fault the man for that -- especially since the revolution. The lack of android officers meant half the precinct was unavailable to deal with any backlash from the community.

Aloud, Connor said, “I understand. Perhaps just being in holding for a night was enough to scare the men straight. And if they continue to pick fights, we need only to bide our time. The laws will come,” he said to Evelyn.

She gave him a questioning look, as if she didn’t quite believe him, but nodded regardless. “Here’s hoping,” she agreed.

Guerrero seemed satisfied by that, and he prompted, “Well. Now that we’ve sorted that out, what about Montgomery? I understand you two dug up some leads yesterday.”

The change of subject was a relief. Connor happily gave a verbal update, interspersed with Evelyn’s thoughts and conclusions, leading to the outcome that they’d need to interview Montgomery’s rival lawyers as well as Montgomery’s L.A. home and office. Neither of them believed a lawyer had gotten their hands dirty, but it was likely at least one of them was in bed with who had.

Guerrero listened, then gave a nod. “If you think it’ll aid the investigation, you’re welcome to go. Good luck,” he said, giving them a dismissive wave towards his door.

Evelyn nodded without a response, heading out, but Connor left with a cordial, “Have a nice day, Captain.”

Guerrero didn’t reply.

Outside the room, she commented, “You know you don’t need to be all hyper-polite, right?”

He glanced at her, surprised. “Should I not be polite towards my own captain?” he said as he trailed her, the pair of them heading to their desks.

“Not Guerrero,” she chuckled. “He never responds. I think it’s his way of being the ‘dad’ of the precinct -- giving everyone the cold shoulder, pretending to be all distant and tough.”

Curious, he asked, “Did you used to do it, too? The farewells?”

“When I first started, yeah. Took me a couple weeks before I figured out he’s being the tough, stubborn boss and won’t reciprocate.” She took her seat, logged in, and navigated to the digital case file.

He considered that -- Guerrero’s behavior -- for just a moment, concluding that the man was likely keeping up appearances. Then, attention shifting, he logged in, too, and began filling out a report on the information they’d gleaned from Mrs. Dulcevey.

Evelyn lifted her hands from the keyboard as he did so, surprised and amused. “Well, I can’t type half that fast. Or read that fast,” she noted as his report spawned into being from simple thought, appearing on her computer, too.

He chuckled. “Sorry, this is just how fast I go.”

“Mm. In which case,” she began, rising, “I don’t wanna interrupt so I’ll just go grab a coffee. Don’t break anything,” she added as she stepped away.

He smirked. He was truly starting to enjoy her teasing. It was just so friendly, the way she spoke to him. And...his thoughts were bleeding over into his report, he realized with a start. Those small thoughts managed to get sandwiched in the middle of a sentence about Ton Hoang.

Whoops.

He quickly edited those unrelated snippets out and continued his task. By the time Evelyn returned with her coffee, he’d narrowed down a sequence of events for the future of the case -- aside from interviewing the lawyers, which he expected would take time. They’d need to set up appointments, given they had no evidence to call upon, and undoubtedly the lawyers would wait until they had their ducks in a row. Aside from that, however...

To Evelyn, he outlined to her his desire to return to Montgomery’s estate so he could use his features to search for additional clues, namely how far the wireless signals went and if the home was receiving any from outside sources. Second, he wanted to check Montgomery’s L.A. residence and office as well, hoping that the victim had moved the thumb drive they were looking for to one of the two locations, and if not, they’d at least be able to build more of a profile on the victim that way. Third, he wanted to interview those closest to Montgomery himself.

Once he was finished speaking, he waited, and after a few moments’ time she spoke up.

“We can set up interviews pretty easily,” she began. “Montgomery is set to have a wake on the 15th. Most of his family are here already, as far as I know, so that shouldn’t be too hard. The lawyers will probably play the system as long as they can, though, waiting days or weeks or months if possible -- we’d be better off leaving them until we have some way to pressure them to show.”  

Then, sounding exhausted already, she intoned, “Either way, we’re in for a grind.”

“In which case,” he replied, “perhaps we should start with Montgomery’s residences.”

She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Agreed. Is the report done?”

He nodded. “You can check it if you like,” he offered.

“I’ll have to,” she returned. “I’ll need to add my own perspective, at the very least. Think you can handle contacting the family to set up interviews?”

“Not a problem,” he agreed. He’d have to do them one at a time, though; he had to verbally speak to make calls to humans. He started those while Evelyn read his report and started adding in her own words, ultimately setting up five interviews by the time she concluded her part of the report.

Once he checked it, he was actually surprised. She was fast -- almost unnaturally so, he noted. Even factoring in her occasional pauses, clearly thinking things through, she managed roughly 82 words per minute.

Not beyond human ability, he admitted, but that still came out to more than a word per second. She must’ve written up a great deal of reports in this job, he concluded, impressed.

Granted, he could do 256 words per minute (being a literal computer was kind of amusing sometimes) so he was already a minimum of three times faster than her, but still. For a human her speed was definitely notable.

It wasn’t too long before their desk work was completed -- less than two hours since they clocked in -- and then they were off. In the car, Evelyn started to set her dashcom* to direct her to Montgomery’s residence (their first stop), but Connor stopped her, already having the route calculated. He told her when and where to make turns for the half-hour drive, keeping up with traffic changes in real time, and got them there faster than her dashcom could’ve.

The home was in a suburban neighborhood, and he reflexively scanned things as they approached the home. Everything was well-tended down this snaking road, veering in gentle twists between roads, and numerous cars were parked on car-lots and on the curbs. A few humans were about, doing maintenance or walking dogs or talking in small gatherings.

Not a single android was in sight, he noted.

“You know what’d be cool?” she said as they got out of the vehicle. Without waiting for his response, she answered, “If you’d stop making all of my devices obsolete.”

He chuckled. “I can’t help it. But if it makes you feel any better,” he offered, “I can’t make a decent cup of coffee.”

She inclined her head. “Well, that’s one thing I’ve got, I guess. But I swear to God, if you turn around and get some coffee machine feature, I will scream.”

“I’ll just file that away under ‘Ways To Make Evelyn Scream’,” he commented, amused.

She gave a laugh. Then, as they headed to the door of Montgomery’s two-story suburban home, a sound caught their attention from within. They both stopped dead, glancing at one another, and Connor took the opportunity to analyze the sound.

For a suspended moment in time, he replayed the noise in his own mind, concluding that it was the sound of a drawer being shoved closed -- not gently, but with excessive force. Someone was within.

He asked quickly, “Would it be likely that Montgomery’s relations would come here, possibly to pack his things?”

“Not when there’s no car out front,” she answered, already reaching to her belt.

He took another glance at the street, but none of the vehicles in sight -- aside from Evelyn’s Mustang -- were close enough to suggest which one, if any, might belong to whomever was currently inside the home.

“An invader,” he concluded, already striding to the front door to check it. It was unlocked, he found, though undamaged; the digital lock had been hacked open. He sent Evelyn a glance over his shoulder, relaying as much.

She gestured him aside. “I’ll go in this way, you find a side door,” she directed under her breath.

“I’d rather be the one taking that risk,” he returned as quietly.

“I’m the one with the firearm,” she shot back. “Go.” She inclined her head to her left, around the side of the house.

For a split second he was conflicted. From a logical standpoint, that was smart: the person with ranged defense could easily distract any opponents while the one without snuck up from elsewhere. But from an emotional standpoint, he didn’t want her in that kind of danger.

During that split second, he struggled with himself, a war of tactical advantage versus emotional impulse. A feeling of nostalgia rose as he fought to determine the priority between the two, reminded of his first investigation alongside Hank.

After a heartbeat of debate, logic won. He gave a firm nod and headed off, moving around the home as quietly as his shoes would allow, keeping low so he wouldn’t be seen through the windows. Soon he came upon a side door -- unsurprising for this type of home -- and checked it. Still locked.

He hacked it with a touch, the physical lock clacking as the digital code released it. He pushed it open, listening, and found he’d entered the kitchen area. He could see three open doorways from here; following the sound of rummaging led him further left, towards the rear of the home. He caught a glimpse of Evelyn through the middle doorway as he moved, hands low in front of her, her firearm at the ready.

He hugged the doorway ahead of him, looking into the room beyond -- some form of sitting room, he deduced, with comfortable furniture. Listening closer, he heard the creak of footfalls further to the right and ducked into the next room to follow it.

Now that he’d pinpointed the intruder, though, he encountered a new problem: this room’s door was closed. He’d undoubtedly be noticed if he opened it. Still, reminded that Forbes could potentially be in danger going by her path, he gripped the lever handle and gave it a slow, testing twist. Unlocked, he determined, though it had a physical keyhole on his side of it.

Assuming the room beyond was Elias’ home study and, by extension, for the intruder to be looking for valuable case files, he moved slowly, avoiding making the slightest noise--

--right up until he heard Evelyn’s voice clearly call out, “Don’t move! Hands where I can see them!”

The target of her forceful order gave a startled shriek and Connor dropped pretense, swinging the door open to take in the situation.

His assessment had been correct, he saw at once: this was a study. A single bookshelf, desk, computer, and chair filled one half; the other half had merely a low, oval coffee table with a sofa and two chairs situated around it. And currently there was a woman behind the desk, illuminated by the window on her opposite side.

She was black with blue eyes, her head shaved, wearing an ensemble that was almost eerily identical to Evelyn’s. She also had two cameras on her in easy sight, one at her left shoulder and one anchored to her belt, as well as a half-visor over her right eye he didn’t recognize. He scanned the female at once, finding a laundry list of criminal accusations -- and no convictions. Not a single one went through, he found with surprise.

[Sasha Porter; born 3/15/2012; 5′9″, 137.2lbs]

She already had her hands in the air, and she called out, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Don’t shoot, I’m here legally!”

“Legally?” Evelyn echoed. “Identify yourself.”

“Sasha Porter, I’m a P.I.,” the woman declared. Then she seemed to notice Connor, giving him a double take but clearly more concerned with the gun trained on her.

Evelyn went from suspicious to sputtering, “Y-you’re a -- you’re a private investigator?” she checked.

“Yes,” Sasha insisted.

Jutting her chin, Evelyn demanded, “Show me an I.D.”

Moving slow, keeping one hand in front of her, Sasha did so, reaching down to her belt and withdrawing an I.D. wallet. She opened it, showing Evelyn.

To him, Evelyn said, “Connor, please check it.”

Not a problem. He strode closer, keeping aware of Sasha’s hands as he did so (just in case), and she turned the I.D. towards him offering as he neared. He scanned it as soon as it was close enough for his gaze to pick up on the details, checking the credentials.

It was legitimate, he concluded at once. Issued on 9/12/33, Sasha had been in this profession for the last five years. With this, he was even able to connect her to thirty-eight successful convictions. She got another commission completed roughly every two months.

She was good at her job.

He gestured Evelyn to back down, saying, “It’s real.”

With a sigh, she relented, holstering her weapon. Sasha gave a heavy exhale, too, patting her chest, and put her I.D. back in her pocket.

“What the Hell are you doing here?” Forbes demanded.

“Investigating, what’s it look like?” Sasha returned, tone sharp. “What are you, anyway? LAPD?”

Evelyn nodded. “Yeah. I’m Sergeant Evelyn Forbes, this is Detective Connor,” she introduced, gesturing him.

“Scared the shit out of me,” Sasha complained.

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t get that a lot in your profession,” Evelyn returned. Then, giving Sasha a vague wave, she asked, “You recording?”

“While I’m on the job? Always,” Sasha confirmed, giving Connor a glance. “You an android?” she asked him.

“Jacket give that away?” he returned dryly, moving to join up with his partner.

She gave him an annoyed look.

“Hey,” Evelyn began, getting Sasha’s attention. She gestured own her eye, saying, “What’s this you’re wearing?”

“Camera/scanner combo,” Sasha told her. “Doesn’t record, but it can take pictures and has a number of visual settings.”

“Ooh. I should get me one of those,” Evelyn commented.

“Good luck with that, it’s new tech -- just released a couple days ago,” Sasha told her. “Super expensive.”

That would explain why Connor hadn’t been able to identify it, then. He checked, “What’s it called?”

Giving him a curious look, Sasha answered, “Heimdall Elite. Kinda pretentious, if you ask me.”

He logged that, creating a file for it. It didn’t take but an instant to have it named with all of its identifying markers and logged with all the information he could glean from the internet.

Evelyn commented, “Cool. Now who hired you, and what are you looking for here?”

Sasha gave her a dumb look. “You know I’m under no obligation to answer either of those questions. Gotta protect my clients. You understand,” she said -- not a question.

“Mm,” was Evelyn’s response. She paused then, thoughtful, and Connor was hit with a sense of impatience.

“Why are we waiting?” he asked her.

“Because she’s recording,” Evelyn returned, crossing her arms.

Good point. As long as a private investigator was present and recording, the police were limited in what they could do -- and, given she had active cameras going, what they were willing to do.

Sasha gave them a wave. “You can wait outside. Or just check some other rooms. Don’t let me get in your way.”

“You’re directly in our way, actually,” Evelyn told her.

Shrugging, Sasha said, “I got here first. And you know I can’t take or even move anything. Let me finish up my job, then you can do yours. Deal?”

Evelyn sighed, relenting, and moved back out towards the hall. He kept pace with her, taking stock of the area he hadn’t yet seen. The hall led directly to the front door, the study completely opposite the front door, with more doorways opening to a living room and dining room with a staircase right in the middle of it all.

“Pretty nice place,” he noted.

“Yeah -- I’m not buying it, though,” she commented, glancing around.

Looking towards her, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Lawyers usually get penthouses and mansions, not family homes in suburban neighborhoods,” she explained. “This is tiny and much more familial than his other residence. It doesn’t add up -- I’d bet this was just a show home.”

He could definitely see that, he admitted. Thinking on it, he decided to run a check, searching through what few databases he currently had access to; finding the deed and former owners of this home, he said, “This was Montgomery’s childhood home. He inherited it. Technically, it belongs to his son now, but Henry hasn’t been here in over a decade.”

Nodding, Evelyn worked out, “Then this is more likely his personal office than anything.” She glanced around, thoughtful, before starting to ascend the stairs. “In which case, there’s gotta be something here worth finding,” she was saying.

He trailed behind her, sending a glance down the hall -- checking on Sasha -- as he went. She was still busying herself with her digging, picking up stacks of papers before replacing them and investigating the drawers and bookshelves. Confirming that she was obeying the private investigator restrictions, he left her be.

Four doors sectioned the second floor, he found: two on their left, one on their right, one a few steps ahead. All were open, allowing him to note that the master bedroom was the one furthest to the left with a den of sorts on that side as well. The door to their front was a bathroom, and the one to their right was a spare bedroom.

She was heading for the den as she directed, “No touching anything you don’t have to, and if you move anything, put it right back where you found it.”

He was familiar with the P.I. laws, so he replied, “I’m more than capable of following the law.”

“A reminder never hurt anyone,” she pointed out.

Fair.

He left her to the den while he headed for the master bedroom and began his search.

It was about as fruitful as searching Helen Baker’s apartment had been, Connor found close to twenty minutes later. He’d looked absolutely everywhere, checking every drawer, examining the walls for hidden compartments, scanning for abnormal power lines, even checking every single article of clothing in the wardrobe and closet.

Nothing significant or noteworthy came to light. His conclusion: either Montgomery had kept all crime-related business out of his home, or he’d kept it out of his bedroom.

Giving up, he checked on Evelyn then, finding her sitting on the floor with a circle of papers around her, clearly having placed them there.

“So much for not touching anything,” he noted, striding in to take a closer look. “What did you find?”

“A pattern,” she explained, starting to gesture certain parts of the papers.

Each one seemed to have a different theme -- some were printed emails, some were excerpts from cases or books, some were collections of notes -- but he saw what she did: a sequence.

Time, date, place, and some kind of key word -- either a noun or an adjective and noun paired together. 5:23pm, November 11th, Donovan’s, red corvette; 2:17am, August 6th, Bookman’s, ATM; 9:02pm, April 27th, Franklin Blvd, yacht; it went on, a total of fourteen clues laid out together.

Impressed, he asked, “How did you notice this?”

“It stood out from the rest,” she answered absently. Then, glancing up at him, she checked, “Do you have all this memorized?”

He nodded. “You should put them back,” he said, but she was already doing so, arranging them almost haphazardly in between a series of other stacks.

Concerned that she might be mixing them up, he said, “I wish you’d gotten my attention before you pulled all those out. I could’ve put them back exactly as they’d been.”

She pulled out her phone. “I took pictures before I removed anything,” she informed him. “But you’re right -- I’m sorry about that. Guess I’m still just used to working alone.”

As she’d been for the last year, he reminded himself. The habits she must have developed from the lack of a partner...he’d definitely have to fight her now and again, if only to remind her that he was there and he could handle himself. She’d already displayed some of that loner mentality, he realized then, despite her visibly trying to include him the rest of the time.

“Not to worry, I’ll help you break those habits,” he teased, “whether you like it or not.”

She smiled at him, and he heard Sasha ascending the stairs then.

To Evelyn, he said, “Our rival is on her way.”

Blowing out a sigh, Forbes nodded. “I think it’s in our best interest to take our leave, then,” she concluded. “Let her do her thing. We can come back later.”

Agreeing, he gestured ahead, directing, “Ladies first.”

The look she gave him, then, was a kind of amused suspicion, like she was surprised by his politeness.

Somewhat offended, he retorted, “What? I’m not allowed to have manners?”

“Nah -- I’m just not used to it,” she explained, heading out. “Excuse us,” she said to Sasha as the P.I. passed her at the landing.

Sasha stepped aside, watching them go. “Y’all done?” she checked.

“For now,” Connor answered. “Good luck on your investigation.”

Eyes narrowing with suspicion, Sasha returned, “You, too.”

Once they were on the road again, Connor noted, “So, she was interesting.”

“You think?” Evelyn prompted, curious. “What makes Sasha Porter so intriguing?”

“For one thing, she was dressed almost identical to you,” he noted.

“I am immediately offended.”

He chuckled, then continued, “For another -- she has blue eyes. That’s exceedingly rare. Most likely, she has European ancestry in her -- and if not, she’s a mutant of the most beautiful variety.”

Smirking, she quipped, “Well, you already sound smitten.”

“I am immediately offended,” he shot back.

Laughing, she said, “Seriously, though, I agree. Those eyes are gorgeous on her. If I were a lesbian, man...” She gave a soft whistle.

With a dry laugh, he pointed out, “You’re married, so you wouldn’t do a damn thing.”

“How dare you crush my hopes and dreams,” she complained.

“Besides which,” he pressed, “she’s a P.I. You’re a cop. You said it yourself: the professions don’t mesh.”

“Sounds like a great premise for a rom-com,” she returned. “Maybe some good drama in there, too. I can see it now: she was a detective with LAPD, hard-driven and no-nonsense,” she intoned with a deep, narrative voice. “But while on a case, she crossed paths with a private investigator -- and what they found took them down a path of intrigue, betrayal, and romance--”

“Enough,” Connor laughed, waving her to silence.

Giggling, Evelyn relented. “So,” she prompted, “how about we actually get to work? Can you set up a timeline for those settings?”

Not a problem. He’d organized them by date and put pins in a mental map of where they’d taken place, linking them together, while they’d been talking. He said now, “Already done. It’s...interesting,” he offered.

“How so?”

“The locations are very random,” he explained. “They’re all over the state, not just L.A. I’m thinking they’re most likely related in terms of who or which entities own the areas -- there’s just no pattern to their locations.”

“Unless there’s more locations and we just don’t have that information yet,” she suggested.

Plausible, he admitted. “Maybe. But we should hold off on that until we have more to go on.”

“Agreed. You ready to go digging in a lawyer’s corner office?” she checked.

“More than. Let’s get this done,” he said, feeling more determined by the second. It seemed everything they found on Montgomery only deepened the mystery, rather than unraveling any of it.

It they didn’t find any solid leads after today, he feared it would become an obsession for him, the puzzle too great to ignore. Yet, weirdly, he found himself liking that concept: that he’d find a case he literally couldn’t put to bed.

In a sense, the deviancy case had never been solved, and to a small degree he was still curious about it. But the way things had gone, he’d ceased to care about why it’d happened -- it was just a good thing it had. And, to an extent, he didn’t want to solve it, either. A part of him felt protective of the mystery, liking keeping it unsolved meant he was protecting his fellow androids.

No, the deviancy case was perfectly fine left cold. But this one -- Montgomery -- was a damn good substitute, drawing his focus and intrigue. He couldn’t wait to see where it went from here.

--

* Dashcom = an abbreviation I came up with for “dash computer”, as I assume they’ll be incredibly popular in the near future (especially for government officials, like the police and FBI) and will very likely be referred to as such.

--

[>>>NEXT>>>]

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

Witches, Chapter 11: I split another giant chapter in half. In this portion, I set up a filler case that exists purely to set the scene and allow me to make up two very bad AA-style pun names; shit hasn’t quite gotten real but it sure is about to; and Athena makes some new friends.

[Seelie of Kurain Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

[Witches Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

----

The Wright Anything Agency isn’t lucky.

Apollo should just expect that from the start. He didn’t, this time, because he trusted Phoenix - that being a loaded statement - to know what he was talking about and assumed - bad idea - that if he bothered to say Tenma Taro would be weaker at midsummer, then there was some chance of waiting. That it would lay low to wait out the fervor of the trial and the attention turned toward the Vale. That it wouldn’t wreak havoc immediately.

But they’re just a few days into May when the office phone rings with a call from a young woman who lives in Tenma Town and has been charged with robbing her prior place of employment. “Jinxie Tenma gave me your number,” she says, in between sobs, “and said you would believe me th - that - that I think Tenma Taro did it.”

“Of course we believe you,” Apollo assures her. Athena stands on her chair, propping herself on her desk, leaning forward to listen. With her ears, she can probably hear the other end of the line just fine. She might also be able to hear Apollo’s - not doubt, exactly, or disbelief, but the uncertainty he keeps feeling over Tenma Taro. None of them have seen it. They have Filch’s word, and they all know he wasn’t lying, but could he have been mistaken? Could Phoenix’s fae ‘friends’ have been mistaken in what they thought Phoenix was asking them about?

(He doubts it, but he still doesn’t think he knows well enough what they’re getting into.)

Athena searched all of LA’s used car lots for one that was yellow - “I’m like the cab driver for all of you at the agency, and also I just love yellow” - and with a new-old car they take the well-worn path back up to Nine-Tails Vale. Tenma Town is perched a little higher up the valley but has a similar old-fashioned cobblestone vibe, though some more modern office buildings dot the streets here and there. The town square is centered on a large fountain and a statue that Apollo doesn’t think is Tenma Taro, but it’s birdlike enough that it evokes that image. 

Their client, Isabella Pyrria - picked up overnight, released on bail in the morning, returned home, and called them as soon as she made it back - is still teary-eyed when they meet her at a bench by the fountain. She explains that she likes to go on walks in the evenings and her favorite route goes past the antiques store she was fired from at the beginning of April, and she hadn’t bothered to change her route because a lot of cool moths congregate under the awning at the cafe next door. She pulls out her phone to show them pictures. Athena nods at each photo, solemnly and knowingly. “I’m more of a marine mammals person myself,” she says, “but I like the fuzzy ones and their…” She holds her hands to her forehead, two fingers raised on each, and wiggles them. “Antenna. What’re your favorite animals, Apollo?”

“Can we get back to the case, please?” he asks.

Isabella swears to them that when she passed by the store sometime around 10 pm, there was nothing wrong. She didn’t stop long to investigate this spring’s batch of caterpillars, because she was trying to get to the corner store before it closed, because she hadn’t had anything for dinner. She made it there, stayed until closing chatting with the owner and petting the bodega cat, and when she came back out she heard the sirens and saw the police cruiser lights. 

The antique store’s security camera, mounted outside above the door, broke two months ago and was never fixed, but only employees knew this. Security tapes from cameras outside other buildings further down the street in both directions showed she was the only person who had passed by either. Anyone walking to the antiques store would be spotted by either of those.

“But Tenma Taro doesn’t have to walk,” Isabella says. “It could just fly straight down and land in front and not be seen.”

“Why would a yokai rob an antiques store?” Athena asks. “Why would a yokai rob anywhere?”

“To cause chaos?” Apollo suggests. What do yokai even do - they’re all so very individual? He did some cursory internet research but couldn’t find anything on Tenma Taro; it might as well have just come out of nowhere here in California. The scroll Jinxie said was the only image of it really is only one of two, the Forbidden Chamber scroll showing the gold ore being the other. 

“I don’t know why anyone would rob that antiques store,” Isabella says, toying with the hair tie around her wrist. “It’s got pretty stuff but it’s all cheap. There’s nothing worth taking there.”

Her fingers, plucking at the hair tie and smacking it against her wrist, are illuminated red. “Ms Pyrria,” Apollo says. “Are you being fully honest with us? There really isn’t anything that you or anyone would want to take?”

She lowers her eyes to her hands. “We did have, um, a coupon deal with a really good pizza place over in the Vale. Supposed to give one out with every purchase but I kinda just, um, took a whole bunch once I got fired. But that was it.”

That looks true. Apollo glances to Athena, who nods with a secondary confirmation. Okay. They’ve got this much figured out. Now to the scene of the crime.

The antique shop’s windows are shattered, everything that was displayed in them cracked and shattered across the floor inside and the sidewalk outside. Athena leans into the window to examine a typewriter. “You don’t think there could’ve been some kind of magic artifact in here that it wanted to get?” Apollo asks. “Something languishing as just a normal family heirloom that someone dumped off here?”

“Ooh, maybe,” Athena says. “I guess they’d probably have to take inventory to really find out if stuff’s missing, and this is uh - big mess.” She points with her thumb at the police tape across the doorway. “Can we just head in?”

“Er—” They should probably introduce themselves to a detective first, lower the chances of being yelled at once they’re inside. Apollo glances in through the doorway, hoping to catch sight of anyone in there investigating. Maybe most of the investigating already happened? “I guess…?”

Before he’s really finished saying it, Athena ducks under the tape and heads inside. Apollo lifts it up to follow her. If he’s honest with himself he’s not sure what he hopes they can find. Feathers again, maybe? The interior of the shop is densely packed with tables and shelving upturned and overturned, and what would have once been a clear path or two through are cluttered. Apollo steps over a tall wicker flower stand, lying on its side, and a pillow that was probably hand-embroidered. Athena has stopped with her neck craned to the side, reading the titles of the few books still left on a shelf. 

Oh, this is going to be rough, to stay focused, when this isn’t a murder and there’s not a particular area, the place where a body was, the place where the killing happened, to hone in on. He’s defended a smattering of other cases between the large nightmarish ones that weren’t murders, but neither did they have very complicated scenes. And no co-counsel distracted by knick-knacks, either. 

“Athena,” he says. She jumps, already having become engrossed. “We should probably give the whole place a once-over, see if anything jumps out, find a detective to talk to, and then we can try and look for anything else that—”

“Hey!” A woman’s voice cuts through the stillness, a loud, indignant squawk. “Who’s in here? This is a - oh! Yo! Apolly!”

Athena’s eyebrows rise and disappear beneath her bangs. “D-Detective Faraday?” Apollo asks, turning around and unable to look for her due to making sure he doesn’t place his feet on anything breakable. 

“Long time no see!” Kay chirps, with an air of familiarity that far surpasses the scant two times they’ve actually met. From New Years he’s pretty sure that she gives Y-suffix nicknames to everyone she can, but that doesn’t make it any better when Athena is snickering at him. “I mean, I expected to see you soon, what with Tenma Taro, but not quite this soon. And who’s this?” She extends a hand to Athena. “Hi, I’m Detective Kay Faraday!”

“Defense attorney Athena Cykes!” The two seem to be competing to see who can more enthusiastically shake the other’s hand. “Nice to meet you! What can you tell us about the case so far?”

Laughing brightly, Kay shakes her head, her black hair flying everywhere. “I’m not Emmy,” she says. “I’m not just gonna purposely give up the prosecution’s whole case right here. Besides.” She props her hands on her hips. “Tonight we’re going hunting for Tenma Taro anyway, and I’m sure you’ll get enough accidental stuff from us on how we totally believe yeah, it’s that big ol’ turkey causing trouble.”

Athena asks who “Emmy” is, and as Kay explains Ema and her general lack of concern for prosecutorial secrecy, Apollo picks his way through the mess to a door left ajar in the back, into a smaller, even more cluttered room, where none of the objects still left on the shelving have price tags. Prosecutor Debeste stands wedged between a rocking chair and a dresser with a shattered mirror, his upper body twisted awkwardly to give him room to move his arms and jot something down in a little notebook. “Where’s the line between antiques and junk?” Apollo asks, deciding that there is no good way any further into this room, and since he can see most of it, he should probably just stay planted here in the doorway.

“How much it sells for, maybe?” Sebastian offers up weakly. “Is this a trick question?”

“I guess it is, since I don’t have an answer.” Apollo has difficulty trying to survey the room; there’s too much going on, too much clutter that keeps drawing his eye one way and then another, and it takes longer than he thinks it should for him to notice the deep scratches in the wall. Three rivets straight down, tearing apart the wallpaper and wood, about two inches in between them, spaced like claw marks. “Do you have an explanation for that?” he asks, pointing to it.

Sebastian shakes his head and his glasses slide down his nose. “Not really a plausible one besides ‘giant bird monster’. The defendant could persum - presumably have made them with something she found laying around here, there’s some old farm tools kinds of things, but then the question is—”

“Why bother?” 

Sebastian nods sharply. “Exactly. It’s not a message or any code or something that the shop owner recognizes, and it would be a waste of time with more chance to be caught. And with—” He points down, in front of Apollo, and Apollo examines the floor to see more gashes in the wood, of the same spacing as those on the wall, like a giant bird-monster walking about on its talons. “That, too.” 

And maybe someone’s trying to frame a yokai for the crime, again, play on those fears, but it seems like even more effort to go to. “Is there anything noticeably missing?” Apollo asks. Plenty could be not-so-noticeably missing, all kinds of little knick-knacks, but that can’t be the purpose - no one is going to rob a store for 25-cent porcelain cat figurines. “Cash register, or any large or valuable stuff?”

“The register hadn’t been touched,” Sebastian says. “No fingerprints, nothing missing. The only thing the owner noticed so far and told me is that back here she had - she said it was a weird-looking stone she’d never figured out a price for because she didn’t know what it was or was made of. She said it was roughly” - he holds up his hands, less then a foot apart, and cupped toward each other. “And shaped like a six.”

Apollo’s stomach sinks, which has become a very familiar sensation in this kind of context. “A magatama?” he asks, pressing a hand to his forehead. He knew this wouldn’t be a normal case. It’s still going terribly. “A large magatama? That would be reason enough for Tenma Taro to break into a random human establishment, more than just scaring the townspeople.”

“If I were trying to scare the town, I’d hit up more than one place,” Athena says. She leans against the doorframe and peers in, as Kay attempts to squeeze in around her and past Apollo. “Just make it a random selection, no pattern, and not attack everywhere. Leave some dread that I’ll come back and get some of the people I spared before.”

“Dread’s a key part,” Kay agrees. “Especially drop some warning in advance, not enough for anyone to be able to stop you, but just enough to make them all anxious and freaked out waiting for the worst.”

“Okay, so you’re both evil,” Apollo says. Athena chortles and Kay breaks into full cackling. “That’s probably a good thing for me to know ahead of time, before we get any further on this.”

“Before we venture into the woods in the dark with them, you mean,” Sebastian says.

“In the dark?” Apollo repeats. “In the—”

“We’ve got, uh, ‘sources’,” Kay says, making the quotation marks with one hand, while in the other she holds and examines a teacup that had managed to survive the initial catastrophe. “Informants who’ve been keeping an eye out to make sure things don’t go belly-up without us knowing.”

“Like other detectives or officers or something?” Athena asks, with a few wide-eyed blinks of confusion. 

“Something,” Sebastian agrees. Apollo makes a note to himself to look out for crows. “But we know Tenma Taro doesn’t emerge during the day. You’ll have time to investigate in town; Ms Teak, the shop owner, went out for lunch but she told us she would be coming back, uh…” Sebastian checks his watch, pushing apart his sleeve and his glove to get to its face. “Soon? She lives above the shop, which is how she knew about the crime so quickly.”

“We should definitely talk to her, then,” Athena says. “And then at sunset we’ve got a whole new investigation to start!”

-

Ms Teak is a short, white-haired old lady who invites Apollo and Athena up to her living quarters above the shop, offers them tea, and insists that they call her “Auntie” even after they tell her they are Isabella’s lawyers. “That girl,” she says with a sad shake of her head, nearly spilling the tea that she pours for Athena, and Athena almost jostles the pot out of her hands eagerly trying to reach over and steady it. “She’s a sweet girl, but her head’s so far up in the clouds at the best of times. I just couldn’t keep rebalancing the register because she got her math all wrong. Or I’d tell her where to go clean and find an hour later she hadn’t done anything because she’d started with dusting the bookshelf and started thumbing through the first book to catch her eye. Cookies, dears?”

“Er, no thanks,” Apollo says at the same time Athena says, “Sure! Thank you very much!”

Depending on what sorts of witnesses she takes this offer from, she might end up in big trouble; but Apollo showed the blackmail letter to L’Belle and he stole it and destroyed it, so maybe he’s not that much better at proper witness protocol. Other subjects that should probably be taught in law school.

“I hate to think that such a sweet girl would be capable of this,” Ms Teak continues, returning to the small round table and setting down a little plate of tea biscuits. All of the decor of the house is mismatched, like it’s all come out of the antiques store at some point or another: a wicker chair next to a polished brown wood one next to a bar stool of almost equal height to the table, a white-and-gold teapot on a blue porcelain saucer, a cutting board shaped like a pig hanging on the kitchen wall visible from where they now sit in the tiny cramped dining area. “I had to let her go, you understand. It simply wasn’t working out. But I’ve got no ill-will toward the dear girl, and I’d hoped she had none toward me. Oh, dear, dear.” She pulls the wicker chair away from the table, that Apollo now can see the green flowered seat cushion and the pillow with an embroidered - opossum? Is that a possum? - resting against the back. 

“How did she react when you told her that you were firing her?” Apollo asks. He watches Athena reach slowly for another cookie, like if she moves slow enough she won’t be noticed, and when she returns it to her mouth she nibbles at it like a squirrel, if a squirrel were nibbling because it realized it isn’t professional or polite to just scarf it down. 

“Oh, the poor thing cried, of course. So embarrassed and ashamed of all the mistakes she’d made. Hated to think she’d failed at anything though I tried so hard to assure her that just because she wasn’t good at some things didn’t mean she wouldn’t find a passion that she could get her head locked into.”

“Yeah, I got a big sense of shame and sadness when she mentioned being fired, too,” Athena says quietly, tapping at the side of Widget. “Definitely not anything vindictive.”

“I do hope you’re right,” Ms Teak says. “I do hope you and that other nice young pair - how old are you? I swear all of you professional-types get younger and younger these days - can make sure she didn’t do it and find who did.” She sighs. “And I’ve got to clean up that mess they made, and I’d just gotten done all my spring reorganizing of the shop done, too.”

“The stone that was stolen from the back room,” Apollo says. “The prosecutor mentioned that. Do you remember where that came from originally?”

“Oh, I had that old thing for years,” Ms Teak replies. “Maybe a decade or more, now. I don’t quite remember when but my memory is sharp that it was Ms Tenma, rest her soul - the mayor’s wife, I mean, dear little Jinxie’s mother - who brought it in, asked me if I’d ever seen anything like it and told me she didn’t want it back, that I was free to sell it or get rid of it however I like. She said she didn’t know what it was either, but it made her so uneasy she wanted it out. Didn’t ask where she got it from, didn’t feel that was my business. Strange things happen in this town, you know.”  

Apollo knows. Apollo knows well that this one of, but not the only, the towns where strange things happen. Ms Teak glares at them over her teacup. “Best not to ask, sometimes.” She says it like advice, a warning. “And I kept telling myself I should get rid of it, but I’ve been so darned curious that I could never make myself ask for a few dollars for it, or just throw it in a river, you understand?” She shakes her head, sending her white curls bouncing. “Maybe whatever it belongs to wanted it back now, and poor Isabella’s lucky she wasn’t walking past at the time it arrived. Though maybe sharp young lawyers like you two don’t believe in that sort of thing?” She raises an eyebrow as she takes another sip of her tea.

“We’re the lawyers who defended Mayor Tenma when he was charged with murder last month,” Apollo says, hoping that the mayor’s popularity has continued to climb, hoping that he was never so hated here in Tenma Town, and that his saying this won’t be a black mark. “We’re, um, familiar with the goings-on around here.”

“That was you?” she asks, surprised, setting down her teacup and saucer. “My goodness. All of those big cases you must get, if the mayor chose you as his lawyers, and here you are up this way for little Isabella.”

“We don’t really—” Apollo begins, because really, it was a lucky fluke that they got to represent the mayor, and luckier that they didn’t entirely blow it, but Athena kicks him in the shin before he can correct Ms Teak on their office’s humble and confusing existence. 

“Thank you darlings oh so much for helping out our little town, once again.”

“It’s our pleasure!” Athena replies, taking another cookie. 

-

“She’s the most pleasant witness we’ve ever had!” Athena says brightly, once they’ve left behind the shop to compile their information back in the sunlight of the street. “What a great chance of pace!”

“You’ve had exactly one case before this,” Apollo says. “You can’t say that like—”

“Like Filch and L’Belle weren’t both terrible?” Athena interrupts. She’s unequivocally correct, of course, even without her knowing that Apollo, after his first case, would have had the same reaction to a cooperative, forthcoming, honest, friendly client; after dealing with Olga Orly, Phoenix, and Kristoph. Apollo would have had this same response, but didn’t, because all of the witnesses in his second case were also terrible. 

She grins at his silence, knowing what it means, and from her skirt pocket produces yet another cookie. 

-

The alderman’s manor and garden are closed to the public of Nine-Tails Vale - and indeed, anywhere else - for the foreseeable future, but Jinxie still has possession of the master key and has been in to clean up and keep dust from gathering. “The alderman’s wife is still in the hospital,” she explains, “but Papa and I went to see her and she told us that she trusted the town was in good hands with us.” She squares her shoulders, a stack of charms still arrayed in her hand, ready to strike, but instead of slapping one onto Apollo’s head she just offers one to him and Athena. “So we can’t let her down!”

Kay sits on the carpet in the foyer with three boxes of pizza and one of breadsticks. “Ms Teak let me and Sebby take some coupons!” she chirps. “I thought it’s important that we all get some food in us before we head out! Sebby’s on his way over, but I flew out here ahead of time to get us food. You’re welcome!” She waves a breadstick at them and Athena enthusiastically flings herself to the floor, Jinxie sinking down with a bit more grace. 

Out the window, the sun is no longer visible, its last vestiges of light barely illuminating the horizon, but the sky is still the light blue of early dusk, nothing that Apollo would yet be worried about roaming around in. Sebastian arrives, with Phoenix and Trucy trailing him, in the blue-black, when several stars are visible along with the moon. “Papa’s up in the Fox Chamber,” Jinxie tells Phoenix. “Trying to get the Forbidden Chamber back in order, make sure it’s all set up.” She offers all three of them warding charms, as she had before. “And he’s talking to the woman who showed up earlier.”

“What woman?” Phoenix asks through a mouthful of pizza.

Jinxie shrugs. “I slapped her with a warding charm when she came in - not one of the protective charms I’ve given you, but one to keep a demon in and stop it from using its powers. And she didn’t mind that so I guessed she can’t be that evil, and Papa has the Nine-Tails to protect him. She’s very pretty - um, she has black hair and was wearing a kimono.”

Oh. That is very unfortunately familiar, too. Phoenix presses a hand over his face and sighs. “Did I do something wrong?” Jinxie asks. “Do you know her?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Phoenix assures her, and after the initial moment has passed, he looks more concerned with whether he wants to finish his slice of pizza. “I know both of the likely options, and there are - there could be worse things. Or people.”

“Mr Wright, do you know how to say things that aren’t cryptic and ominous?” Kay asks. Apollo’s glad he’s not the only one left wondering that question, and that Kay is secure enough to say it out loud, too. Maybe sooner or later Phoenix will get the point, will get tired of hearing it and adapt. Or maybe sooner than that they’ll all be eaten by a yokai.

Jinxie springs to her feet and races up the stairs, calling for her father. She returns two minutes later with Mayor Tenma and a woman who Apollo recognizes, her straight black hair as glassy as ice and her dark, sad eyes. Jinxie was right to take a precaution against her - stuck right in the center of her forehead is a paper charm. “Well, this is a surprise,” Phoenix says lightly, but his posture shifts the moment he sees her, contracting, tightening up from the loose ease he held himself with. When he finishes speaking his mouth has a plastic quality to it, the corner frozen in a lopsided and failed smile. “What are you doing here, Iris?”

He looks so much less comfortable with her here than he did in the office last year, but there’s more people here, more than just Apollo and Trucy to wonder what it is about them, between them. Iris appears no more confident, bowing to Phoenix and never quite straightening up, her hands folded in front of herself, her shoulders turning slightly inward with them. “Since you consulted the Mystic on this matter of Tenma Taro, she was concerned about what may happen to you attempting to reimprison it yourself. Or even with assistance.”

“And I assured Miss… Iris,” Mayor Tenma says, his pronunciation of her name slow and doubtful, like he knows what she is, knows this name is not entirely true to her, “that with the power of the Nine-Tailed Fox, there is little to fear.”

“As I understand.” Iris inclines her head up and to the side, and when her hair swings down and catches the light, as Apollo remembers, it has an auburn sheen. “Understand me, Mayor, that I am not here to tread on your authority, nor to doubt the power of your village’s guardian. When I say that the Fox is weaker than it was when Tenma Taro was first imprisoned, I do not mean that it and you are weak - simply weaker. And there is a ritual to prepare in the Chamber to bind the demon again, and a vast swath of forest to search through. Are we to wait for you to be finished with the Chamber to begin? The Mystic requested of me to keep our friends safe, and that is what I intend to do.”

“I’m surprised Maya didn’t come down here herself,” Phoenix says. “I think I’m overdue for her yelling at me.” He says it tonelessly, with a roll of his eyes, though the implication is obvious, that Maya is one of the fae, and Apollo would never be so casual about having one of the fae angry with him. 

“Oh, don’t worry.” Iris smiles with lips pressed tight together. “She will not forget that she has criticisms of your handling of the past eight years. But we all agreed for this situation that both she and my sweet little sister bear a worrying lack of subtlety that could have unfortunate repercussions.”

“Right,” Phoenix agrees. “Pearls would slap a yokai straight through a house. Take care of that situation but level half the town in the process.”

“Indeed. And I was already in the area, over at Hazakurain, and it was not too far to come over. Sister Bikini’s back has been bothering her more lately and I had thought to offer some assistance to the temple.” Iris’ smile gets a little wider, a little less forced. “She still asks after your well-being, and that of a certain handsome prosecutor as well.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Phoenix’s mouth quirks into an equally small smile, and then he claps his hands together and brings them up in front of his mouth. “All right,” he says. “What’s our plan? Iris? Mr Tenma?”

“I have spent these past two weeks, with the assistance of the Nine-Tails, seeking out Tenma Taro, but he has avoided me,” the mayor explains. “It is my hope that you would be able to assist in flushing him out and driving him to a place that I would be able to finish dragging him back into the Forbidden Chamber.”

“So we are gonna be bait!” Athena says. 

“No,” Phoenix says. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sort of. Tenma Taro’s weak after being locked up for so long - not weak enough to not be a threat, but enough that it’s going to stay the hell away from its old enemy.” A wave of his hand in the direction of Mayor Tenma. “It’s not going to be so cautious when you kids go tromping into the woods. You’d just smell and seem like - people. Traces of magic, yeah, sure, but none of you are foxes.”

“So it’ll just think we’re tasty snacks and not expect us to kick its butt?” Athena asks.

“Tasty,” Trucy repeats. “Magically delicious, you mean.”

Iris giggles. Phoenix sighs and says, “Sebastian, you’re in charge.”

Sebastian freezes, eyes wide and shoulders hunched, his hands twisting around each other. He wears different gloves now than he did earlier; these have the fingers missing, for whatever reason. “Mr Wright, are you sure?”

A witch against a yokai. Apollo doesn’t really know what witches can do, in the abstract, and he certainly doesn’t know what powers Sebastian has - or the when, why, how, of him becoming a witch - but Phoenix must. Enough to have an expectation. “I’m not asking - or suggesting - that you try and fight it singlehandedly, but I think you’d be a big help in keeping it distracted.”

Neither Sebastian’s face nor his posture suggests that he agrees with this assessment. “And, Iris?” Phoenix asks. She doesn’t look surprised, turns her eyes on Phoenix slowly and blinks, waiting. “I’m sure whatever Maya told you was about me, but I’m pretty sure I’d be a liability if I was trying to keep up with everyone else through the woods, and—” 

“Your back pain is and always has been because you sit like a gargoyle,” Iris says. “But you would like me to keep your children from being killed.”

“Well.” Phoenix runs his hand through his hair all the way down to rub the back of his neck. “I wasn’t going to phrase it exactly like that. Those two” - he gestures at Kay and Sebastian - “are Edgeworth’s, not mine.”

“What?” Kay asks. “Mr Edgeworth’s my other dad, but you’re my other other dad! Are you disowning me? Have I been disowned? Why can’t you both be my dads?” She grins. Apollo remembers the conversation he had with Klavier about a particular betting pool.

“I do believe it’s been decided on your behalf,” Iris says to Phoenix. “But, yes, I will make sure none of them come to harm. If—” She frowns, her eyes narrowing, and she rolls them up toward the center of her forehead, as though trying to see Jinxie’s charm still left there. She raises a hand to it and falters, her fingers an inch from the paper. 

“Right,” Phoenix says, and he reaches over and peels the charm off of her head. 

“You can’t take it off yourself?” Trucy asks.

“There would hardly be a point to such a charm if any monster can just remove the bindings from herself,” Iris says. “Perhaps we use that charm ourselves, slap it upon Tenma Taro when we find him.”

“Ooh! I volunteer for that!” Kay bounces up and down and snatches the charm from Phoenix’s hand when he holds it out to her. “I’ll sneak up on him and whack him with it! And then, Seb, you chase it out into the open where the Amazing Nine-Tails can wrestle it back to prison!”

“You should all take some more charms,” Jinxie says, grabbing Trucy’s hands and dealing the paper slips into her palm like a card dealer setting up a game. “Make sure as soon as you see something strange, hit it!” 

“That’s sound advice,” Athena says, nodding sagely.

“That could get you arrested,” Sebastian says.

Athena raises her eyebrows and grins at Apollo. He has to suppress a groan. Somehow, in the madness of everything after, he’d almost forgotten about Athena flinging a police officer through the air. Between that, manipulating information from Fulbright, and Sebastian and Kay being plenty friendly (no matter how Kay tried to pretend she wasn’t giving out information), she’s going to get a very strange idea of what she can get away with.

Iris eyes the pizza crusts that someone left behind in the box, but seeing Apollo watching her, she quickly turns her head away, lifting her chin to feign regal posture.

Tenma Taro is going to kill them all, no question.

[bathroom-sand]

May It Please the Court

Good evening your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury and opposing counsel. Recently the very beautiful Ms. @shaolinbynature made an interesting argument in regards to one of my post. My argument is quite long and so it’s under here just so that nobody has to scroll past it for ages if they don’t want to. Now, without further ado, let's just jump into it...

And while I’m not one to be adverse to criticism I am averse to gross misuse of courtroom procedures paired with improper representation of my post. As someone who spent time as a teen attorney on real court cases with real consequences, I will not stand for disorderly conduct in the courtroom and defend myself. Allow me to begin...

I would like to start off by calling out nature’s rookie mistake. Starting with this

While I’m sure intended to be a fun quip, there was no instance where an objection should be ruled. For starters, the basis of your post implies I am on the stand, and objections are designed for you to shut down the opposing counsel while they are breaking court rules.

In this scenario, I was “being called to the stand” which implies that I am the witness or on trial, which means you cannot object to me. It simply does not make sense given the legal definition of objection. Furthermore, an objection is not a catch-all term used to get the attention of the court. A poor start to an argument full of legal failures and improper representation (something that is objectable).

RELEVANT, your honor. Nicole is not apart of this argument and her loyalty has 1. never been questioned and 2. does not pertain at all to the relationship between Kemi and Bella. It holds no relevance in this case as it does not concern Quirky Queen Nicole.

For one my original post addressed this in the notes and owned up to it. Bella HAS told the other side about Kemi’s actions and painted the target on Kemi’s back. However, you have misrepresented my post by never including my tags. Here is a side by side of my posts, the first on my blog and the second on yours. Do you notice a difference?

Yours: cropped out tags

Mine: with tags that prove your argument is meaningless and repetitive. Another objection, might I add.

ASKED AND ANSWERED, your honor. Ms. Nature has asked a rhetorical question and then answered it. This is their third objectionable offense and this is only their first argument. While dramatic it is not to be tolerated.

The first sentence is simply incorrect. Her goal IS to protect Kemi. Even if you disagree with my argument as to WHY she is protecting Kemi at the end of the day she is still trying to protect Kemi. Your argument here is simply untrue. Furthermore, of course, Bella is trying to help her own game. Why wouldn’t she? Kemi is an ally and a number for her.

Also, the idea that she’s only done this to prevent it from getting back to her is false. The people she told this do NOT like Kemi and have made it known to all of us since day 1 that they “hate” Kemi. Bella started this week one when popular belief was that Kemi’s eviction was permanent and therefore could not find out that it was Bella who ratted her out. Furthermore, her throwing Jess under the bus and claiming that Jess was the head of the alliance and that Kemi and Nicole didn’t appear to want to be a part of it was not necessary to protect Kemi’s image of Bella. It just isn’t connected, your honor. If anything, her exposing Jess ruined her reputation with Kemi and Nicole since they now know that Bella spoke about their secret alliance to the other side of the house.

THEREFORE, the only thing it accomplished was painting a bigger target on Jessica’s back.

Kemi and Jessica were already immediate targets. The idea that Bella is trying to “get rid of the others” is highly illogical since she isn’t in enough control to actually determine the pecking order. This implies that during week one Bella got “rid” of Ovi because he saw through her “rat game”. But the truth is that Ovi didn’t see through anyone’s game. There was no kill the witness. And in week two, Bella knew that the only options to go home were Jess or Kemi. Since she wants to keep Kemi that means Jess must go. Bella has some sway but not enough to get rid of a bigger target on someone else’s HOH. Furthermore, the only one she is getting “rid of” is Jess. Nicole is still safe and off radars. Therefore you can’t say “the others” as Bella actually PROTECTED Nicole as well when she included Nicole in her list of people who didn’t want to be in the alliance. She could have easily included Nicole and put a target on her back but she chose not to. So once again, you’re wrong.

I find this evidence honestly more irrelevant. While I understand that the point was to show that Bella isn’t an actual friend because she’s lying to Kemi. I’d argue that they both just show that Bella is an idiot. I’ve made posts about her being dumb before and I stand by those post however the original post here wasn’t about her intelligence or her ability to play the game. She has bad gameplay and has lied to Kemi, however that doesn’t take away from the fact that when people target Kemi she has tried to shift the blame or minimize the damage (even when the damage comes from Bella’s own actions).

For some reason, Ms. Nature seems to confuse actual friend with a good friend. They are friends. They hang out together, talk about nongame things, and Bella has even tried to keep Kemi in the house longer. I understand that Bella has done dumb things (she really does have sloppy gameplay and will probably lose because of it) and that she is part of the reason Kemi is in this position (although let's not forget that the houseguests are overtly racist and already wanted her out BEFORE  Bella’s actions) however I do believe that the two actually are friends.

Your honor, the prosecution is suggesting that for the “crime” of “creating fake news” that the defense (myself) should be sentenced to the electric chair. I would now like to point out that “creating fake news” is not a punishable offense in the United States of America. The prosecution is suggesting I be killed over something that 1. Is not true as nothing was objectively wrong in the original post and 2. isn’t even a crime. And even if it were to be the suggested sentence is illegal as it violates the eighth amendment which “prohibits cruel and unusual punishment”. For two centuries now this has been interpreted by the courts to mean that excessive punishment for crimes is illegal and violates human rights.

Therefore, your honor. I suggest that Prosecutor Shaolinbynature be revoked of their license to practice law and be made to retake the bar exam due to numerous false objections, lack of knowledge on court proceedings, and attempted violation of the eighth amendment. Thank you, your honor, ladies gentlemen and more of the jury, and opposing counsel for your time and consideration.

[letscomply]

What are the Procedures of Trademark Registration in India?

Trademark Registration India

The Trademark Registration India was established in India in 1940 and is currently administering the Trademarks Act, 1999, and the rules thereunder. It serves as a tool and information center and as a facilitator in the country’s trademark matters.

Trademarking a Brand Name

By branding your company name, you are protecting the brand, its reputation, your ideas, all of which have undoubtedly invested a great deal of blood, sweat, and tear work on me. While the process of the trademark itself will take time in all areas that are considered, nothing would be worse than not protecting your trademark and potentially facing an infringement lawsuit from a larger company. Trademark Registration India

The process of register a trademark in India is now possible and convenient so that you can trademark any one of the things below or even a combination of the following:

Letter, word, number, phrase, graphics, logo, sound tag, smell, or a combination of colors.

Trademark registration procedures

1.   Browse the internet to get the brand name that is “wacky-enough.”

2.   Preparing the trademark application

3.   Fill out the brand name registration application

4.   Study the process of applying the brand name

5.   Publish your brand in Indian Trade Mark magazines

6.   Issuance of a trademark registration certificate

Step 1: Browse the Internet to get a brand name that is “wacky-enough.”

This is simply a short & best way for any newcomer to get an attractive, trendy, and interesting brand name. Picking up a brand name that is foolish and quirky is definitely a wise step because most generic names will already be in someone’s hands. Moreover, whistling on a specific name requires a quick search to ensure that you do not choose the brand or trademark name that has already in use. The great part here is that you can invent or do a few things with a mixture of generic words to build yourself a unique brand name. Trademark Registration India

Step 2: Prepare the trademark application

With the application the following supporting documents are to be submitted:

1.   Proof of commercial registration: based on your registered business (for example, individual ownership, and so on), proof of identity from company directors and address guides must be provided. In the case of individual businesses, proof of identity of the owner, including a PAN card, an aadhar card can be provided. Whereas, in the case of companies, proof of company address must be provided.

2.   Soft copy of the brand.

3.   The claim proof (which applies) of the proposed mark may be used in another country.

4.   The power of attorney signed by the applicant.

Step 3: Fill out the brand name registration application

Manual packaging and electronic filling are two different ways to deposit a registration.

If you choose “manual fill,” then you have to move personally and hand over your application for registration to the registrar office of brands that are located in major cities in India like Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Ahmedabad, and Chennai. After that, you have to wait at least 15-20 days to receive the acknowledgment.

But in the case of an electronic filing system, you will receive your receipt to be immediately recognized on the government website. Once after receiving your recognition, you are eligible to use your own brand (TM) symbol next to your brand name!

Moreover, in the event of rejection due to the lack of approval of the name, the applicant will have a second opportunity to re-fill the same Spice form without any additional fees. This means that you get two chances to submit the same form without any additional fees for paying Rs. 1000 / – both times.

In case of incompetence to get the name adopted in the second go, you can submit the spice model again from scratch. This will prove to be cheaper on any given day than to choose the first option.

The whole process including name approval and foundation takes about 2-3 days Trademark Registration India

trademark registration online

Step 4: Study the process of applying a brand name

Once the application has been sent, the registrar will verify whether you have followed some conditions that your brand name, the current law. Furthermore, there should not be any dispute or dispute between existing or pending trademarks for registration. That’s why we preferred you to choose a quirky brand name!

Step 5: Publish your brand in Indian brands magazines

After the examination process, the registrar will publish your trademark name in the Indian trademark mark. This is undoubtedly the most important part of trademark registration, and there should not be any opposition within three months (i.e., 90 days) or 120 days, in some cases, from the date of publication. Then your brand name is to move towards acceptance. Trademark Registration India

Step 6: Issuing a trademark registration certificate

If there is no opposition posed during the stipulated 90-day duration, the registrar must approve your application for a trademark. Hi! This will be the happiest moment as the registrar issues the Trademark Registry Stamp registration certificate.

You can use the registered trademark symbol (®) next to your mark name from the moment your certification is given.

Thus with this blog post, we believe that even a novice can understand all about building a brand name and successfully registering it.

Trademark Class Finder

Trademark Registration India Frequently asked questions (FAQ)

What is a Trademark?

A trademark is a graphic type of a visual symbol representing the trademark and differentiating itself with other traders. It may be a logo, signature, name, mark, term, letters, numbers, types, etc. A trademark symbolizes the identity of the business, so the company decides, after conducting research, to make the brand unique and attractive. As they are intangible or intellectual property assets, they are used for different products or services from other similar products or services produced by a separate organization.

Although trademarks are not mandatory by law or government, it symbolizes the trademark, identity, and quality of the company.

When can the trademark not be registered?

The trademark is supposed to be the company’s assets. Therefore, a similar trademark will not be registered or copied from other organizations. So it should not be identical or copies of other companies. Besides, the trademark, which is fictitious, offensive, identical, contains prohibited elements, etc. It cannot be registered under the law.

Why registered a trademark?

Being an important asset it needs to be registered to prevent the use of your brand name by other business owners. It protects the company’s rights or investments, which it has invested in the brand or logo. An example could be highlighted with the help of giants such as Siemens, Apple, Pepsi, and Coca-Cola that belong to the same industry so far, which indicates separate brands. Likewise, we can find many examples of live companies that carry the trademark as a trademark such as LG, Godrej, etc. The trademark, as the business identity, distinguishes a company with other companies as a trademark. Once registered, the company obtains recognition from trademarks, along with the business name. The brand serves the badge, brand, quality, loyalty, goodwill statement,

How to register a trademark?

Trademark registration does not consist of complicated procedures, only to follow simple procedures. Trademarks are registered under the Trademarks Act, 1999 by the Comptroller General for Patent and Trademark Design, Ministry of Commerce and Industry, Government of India to prosecute other merchants in case of company trademark violations.

Who can apply for trademark registration?

Any individual, owner, company, partnership firm, or legal entity can apply to register the trademark, and the symbol ‘TM’ can be used until the registration is approved. Once the trademark is registered, the company may start using® after obtaining the certificate. All the whole process may take up to two years or 18-24 months. The registered trademark is valid for ten years, and it needs to be renewed at a later time.

The brand is a guarantee of service, products, quality, and advertising. So care must be taken of misuse of himself. The brand should not be the same as others.

The documents required for filing a trademark registration application?

To file a trademark application, one must attach the following documents: –

Trademark or copy the logo,

Applicant details – name, address guide, proof of nationality

Company details,

Products or services to be registered

Copy his signed power of attorney on 100Rs. Stamp paper

The first date of use of the trademark before obtaining or applying for registration

The firm may do the work on its own or through a company-owned legal representative. It may also assign the job to some experienced consulting firms with registration business experience.

Trademark process and registration?

As we mentioned, the brand is the visual form that is usually taken as the company logo. The logo is designed by a graphic designer or any Photoshop maker, but one should follow strict guidelines before designing a logo. The company must carry out research through the trademark agent to verify the similarity of the trademark. Such agents check with the Trademark Office to ensure the authenticity of the brand or to never be licensed with any other company. This test can be done through any process, i.e. online verification and offline verification. One may adopt both procedures to double it to ensure accuracy and uniqueness.

Once the brand is verified with reliable resources, the company may operate. In case of duplication, it needs to get redesigned again, and you will have to do the same search again until you find the exclusive brand. Once uniqueness is achieved, the company or representative must request the formulation of an application in addition to the required documents. After filing the application, the company may use ‘™’ until approval is received.

Once the application reaches the Trademark Office, it will check data to avoid duplication. In the case of repeated application, the last application may be rejected. Otherwise, the trademark mentioned in the Trademarks Magazine will be published for a period of four months to verify any sound against the trademark. If anyone creates an objection, the trademark will be in issue for the hearing until the issue is resolved. After all, clarifications received from legal authorities, the trademark can be sent for registration, which will be approved within six months. The order status can be checked or monitored electronically with the order number issued to the owner of the trademark.

Trademarks being intellectual property and intangible assets and held an important place in the business for at least ten years, which will be renewed after ten years. The company may renew the same brand or can apply for a new brand while following the same process mentioned above.

Usually, trademark registration companies have their qualified employees who abide by the entire process responsibilities on behalf of the company with a certain amount of advisory fees or fees. Hearing the charges, and responding to the charges (in the case of the submitted opposition), may be separate from the trademark registration fees. Choose an experienced legal representative or trademark consulting firm to handle the entire registration process until approval.

What kind of trademarks are not registered?

It is not possible to register any trademark, which is identical or deceptive, such as the existing registered trademarks or the trademark to which the registration application was submitted. Also, the trademark that is likely to cause deception, confusion, or that is offensive may not be registered. Also, geographical names, common names, common words, and common abbreviations are not registered as trademarks.

Why do I have to apply for a trademark?

Obtaining a registered trademark has a number of commercial advantages, such as:

1.   Register your trademark to obtain an exclusive right to it.

2.   Protect your brands, such as your company’s other assets and properties.

3.   It will help you protect your hard-earned goodwill in the business.

4.   You can prevent others from promoting the same brand in the same business industry.

5.   It will give you nationwide protection for your trade.

What is a nice rating?

Nice Classification (NCL) is a global system used for the classification of goods and services for registration of a trademark. It has a total of 45 classrooms (1-34 for products and 35-45 for services).

Can I register a trademark before starting work?

Sure, even before starting a business one may register a trademark.

Can I get a global brand?

No. Regional brands are in nature, which means, if you are getting a trademark in India, then it will only be valid for India.

What is the authority to register a trademark?

The registered trademark is valid for ten years from the date of submitting the application. The brand may be renewed again.

When can I use the R or TM code?

The “TM” symbol can be used after filing a trademark application. “R” should be used only after trademark registration. The ® symbol may only be used in relation to the goods and services specified in the certificate of registration.

What is trademark infringement?

Trademark infringement is the unauthorized use of the trademark or service mark in or in connection with the goods and/or services in a way that is likely to cause confusion, deception or error regarding the source of the goods and/or services.

Does my registration of a trademark extend to all types of services and goods?

Trademark registrations are unique to the goods or services they represent. Records are a specific product/service made of a “category” of goods or services that they represent. Therefore, the trademark registration will be valid for the entire category of goods or services that it represents.

Is a digital signature mandatory for trademark registration procedures?

Yes, the authorities authorize applicants to verify all documents they provide, including a request to register a trademark with a Category III digital signature. Our experts will assist you in verifying documents by email.

More Information: https://www.letscomply.com/trademark-registration-india/

Contact Us:

+91-97-1707-0500

info@letscomply.com

https://www.letscomply.com/

[darkhymns-fic]

Murder with a Side of Lies (Ch. 7)

Undyne is taking the lead on the case, and Mettaton reveals his final witness.

Will she finally be able to face up to her past?

Fandom: Undertale Characters: Undyne, Mettaton, Sans, Asgore Dreemur, Papyrus, Alphys Rating: PG Chapters: 7/8 Mirror Links: AO3, FF.net Notes: The sequel to Kidnappings in the Early Evening by Sky. A fusion of detective noir fiction and courtroom drama! All stories, art, etc., related to this main story will be under the tag #undertale noir. (chrono)

Suggested reading music.

First Chapter Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Dealing with Family

First things first. Let’s get one thing straight. This is Undyne’s personal notepad, and you DO NOT have permission to read this. That means you, Papyrus! Even you, Alphys! NO ONE is allowed to read this but me.

I mean it. Final warning. I don’t care if you’re a random passerby who found this page somehow, or even if you’re from a different universe reading somewhere you think you’re safe! If you read this, I will find you and pound you into oblivion!!!

Yeah.

Yeah, those warnings probably scared everyone off by now.

I need to write my feelings down. No matter how stupid or gushy or mushy it sounds, that’s what I have to do. I’ve been running away from my thoughts and my feelings for too long. It’s time I faced what’s been bothering me. I am going to write down how I feel NO MATTER WHAT! No lying to myself! If I want to get stronger, I have to do this.

Seriously, if anyone is reading this, I really will pound you, got it?! Not the ‘haha how funny’ kind of pound either. The kind of pound that leaves you six feet under the ground!

Hmm. That rhymed. Nice. Well, whatever.

.

.

.

The night spent at Alphys’ was great. It felt like old times again, not that it was even that long ago. We laughed and ate terrible pasta and watched TV. Like old times, too, there was that tight anxiousness that lay at the pit of my stomach. A little worse than usual, sure, but I think I hid it well.

I left early in the morning while they were sleeping. No car today, I had to leave that with Papyrus. I wasn’t sure if The Family would really come after Alphys, but I know they had seen her note. I wasn’t sure what The Family was capable of anymore. There were too many unknowns and I-don’t-knows when it came to them now.

Fortunately, I know I can trust Papyrus. Now that I got it in his head to hightail it out of there at the first sign of trouble, I’m certain they’ll be okay, no matter what happens.

Walking through the streets, though, that gave me too much time to think. Worse yet? It stopped raining. Of all the days! I had to take one of my cigarettes to soothe my nerves. The lack of rain felt like an omen, but I knew that was all in my head.

I’ll never quite understand how anyone can dislike the rain. Now that it was gone, the city felt so quiet. Musty yellow rays of sun shone down in my eye, practically blinding me at every turn. Without the rain, the world just looked damp and old. Gross stale puddles from the night before remained on the sidewalk, accumulating whatever filth was left instead of getting washed away.

Ngah! Enough talk of the weather! It doesn’t matter, and I don’t care if it’s raining frogs and asteroids!

I should use this time to go over the case.

My top suspect should be pretty obvious at this point. I don’t know for sure, but it seems everything is pointing towards him again. Could it be another framing? I wasn’t so sure.  The golden petal, the three hot marks on the garbage container and, last but not least, the glass shard.

At the time, last night, I didn’t think of what it could be. A shard pulsing with magic, felt like electricity. What else could it be used for? I’ve never paid much attention to Alphys’ work place, but I’ve seen jars like it before.

I’m certain I knew what the jars would have been for. It wasn’t a nice thought. I don’t feel like writing that one down.

Still, this wasn’t exactly a dusty knife with prints belonging to the killer. None of this junk was a guaranteed win. But, I think I can appeal to him. I hope I can.

Hm. If he even shows up. Guess if he doesn’t, I could always call him to the stand, right? That’s a thing lawyers do? Ngah, what did I get myself into?!

No sense in worrying now. Before I had realized it, I had made it to the courthouse. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweaty. Weakness, I know. It’s best I admit to it rather than ignore it, then maybe I can overcome these feelings.

The lobby was jam packed again with monsters, chattering and gossiping away at how this dramatic mystery might end. Most assumed Catty did it, still. 

Right, Catty. I’ll be honest, I mostly forgot about her. A little cruel, I suppose, but I have bigger fish to fry. That didn’t come out how I meant it to.

“Oh! Like, hey! Like! Helloooo!” Catty purred, calling me over across the way.

Since I’m being honest, I’ll admit one more thing. I wasn’t a fan of Catty. Don’t get me wrong, she’s cute in a literal trashy way, but god the way she talks.

“Um, helloooo?!” Catty tried again, sounding mildly annoyed and confused at the same time. “Like, detective or lawyer lady, or whatever!! I’m, like, over here!”

I sighed. Fine, I guess I should go talk to her. “Yeah?” I asked through a puff of smoke.

Her yellow feline eyes glanced over me, looking side to side. “Um, like, where’s the bone guy? He didn’t, like, totally flake out on me, did he? Oh. My. God! That would be so totally lame!”

I could tell she was going to keep going on and on about it.

“He’s working on your case outside the courtroom,” I lied, stopping her endless banter. “Papyrus would never flake on anyone, trust me. I’ll be defending you.” I couldn’t help but show a little anger in my voice. I didn’t like the accusatory tone she held towards Papyrus.

She raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh. Like, okaaay, I guess.”

I didn’t feel the need to say anything else to her. She stared up at me, expecting something.

“Um, like, you must be feeling totally confident, right?” Catty asked with a wave of a paw, her chains jingling. “Yesterday you guys, like, totally owned!! Like, when Mettaton was all like--”

“Yeah, I feel confident,” I lied again. Think she saw through that one. I wasn’t exactly in a chipper mood. Damn, already need another smoke.

Catty frowned. “Well, I, like, totally believe in you!” Her voice strained. She was lying, too. I didn’t blame her. I knew I wasn’t instilling much confidence. I’d protect her though, even if I didn’t like her. No one deserves to have a murder unjustly pinned on them.

“Yeah,” was all I said back.

No point in standing around all awkward like. I gave her a quick wave and made my way back into the courtroom, wanting to have some time to prepare, and even more wanting to get away from her and the others.

Ugh.

I could already feel another headache coming on. The courtroom appeared to have gone under some significant repairs overnight. I think it looked better in ruins over what they turned it into now.

Desks were replaced by ‘stylish’ Mettaton brand desks. A sickening chrome mixed with black and pink stripes across. Any cracks or holes in the wall from the previous day were hastily covered by Mettaton posters advertising even more of his terrible shows. There was even one advertising this very case! Why was he advertising this case in the actual case? How did that make sense!?

Ngah, best not to lose my cool over something so stupid.

The witness stand was just a flat-out stage now. More stage lights could be found scattered throughout. I even spotted a net holding various Mettaton colored balloons over the prosecution’s desk. There wasn’t a single balloon over my head. The thought that I could win never even crossed his mind. What was once a decent attempt at a serious courtroom was made into a complete mockery by that egomaniac, Mettaton.

“Places, places everyone! ;)” A sweat-filled voice rang through the building. “Court will soon be in session! Take your seats! Remember to buy your M.T.T. Brand Court Snacks™ before the trial begins and not after! ;)”

Looks like this whole court business is turning out to be quite lucrative to everyone involved.

Bustling into their seats up on the gallery, I noted our oh-so-wonderful judge had magically appeared at his seat. As if he was always there. Boy, that joke certainly didn’t get old. We flexed for the judge, signaling the “show” was starting. I wasn’t really into it this time.

“hey,” Sans said, the light in his eyes staring at me hard. “where’s my bro?” If it weren’t for that grin, I’d say he sounded a little critical there.

He must’ve felt pretty powerful up there, looking down on me.

“He’s busy,” I said.

It was so satisfying watching those eyes of his flicker. A moment of worry. That mysterious (dangerous even) look defeated so quickly. I admit, I felt a little bad using Papyrus to mess with his brother, but I needed this.

“that so,” Sans replied, unhappy, yet still smiling. Like usual. “well, hope it doesn’t get too gorey in here without him.” Wink.

Ngah! That stupid skeleton! Cruel like usual, too.  Fine, I deserved that!

I clenched my fists in a clear reaction to his ‘joke.’ My best plan of action was to simply ignore him. Nothing a comedian can’t stand more than a silent audience.

Speaking of annoying monsters, it looked like Mettaton was late again. ‘Fashionably late’ I’m sure. I sighed in frustration. I could feel the black puffs of smoke rising through my clenched fangs. How late is fashionably late anyw-

“OOOOOHHHHH YEEEESSSSSSS!!!!” 

Guess that explains that.

The metal prosecutor burst through the same wall as last time, only this time he simply ripped through a poster of himself. It wasn’t as dramatic without the debris, and it certainly wasn’t as interesting a second time.

Of course, the crowd ate it up though. Cheering, clapping, screaming his name. What did people see in that guy? He posed and bowed (somehow) in that boxy body of his, stage lights flooding and dancing around his glittering form.

“Sorry to keep you all waiting, my darlings!” His voice buzzed through a microphone charismatically.

He wasn’t sorry at all.

Once the applause finally started to die down, Mettaton turned to face me across the room. Yellow and red lights blinked in thought. “My my! Weren’t there two loser defense attorneys going against me before?” His voice was so genuine, I truly believed he forgot already. “What happened to the bony one? Did he realize he couldn’t face my fabulous façade? Run away scared?”

My blood was boiling. It was one thing to insult me, but another entirely to insult Papyrus. I opened my fangs, ready to retort.

“watch it, metts,” Sans said cooly. Even though it was breathed out like a lazy sigh, it came out as more of a threat than even I could have mustered myself.

A tiny recoil of his hand, something Mettaton wasn’t used to. “My apologies, your honor! I’ll be sure to save my witty remarks for the brute from now on!”

Sans’ eyes returned, smile wide and cheerful. “go nuts.”

That was at least one thing I could respect Sans for. His love for Papyrus. I’d receive no such special treatment, but I didn’t need it or want it.

“Well!” Mettaton cooed, rebooting his acting abilities. “It matters not who I’d go against anyway!” With a dramatic motion, he reached into a compartment in his body and pulled out a delicate tea cup. “My next witness will prove Cannibal Catty is guilty to a tea!”

“nice.”

Just like that, Mettaton was back in good graces with Sans. While even I was mildly impressed, I could only feel that anxious weight in the pit of my stomach again, knowing what it meant. Could I really do this?

“Without further ado, I present to you, As--- Drem—[The writing blurs here] !!!”

Him. I knew it.

Tray in hand, teapot and teacups at the ready, the goat monster made his way up to the witness stand warmly. He still wore his usual pinstripe suit, signifying his role as leader of the group, The Family. “Thank you, you are too kind, Mr. Ton.”

Mettaton ignored the mispronunciation, most likely used to it by now after their many dealings together. “Oh, darling! You don’t praise me enough!” The robot laughed mechanically. “But, sadly, this trial isn’t completely about me!” Motioning his hand to the tray, Mettaton asked, “What have you got there?”

He smiled again. So sincere. So caring. It sent a stake through my heart. My throat wrenched just at the sight. “I’ve brought tea for you all,” he said. “It’s been quite a lively case, and the three of you deserve a reward for working so hard.”

Of course, he’d bring tea. When hasn’t he offered tea?! Why didn’t I expect this?! I was unprepared. Foolish.

He lumbered gently to each desk, placing a steaming cup delicately down before Sans and Mettaton. He had to reach up ever so slightly to reach Sans, but he didn’t mind. I couldn’t read the judge’s expression. Didn’t have time, anyway. My heart was pounding. He saved me for last.

“Howdy, Undyne,” he greeted quietly, his massive form looming over me. His smile was never fake, never a lie, yet it strained all the same. “It’s your favorite. Scalding hot, too, just how you like it.” His paw quivered ever so slightly as he placed the drink before me.

I said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. He didn’t mind. Never did. He went back to the witness stage, placing the tea set away with a careful clattering.

Let’s get this over with.

I took a gulp of the tea. Suddenly I’m flooded with memories. Sweet, warm memories, filled with honey. Never a foul taste, never a foul memory. Yet, I still suffocated. I drowned in those happy times. There was no escaping it, no room for movement. I was buried deep below the earth, warm laughter, pleasant feelings, unfathomable love boxing me in.

The tea burned my throat, scarring the scales deep inside.

I threw the priceless china at the floor, shattering it to pieces.

He flinched at the sound. “Was it not to your liking?” Despite such a violent act, such an insult to his very being, his voice was still so soft, so understanding. It was maddening.

My voice could barely reach over a whisper. Pathetic. “It was perfect.”

A deeply sad frown still etched itself on his muzzle. Fortunately for us, Mettaton wasn’t one to notice anyone but himself.

“Wonderful tea as always! Simply wonderful!” Mettaton’s cup was nowhere to be found, nor was the knowledge of how he could have even drunk it. “However, as much as we’d all love to sit around drinking teas, we really must get on with the show!”

Sans nodded, his cup empty as well, somehow.

“Now then,” Mettaton cupped his hands together in a serious fashion, pretending to be serious. “I’m sure most everyone knows you, but if you could state your name and occupation for us all?”

Nodding solemnly, the witness answered, “I am A—rr.” Damn it. Hands won’t steady themselves. “I’m the leader of an organization called The Family. We’re a charity for monsters in need.”

“My my, and I can personally attest that he’s a great monster!” Mettaton said, spotlights rushing to him like hungry ants to a scrap of food. “Not only has the old goat gotten me out of quite the debt, he even helped pay for the courtroom’s renovations!”

He held up an index finger, politely trying to get the prosecutor’s attention. “Ah, you are most welcome, Mr. Ton. We never did quite discuss how you’d like to pay back-”

“Oh! Such a generous man!” Mettaton shouted, the spotlights on him glowing more intensely.

He smiled nervously. “Uh, yes, thank you for your kind words, but-”

“Modest, too! Ah! How blessed all of monster kind is to have you!” The lights were absolutely blinding.

He gave up with a quiet sigh, twiddling his big furry claws to himself.

I had enough time wasting. I slammed a fist down onto the desk, denting the ugly thing. “Enough! We know how great he is! Get on with it, robot!”

A smug tone worked its way into Mettaton’s voice box. “Oh, so the caveman can speak!” A chuckle. “Very well. Mr. _em__, you were a witness to the Cannibal Catty’s crime, were you not?”

He looked down at the floor. “Yes.”

“Can you please tell us what you saw that day?”

“Hm. Yes.” He kept his eyes to the floor, but they glittered with dark memories. No one could doubt his sadness for the loss of life. “I was in the alleyway in question that night.”

“What were you doing, if I might ask?”

“Throwing out garbage.” He continued his testimony, his voice deep and stoic. “I did not witness the actual death of Mr. Pants, but I did stumble upon a Ms. Catty eating burgers.”

Mettaton feigned interest beautifully. The audience was in the palm of his hand. “While that is certainly a strange sight, what did you do? What made you think something was wrong?”

His expression was grim. A mix of sadness and anger. “I am an old monster, Mr. Ton. I have seen my share of tragedy.” The anger flickered out quick enough, though. “I recognized the dust of a fallen monster.”

“Interesting, interesting!” Mettaton had heard all of this beforehand, of course. “What did you do then?”

His face was shadowed, unreadable. “What else could I do?” He sounded desperate almost. “I called the police, after apprehending Ms. Catty, of course.”

Even without a mouth, I could tell Mettaton was smiling gleefully. “Ah! What a hero, you are! Is there any doubt in your mind that Cannibal Catty did not commit the crime?”

Expression still hidden away in darkness, he said, “I have no doubts that--,”

“Objection!” I shouted, startling the witness out of his gloomy mood. His eyes were wide with a very real shock. “This is baseless … uhh…. speculation!” I faltered over my words. I’m not a lawyer, okay?! “The prosecution is…. leading the witness!” Damn, Papyrus would have handled this a lot better.

Surprisingly, Sans was cooperative with me, for once. “got a point, metts.”

With a pout, Mettaton waved it off. “Fine, fine! Strike it from the record, or whatever! Everyone was thinking it, anyway!”

Sans looked around the courtroom, craning his neck lazily. “don’t think we even have a notary.” He paused. “guess i’ll take note of that for next time.”

Hopefully there won’t be a next time.

“Regardless, darlings!” Mettaton held a microphone close to his blinking lights. “I think it’s contextually clear Cannibal Catty is guilty! The witness is a valuable member of society, and I think all of us can attest to his trustworthy testimony!”

I wasn’t being as aggressive as I should have.

“Why don’t we end this farce, now, your honor?” Mettaton added. “The defense obviously has nothing to add!”

The goat monster was quiet. Unhappy. Even under the spotlights, he still managed to find darkness. For a split second, his eye glanced at mine. I knew everything. He knew it, too.

That room. Inside his home. The humans. I remember it. I always knew it was there. Too afraid to speak up, too afraid to stop him. I let it happen. Mostly because I couldn’t believe it. But I said I’d stop him! I said I’d stop running away! I thought I had gotten over this weakness!

Before I knew it, I found my head down on my arms, lost in a tornado of thoughts and feelings. That goat monster. He meant everything to me, damn it! God, how pathetic I am, but he’s as close to a father as I ever had! How am I supposed to send someone who cared for me to jail? How could I believe he killed another monster?! That he hurt those human kids!? It didn’t make sense! That fluffy wimp couldn’t hurt anyone!

He raised me to be who I am today! If he has this darkness in him, if I admit to that, what does that say about me? Doesn’t that mean I do, too?

“Undyne.”

I snapped my head up, the voice deafening in my mind. Was it him?

It was Sans. “get a hold of yourself.” For the first time, he sounded serious.

This guy was going to help me?! Sans of all people?! I knew that punk wanted to stop him, too, but he was that desperate? Give words of encouragement to me? Ngah! I didn’t need help from a loser like that!

Damn it! I’m too afraid to even write his name down let alone say it! No more!

Asgore. Asgore. Asgore. Asgore. Asgore. Asgore. Asgore.

I pounded the desk with a curled fist, gritting my teeth.

“Asgore!”

I saw him jump at my voice. He was just as surprised as I was. No, it hurt him more than it did me. Good.

“You’re not getting away that easy!”

I put a leg up on the desk, denting it again. It felt good to break this ugly puny thing. “I demand I get my chance to cross-examine the witness or whatever!”

Mettaton’s surprise at my sudden mood change didn’t last long. “Such a way with words, this one,” he sighed. “I have no problem with it. She’s no threat to my case.”

The judge chuckled. “good luck, undies.”

Pah! I don’t need luck! Adrenaline pumped through my veins. Justice was on my side!

“Asgore!” I roared again, sending a tiny shockwave through his body. “Your story is full of holes! Just why would you be out throwing trash away at that time of night?!”

My accusation struck true again. He hid himself away in darkness, his stance stiff and rigid. Had he nothing to say?

A loud clapping brought all attention back to Mettaton. “Is throwing one’s garbage out a crime? What does it matter if it’s at night or day?”

I shook my head, fists clenched, claws biting into my scales. The pain fueled me. “Maybe not, but throwing away your trash in a different alleyway than the one nearest to your home certainly is suspicious, isn’t it?”

An electric spark. A miscalculated blink of his lights. “What?!” Mettaton growled, his fabulous voice losing its usual flair.

Asgore said nothing. Made no motion.

“That’s right!” I continued, feeling unstoppable. “I’ve been to Asgore’s little flower shop! Directly across the street, he’s got an alleyway with a dumpster right there!” I let the words settle in, watched as the confused crowd of monsters murmured to themselves for a moment. “Why would he go to a different alleyway to throw his trash away?!”

Delicate hands curled into a fist of anger. “That’s! …” Mettaton tried to counter, but even the most powerful computer couldn’t answer this.

I crossed my arms, feeling proud of myself. I cast doubt into the courtroom, and luckily, that was all I needed now.

“A simple answer,” a deep voice said. Asgore stood tall, but his head kept low. The light of the stage shimmered upon his horns, producing the illusion of a cruel grin. “The material I was throwing out was odorous. Throwing it out in the dumpster near me would create a powerful stench.” There was no sadness in his tone. There wasn’t anything.

I knew he’d fight back, but I didn’t expect that. “Just what were you throwing away, then?!”

“Fertilizer.”

I lost my balance. “Fertilizer?!” I repeated loudly, dumbly.

Asgore nodded. “Manure, if I’m to be technical. I’m sure you know what that is.”

I growled. “That’s what you’re trying to feed us right now, yeah!”

“nice one,” Sans chimed in. Gah! Shut up!

Ignoring both of us, Asgore went on, completely unfazed. “I accidently bought too much. It’s a fire hazard, you know.” He held his palm open, and a flame appeared. “And I’m quite versed in fire magic. I couldn’t risk endangering my neighbors or my customers, so I tossed the bags away in a more remote part of the city, hoping the smell wouldn’t bother anyone.”

“Lies!” I shouted angrily. “You would never lose control of your fire!”

“It is better to be safe than sorry,” he said, emotionless.

I was losing my cool. “I didn’t see a single bag of fertilizer at the scene of the crime! I didn’t smell it either!”

Suddenly, I found a finger wagging in my face from Mettaton’s outstretched arm. “Darling, darling! What is this court to do? Debate over a bag of fertilizer all day?” He tsk-tsked me. “Mr. Dreemurr has explained himself sufficiently. I see no need to keep pursuing this line of questioning!”

“But-!”

“no butts, heh,” Sans chuckled, loving the potty talk. “move on, undies.”

Ngaaah! How infuriating! All that for nothing! Whatever, I wasn’t about to give up that easily.

“Fine.” I clicked my claws together, creating a spark for a much needed cigarette. Asgore’s stoicism broke for a moment, his mouth creased with worry over my health. After everything, he still cares for me.

The arid heat scorched my already burned throat as black clouds puffed from my gills. Ngah. If only yelling, screaming, and punching could win this case! This was way harder than a physical fight! Somehow, I need to prove that Asgore isn’t this golden hero monster who can do no wrong. How was I supposed to do that when I could barely believe it myself?

I could mention the kids. Mention the room.

The rows of beds, the quiet shuffling, how still those small bodies were…

I don’t want to revisit that memory. I’ll lose myself if I do.

To anyone else, Asgore appeared to be a strong, proud leader, mourning the loss of life he witnessed. That was true. But his eyes told more to me. ‘Please don’t,’ he silently begged.

Well, even if I wanted to, it wouldn’t matter. I have no evidence to prove it. Or … maybe I did? No, it wouldn’t be relevant at all to bring that up. I’d be struck down.

“We’re waiting, darling.” Mettaton mock pointed to a non-existent watch on his wrist. “Don’t tell me you’re finished already?”

Well, I’ve got nothing. Might as well take a shot in the dark.

“I’m just getting started,” I bluffed, grinning like a fool. “So, Asgore, how can you be so sure Catty was the killer that night? By your own words, you said you didn’t witness the actual murder.”

“Oh, come now!” Mettaton exclaimed, vocally unimpressed. “Grasping at straws!”

“Let me finish!” I growled. “How can anyone be sure it was Catty who killed Burgerpants? What if someone else killed him before she showed up?”

Slamming a robotic palm on his desk, Mettaton screeched, “Objection! This is baseless speculation!” His blinking lights shone a deep angry red. “Although, not a surprise from such a base woman.”

“harsh,” Sans chuckled, chiming in unnecessarily again.

I shrugged, ignoring the insult. “Fine, sure, maybe. But all I’m asking is if Fluffybuns here can tell us anything more! Wouldn’t want to condemn Catty without all the facts, now would we?”

“fair enough,” Sans yawned. “answer to the best of your ability, gorey.”

My question didn’t faze him in the slightest. “I’m certain,” Asgore said solemnly. “I made multiple trips to the alleyway in question, merely minutes apart. I saw absolutely no sign of anyone else.”

A solid answer, but it left him open to counter attacks.

“Convenient,” I said through a puff of smoke, unnerving him slightly. “Now, I’m not going to pursue your fertilizer story anymore, even though we all know what a load that is.”

Mettaton let out another huff, threatening to interrupt at the slightest misstep.

“You sure no one else was there?” I asked again, unable to hide my confident tone.

Asgore was skeptical. Something was amiss, but he had no choice in the matter but to answer. “Of course.”

I laughed. I had no idea what I was doing, but no one else knew that. “Well, how do you explain this?!” I shouted dramatically, mimicking Papyrus to the best of my ability. With a cool flair, I held a soft golden petal that we had found in the alleyway last night.

For whatever reason, that gave an intense reaction from Asgore.

As if a punch had landed in his gut, the goat monster reeled, his shadowed face falling under the spotlight for all to see. Shock, sadness. Guilt. Suddenly his age was apparent, his knees trembling, his eyes old and grey. “That…” his voice shook and stuttered.

“Goodness me!” Mettaton yelled with a clap. “How you managed to think such a piece of evidence was relevant is astounding! I’m genuinely impressed with your foolishness!”

For once, that robot was right. It meant nothing to me, but it nearly broke Asgore. My attack went through somehow, and that was all that mattered.

“What is this gaudy little thing?” Mettaton asked, grabbing at it with his stretchy arms. “A flower petal? Good grief, darling! You’ve established Asgore was at the scene of the crime!” His voice box was overflowing with sarcasm. “You realize he owns a flower shop, yes? A flower petal could have easily fallen off his person!”

I shrugged again, grinning still. This only infuriated the prosecutor. “Guess so, huh?”

Yet the effects of the evidence still left its mark on the flower shop owner. His face hidden in the shadows again, but he was no longer stiff and rigid. His breathing was erratic, his body weak. I hit a sensitive spot, for sure. It pained me to see him like this, but it had to be done. For Alphys’ sake. For everyone’s sake.

“So, you’re just wasting the court’s time, then?” Mettaton’s screen animated into a skull and crossbones, irritated over his loss of control. “Your honor, this nonsense has gone on far enough!”

“Hang on.” Now was the time. I spat my cigarette onto the floor. Wouldn’t need it. “Don’t you get what I’m saying? I think we have proof enough that only three people were at the scene of the crime during the murder. Catty, Burgerpants, and Asgore.”

“So what?!” Mettaton gripped the edge of his desk, his metal fingers cracking and piercing the metal exterior. “We already know all that!”

I frowned, focusing my eye straight onto Asgore. It pierced him like a dagger. “Somebody killed Burgerpants at that time, and I don’t think it was Catty. Looking at all the evidence, through all the testimony we’ve received, there’s only one other suspect.”

Like an angry lightbulb flickering in his chassis, the idea finally sunk in. Mettaton nearly exploded. “You’re insane!”

“Asgore Dreemurr.” I pointed the tip of my claw towards his hulking form, the nail gleaming like a sharpened spear. “I think you murdered Burgerpants!”

No response from him. No reaction.

“Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense!” Mettaton howled like a mad dummy. Electricity jolted around the air, threatening to zap anyone that came close. “I’ve seen some terrible dramas in my day, but this takes the cake! What kind of idiot would believe a tale like this?! What kind of fool would even create a story so asinine!?”

The onlookers in the gallery were also in an uproar. Some angry, most confused. They couldn’t believe Asgore would do something so horrible, and I didn’t blame them for thinking that way.

“Do we even have a judge?!” Mettaton shouted, spewing battery acid. “Certainly would be nice to have someone rein in the crazy!”

“i’m gonna allow her to pursue the idea,” Sans said, eyes dim. “she better watch her step, though.”

A hand twitched in pure rage as the robot malfunctioned. “Madness! Absolute madness!” Mettaton pointed towards the little skeleton, animated lights seething with hate-filled crimson. “I’ll have you disbarred when this is over!”

“that’s fine,” Sans shrugged. “like i said, i never was one to judge anyway.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but Mettaton grew only angrier. Scorching hot steam hissed through his seams, gears grinding at an impossible pace. “I’ve had enough of your terrible jokes! I demand you put an end to this farce right now! Declare her guilty, I say!”

“be quiet.” It was all he had to say. Sans’ tone told all. Another peep out of Mettaton about this, and he’d be ungracefully kicked out. Humiliated in front of the entire city.

The threat was real.

“Fine,” the robot huffed, lights blinking regularly again. “But I will still call her out on whatever garbage she spews.” 

“that’s fine.”

Never thought I’d find myself respecting that puny skeleton up there. Only a little, mind you. He and I had the same goal. He wasn’t doing it for me, or for anyone else, but himself. Luckily, I didn’t need his help anyway.

“Well?” Asgore asked, shadowed, defiant, and sad.

“Those ‘claw’ marks on the dumpster,” I started off, finally facing him. “Catty’s claws couldn’t have done that. Three lines running hot through the metal.”

He knew what I was implying. He simply frowned.

I growled, angry that he wouldn’t face me. The Asgore I knew was a pushover, but he was no coward. “I’ll spell it out for everyone, then. Those weren’t claw marks. It was the mark of a flaming hot trident!”

My words resonated with the gallery. Monsters chattered away to themselves again, arguing what the truth could have been. Some knew Asgore used a trident, some were still adamant he’d never hurt anyone with it, some even suggested Burgerpants must have attacked.

“Why?” Asgore turned to me, stern.

Why? Why what!? Why was I doing this to him?! Had he finally given up?

The old man sighed, reading me all too clearly. “You’re forgetting something, Undyne.” I didn’t like him saying my name. It felt wrong. “Why would I hurt Burgerpants?”

Ugh! Why don’t I think these things through? Damnit, why would Asgore ever hurt another monster?!

A robotic laughter echoed across the walls. “Oh, darling, I tried to warn you! Your line of reasoning was flawed from the start! Now it looks like you’ll have to be humiliated once again!”

I clutched my spear. It must have materialized out of a reflex to the pain. It wasn’t physical, but it still hurt.

But wait. Asgore’s hurting me! I’m a monster! (Duh.) Why would he hurt me? Why did he hurt me?

The answer was obvious.

The human children. Their souls. His soulless son. Asgore would stop at nothing to help his kid. He’s a grieving father who would do anything, even hurt innocent children, even hurt-

Of course.

“You had no choice,” I said finally. The words struck true. A terrible blow to the father.

Mettaton didn’t understand. How could he? “What? Darling, are you implying it was self-defense? Lunacy!”

I ignored him, watching as my words broke through Asgore’s armor. “Burgerpants stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have seen.”

The poor old monster’s façade was crushed. His eyes glimmered, his paws trembled. “I… I have nothing to hide,” he said hopelessly. “You have no evidence.” His voice was quiet, weak. He knew he was defeated.

My heart wrenched. I struggled with the thought of letting him go, again. Asgore was a good man. He didn’t deserve everything that had happened to him. He’d done so much good for all of monster-kind! What would we do without him? Maybe it was for the best to let him be.

A memory of Alphys’ pale heaving body threw itself into my mind. The stress Asgore caused her, the horrible things he had her create. Those human children. Burgerpants wouldn’t be the last. It had to be done.

“I do,” I said firmly with a nod. Asgore grit his teeth, clenched his furry paws into fists. Bracing for the pain.

“This shard of glass explains everything.” I pulled it out for all to see, feeling the strange zapping pressure against my scales as I held it.

Mettaton was no fool. While the glass shard meant nothing to him, he saw the effects it had on Asgore, his key witness. “What, how?” His voice had lost its dramatic flair, however. He too saw my victory approaching.

“It’s a special glass,” I continued, staring deep into its reflections, watching memories of a time long gone pass by. “Made by Alphys. It’s part of a jar used to hold souls.”

Asgore didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Shame weighed heavy on his shoulders, crushing him.

“I found it in the alleyway,” I continued, looking out at monsters all around. They were in shock. “One of two things must have happened. Either Asgore had decided to give up what he was doing with the souls, or he was capturing another.

“Things didn’t go as planned. Burgerpants came to see Catty, unknown to Asgore. He saw Asgore with the soul or souls. Like Asgore said, what choice did he have? No one could know what he was doing. It would ruin everything he had worked so hard for. Remember how Alphys couldn’t find the time of death? Fire magic was used on Burgerpants. The dust was unnaturally warm, making it impossible to know when it happened.”

“Souls?” Mettaton interjected, curious. “Everything he had worked for? Darling, I’m afraid you’ll have to fill us all in.”

It didn’t matter that Mettaton didn’t know, or that the gallery was still confused. It was over anyway. I won’t revisit that memory. Not again.

All that mattered was the big guy realizing it was all over.

“I did it.” Asgore stood tall again, out of the shadows this time. “Undyne’s right about everything.” His voice strained momentarily, but he still managed to say it. “I killed that poor little cat monster. Pinned it on the sweet young lady. I was desperate. I had hoped the justice system would be lenient on her, seeing as nothing of the sort has ever happened before.”

The courtroom was still. Even Mettaton was left speechless – for a moment at least. “But what of the souls?” he asked again.

“That is for another time,” Asgore sighed. “The important issue now is that Ms. Catty walks free.” While shame and guilt still weighed him down, Asgore stood tall, facing us all with fiery, determined eyes. He wasn’t angry.

This was the monster that lead me. This was the man who helped me find my sense of justice. This was the Asgore I had loved like a father. Finally, we could both stop running away.

“I think it’s time for the verdict, judge,” I said, feeling both a sense of pride in my heart and hurt.

“guess so,” Sans said with a grin. “after viewing all the evidence in the murder of burgerpants, i find catty guilty.”

“What?!”

“just kidding.” He winked, smirking like the idiot he is. “i find catty not-guilty.”

“WOOOOO!” A voice screamed from the gallery, causing a fierce eruption of cheering from the gallery. “UNDYNE YOU ARE ALMOST THE GREATEST! THE GREATEST STILL BEING ME, PAPYRUS!” Oh, geez, when did he get here?! Papyrus (with Alphys close by his side) was throwing confetti all over the courtroom, spreading us in a gaudy glittering snow.

I guess I should go see them.

The courtroom lobby was as bustling as ever. Monsters of every shape and size couldn’t keep their mouths shut anymore, gossiping loudly with each other.

“I can’t believe Asgore did it! What a twist!”

“Don’t be dense, it was all just a play, Asgore just acted the part.”

“I don’t know, I think this might have been real???”

“Asgore would never hurt anyone! (Ever!)”

Hm. Looks like there’d be some lasting after effects for my actions. I guess I never thought past this moment. Without Asgore, what would happen to The Family? To all the monsters in need throughout the city?

Did I do the right thing?

“UNDYNE!” A booming voice called out, clearly heard over every single other monster. “YOU DID THE RIGHT THING!”

Good ol’ Papyrus.

Dragging along a cute dinosaur girl, Papyrus dashed through to see me, holding onto his precious fedora with all his might. “YOU WERE SO COOL IN THERE!” He paused, thinking something over. “PERSONALLY, I’D HAVE BEEN COOLER, BUT THAT’S JUST MY OPINION.”

His goofy words were as soothing as cool rain. A loud thunderous cool rain, but soothing still. I couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Pap. But, what are you two doing here?”

Alphys looked up at me with those sweet eyes of hers, glasses fogging up with not-so-hidden excitement. “P-Papyrus k-kept saying how great the G-Game of Bones TV show was!”

“OH, IT REALLY IS!!”

She scowled. “T-the manga is better!!” A fist clenched in anger, but Alphys managed to take a deep breath and calm herself. Her troubles were over, after all. “A-anyways, I couldn’t s-stand it. I wanted to go out. P-Papyrus suggested going to see the trial.”

Papyrus posed heroically. “HOW COULD I LEAVE MY APPRENTICE HIGH AND DRY IN SUCH A DIRE SITUATION?!”

“Partner,” I corrected, unable to stop grinning.

“APPRENTICE PARTNER, RIGHT!” Papyrus nodded, so sure of himself like always. “WE FORCED OURSELVES IN! SOME WHIMSALOTS TRIED TO STOP US, BUT I REMEMBERED YOUR HEROIC IDEALS AND I RAN STRAIGHT PAST THEM AND INTO THE GALLERY!”

“H-he dragged me along the entire way!”

“SAFELY DRAGGED!” Papyrus corrected happily. “WHEN WE GOT THERE, THOUGH, THE TRIAL WAS ALREADY OVER! WE SAW THE VERDICT! I’M SO PROUD OF YOU, UNDYNE!”

Ah, so he missed most of everything. Good. I’m glad. Papyrus doesn’t need that in his life.

“Like, oh. My. GOD!” a girlish voice appeared behind me. A light pawing at my back. It was Catty, free of her handcuffs. “You, like, totally did it! Thank you, like, soooooooooo much!!”

I opened my mouth to respond. “IT WAS NOTHING, M’LADY!” Papyrus said, tipping his hat towards her.

Catty blinked, looking sick for a brief moment, but shaking it off. “Uhh, like, whatever! I’m, like, just soooo totally glad I’m, like, free!”

“Like, oh. My. GOD!” Another overly girlish voice floated towards us. “Like, Catty! Like, girlfriend!”

Oh lord, it was Bratty. That alligator (crocodile?) girl.

A horrible screeching noise pierced my ears. “YAAAAAAAASSSSSSS!!!” They screamed in unison, greeting each other in a tight hug.

I had a strong urge to smoke.

“Like, Bratty!!” Catty was nearly crying with excitement, pawing at her friend’s blonde hair. “Where have you, like, totally been all this time? Like, it was soooooo lame not seeing my B.F.F.!!!”

Bratty frowned. “Like, I totally would have come! But, like, tickets were sooooooo expensive!”

Wait what!? “Tickets?” I interjected. “You shouldn’t have had to pay for tickets.”

“YES, YOU SHOULD HAVE RUN PAST THE GUARDS, LIKE ME! NYEH-HEH-HEH!”

With a scaly shrug, Bratty said, “Well, like, they were selling tickets to the show! And, like, the only ones left were from this TOTALLY shifty skeleton! He was, like, charging waaaay too much! It was soooo lame!”

God damn it, Sans.

“But, like, it’s totally whatever!!” Bratty went back to smiling, hopping excitedly with her friend. “I saw it, like, all on TV! It was, like, soooo rad!!” She paused awkwardly. “Well, other than the whole, like, Cannibal Catty thing.”

Yeesh. That’s right. Even if she was innocent, she still ate some of her own monster pal. That’s rough. Most of the city knows of it too.

Catty tried to play it off, but was still shaken by it. “L-like! Let’s not, like, call me that! It’s, like, totally lame!”

Not going to lie, if I, like, have to hear them speak any more, I’m going to, like, totally shoot myself. I cleared my throat to get their attention. “Glad we could help,” I said, begging mentally for them to leave.

My words appeared to have the desired effect. “Do you, like, want to go find a dump to look for some junk, girlfrand?”

Catty’s golden eyes lit up brighter than the sun itself. “Like!!! My god!! Do you even, like, need to ask!?”

“Let’s, like, totally go!!!” They squealed in unison, dashing out of the courtroom. I let out a sigh of relief. I was glad to save an innocent girl, but even gladder to see her leave.

“Darlings! Oh, darlings!” an electric voice called out to us.

Please, no.

Pushing aside his adoring fans, Mettaton rolled up to us on his lone wheel, signing autographs for nearby monsters all the way. “What a delightful show we put on!” he cooed.

Gotta admit, this wasn’t the reaction I expected. “You’re not mad?” I asked, skeptical.

Scribbling his name on a Woshua’s head, (the Woshua was mortified) Mettaton’s lights blinked happily. “Darling! Of course not!” He waved me off nonchalantly. “We gave our audience the show of a life time!”

“But you lost.”

A light on his chassis blinked out of rhythm. A tiny malfunction of his robot arms. Someone’s autograph read ‘Meton’ on accident. “Oh my! It was all an act, darling!” The robot proclaimed with a twirl. “Why, you must try it sometime! It might throw a bit of culture into your little caveman act!”

Heh heh, yeah, he was still mad. Cruel as it may have been, I enjoyed watching him try to keep his cool. “Sure,” was all I said in reply.

Gears grinded, but Mettaton turned his attention to my girlfriend. “Alphys, darling, I expect you’ll be well enough to come back to work, tomorrow?”

I could tell she wanted to say no. “O-oh, yes! I-I’m much better, now! T-thanks, Mettaton!”

He clapped happily, signing a monster baby absentmindedly and handing it back into the crowd. “Wonderful, darling, simply wonderful! Be sure to wear your new Prosecutor Mettaton pin! It’s mandatory for all employees!”

Alphys flinched, not responding right away. “B-but…”

“So glad to see you’re happy again, my dear sweet Alphys!” Mettaton cooed, signing Papyrus’ face for a second time. “I’ll see you, tomorrow!”

Before she could continue, the robot rolled away, spotlight following him out the double doors somehow. She sighed. At least her only problems now were dealing with that egomaniac ‘friend’ of hers.

“WHAT A NICE ROBOT,” Papyrus grinned, ink staining his skull. “HE ONLY CHARGED ME FIFTY GOLD FOR THIS, TOO.”

He was such a goofball.

It was nice seeing everyone get their happy ending. Well, everyone except Asgore. I couldn’t find him in the crowd of monsters. He must not have wanted to show himself. Either that, or he’s in custody.

What’s going to happen to him?

“AH, UM, UNDYNE!” Papyrus slid as subtly towards me as he could. Which was not subtle at all. “IS…IS THAT A NOTEPAD YOU’RE WRITING ON?”

I blinked. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Thought you said all real detectives use these?”

He was really trying his best to look cool, but his sweat and terribly shakey smile told everyone else otherwise. “YES! OF COURSE!” He kept looking at it, with this strange hunger in his eye sockets. “IT’S JUST… I LOST MY SPARE NOTEPAD.”

Oh. I see. “Wanna borrow mine?” I asked with a smile, reading him like a book. Or, well, like a notepad.

“OH, GOD, PLEASE, LET ME!”

I’d never say it to him, but I do love that weird gangly skeleton. Well, this notepad had its use. I think it helped me figure things out. Before I hand it over to Papyrus, I’m ripping the pages out.

See ya.

Notepad!!! It’s been more than twelve whole hours! It was so horrible not writing down my every thought, action, and feeling!! I mostly had to narrate myself out loud to Alphys, and she hated it! I don’t know why?! My grizzled detective writing style is very cool!

Anyways, you won’t believe it! Undyne won the case, all by herself! I’m so proud!! Even when we were inside, talking to Bratty, Catty, and Mettaton, she never pulled out a cigarette! She’s certainly on her way to being a real detective, like me!

“You look happy,” Undyne said with a grin, picking up Alphys and holding her on big beefy shoulders.

“WHY WOULDN’T I!” I proclaimed, scribbling frantically. “ANOTHER CASE SOLVED THANKS TO THE GREAT DETECTIVE PAPYRUS! NYEH-HEH-HEH!”

My partner smiled at that, as if hearing a joke. “Yeah, you did really well, Pap.”

“C-can we just go home and r-relax, now?” Alphys pleaded, clinging to Undyne’s biceps, trying not to lose her balance. Undyne would never drop her, of course!

“AH, MAYBE YOU CAN!” I said. “THE GREAT DETECTIVE PAPYRUS IS ALWAYS NEEDED! THERE’S NO TIME TO RELAX!”

Undyne looked lost in thought. “You sure? You never want a vacation?”

“NEVER!” I answered without a beat. Undyne frowned at that, and I couldn’t help but feel guilty. I guess she wasn’t as great of a detective as me, so it’s only logical she might want time off. “AH, WELL… I SUPPOSE A VACATION COULD BE NICE.”

“That’s better,” she nodded. “Let’s go home and watch some Game of Bones again.”

“W-with Papyrus?...” Alphys looked unhappy. Why?!

Undyne couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh. It felt honest and true. She really was looking like her old self again. It warmed my bones!

“I’D LOVE TO JOIN YOU!” I said, opening the front door for the ladies. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do!

Ah, it was raining again! How nice for Undyne! The pitter patter of the droplets, the cool air, and the beautiful reflections were back. Undyne’s eye lit up and she dashed into the pouring rain, Alphys screeching, holding on for dear life. They were drenched in an instant.

It looks like things are going well for her. I’m so happy!

Undyne was happy, too.

Case closed!

Another case solved! But wait, is this really the end? There seems to be more pages left in this stray notepad...

[hestiasroom]

Where Do We Go After Ferguson?

By Michael Eric Dyson

Nov. 29, 2014

367

WASHINGTON — WHEN Ferguson flared up this week after a grand jury failed to indict the white police officer Darren Wilson for killing the unarmed black youth Michael Brown, two realities were illuminated: Black and white people rarely view race in the same way or agree about how to resolve racial conflicts, and black people have furious moral debates among ourselves out of white earshot.

These colliding worlds of racial perception are why many Americans view the world so differently, and why recent comments by President Obama and the former New York City mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani cut to the quick of black identity in America.

From the start, most African-Americans were convinced that Michael Brown’s death wouldn’t be fairly considered by Ferguson’s criminal justice system. There were doubts that the prosecution and defense were really on different teams. The prosecutor, Robert McCulloch, looked as if he were coaching an intramural scrimmage with the goal of keeping Officer Wilson from being tackled by indictment.

The trove of documents released after the grand jury’s decision included Officer Wilson’s four-hour testimony, in which the 6-foot-4-inch, 210-pound cop said that his encounter with the 6-foot-4-inch, 292-pound teenager left him feeling like “a 5-year-old holding on to Hulk Hogan.” He used the impersonal pronoun “it” when he said that Michael Brown looked like a “demon” rushing him. To the police officer and to many whites, Michael Brown was the black menace writ large, the terrorizing phantom that stalks the white imagination.

These clashing perceptions underscore the physics of race, in which an observer effect operates: The instrument through which one perceives race — one’s culture, one’s experiences, one’s fears and fantasies — alters in crucial ways what it measures.

The novelist Ann Petry vividly captured this observer effect in her 1946 novel “The Street,” in which the African-American protagonist, Lutie Johnson, remarks that racial perceptions of blacks “depended on where you sat.” She explains that if “you looked at them from inside the framework of a fat weekly salary, and you thought of colored people as naturally criminal, then you didn’t really see what any Negro looked like,” because “the Negro was never an individual” but “a threat, or an animal, or a curse.”

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After a black man is killed in a failed robbery, she notes that a reporter “saw a dead Negro who had attempted to hold up a store, and so he couldn’t really see what the man lying on the sidewalk looked like.” Instead, he saw “the picture he already had in his mind: a huge, brawny, blustering, ignorant, criminally disposed black man.”

Our American culture’s fearful dehumanizing of black men materialized once again when Officer Wilson saw Michael Brown as a demonic force who had to be vanquished in a hail of bullets.

IT is nearly impossible to convey the fear that strikes at the heart of black Americans every time a cop car pulls up. When I was 17, my brother and I and a childhood friend were pulled over by four Detroit cops in an unmarked police vehicle. This was in the mid-70s, in the shadow of the infamous Detroit Police Department task force called Stress (Stop the Robberies, Enjoy Safe Streets), which was initiated after the 1967 riots. The unit lived up to its name and routinely targeted black people.

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As we assumed the position against the car, I announced to one of the plainclothes officers that I was reaching into my back pocket to fish the car’s registration from my wallet. He brought the butt of his gun sharply across my back and knocked me to the ground, promising, with a racial epithet, that he’d put a bullet through my head if I moved again. When I rose to my feet, cowering, showing complete deference, the officer permitted me to show the car’s registration. When the cops ran the tags, they concluded what we already knew: The car wasn’t stolen and we weren’t thieves. They sent us on without a hint of an apology.

My recent dust-up with Mr. Giuliani on national television tapped a deep vein of racially charged perception. In a discussion on “Meet the Press” of Ferguson and its racial fallout, Mr. Giuliani steered the conversation down the path of a conservative shibboleth: that the real problem facing black communities is not brutality at the hands of white cops but brutality in the grips of black thugs. He cited the fact that 93 percent of black homicide victims are killed by black people; I argued that these murderers often go to jail, unlike the white cops who kill blacks with the backing of the government. What I didn’t have time to say was that 84 percent of white homicide victims are killed by white people, and yet no language of condemnation exists to frame a white-on-white malady that begs relief by violent policing.

This doesn’t mean that black people aren’t weary of death ravaging our communities. I witnessed it personally as I sat in a Detroit courtroom 25 years ago during the trial of my brother Everett for second-degree murder, and though I believe to this day that he is innocent, I watched him convicted by an all-black jury and sentenced to prison for the rest of his life.

Many whites who point to blacks killing blacks are moved less by concern for black communities than by a desire to fend off criticism of unjust white cops. They have the earnest belief that they are offering new ideas to black folk about the peril we foment in our own neighborhoods. This idea has also found a champion in Bill Cosby, who for the past decade has levied moral charges against the black poor with an ugly intensity endorsed by white critics as tough love and accepted by most black journalists as homegrown conservatism.

But Mr. Cosby’s put-downs are more pernicious than that. How could one ever defend his misogynistic indictment of black women’s lax morals and poor parenting skills? “Five, six children, same woman, eight, 10 different husbands or whatever,” he liked to recite. “Pretty soon you’re going to have to have DNA cards so you can tell who you’re making love to. You don’t know who this is; might be your grandmother.”

Journalistic mea culpas are now accompanying Mr. Cosby’s Shakespearean fall from grace. He has been recast as a leering king who is more sinner than sinned against as the allegations of drugging and raping women pile up. But these writers avoid mentioning the sexist blinders that kept them from seeing how hateful Mr. Cosby was toward black women long before he was accused of abusing mostly white women.

Bill Cosby didn’t invent the politics of respectability — the belief that good behavior and stern chiding will cure black ills and uplift black people and convince white people that we’re human and worthy of respect. But he certainly gave it a vernacular swagger that has since been polished by Barack Obama. The president has lectured black folk about our moral shortcomings before cheering audiences at college commencements and civil rights conventions. And yet his themes are shopworn and mix the innocuous and the insidious: pull your pants up, stop making racial excuses for failure, stop complaining about racism, turn off the television and the video games and study, don’t feed your kids fried chicken for breakfast, be a good father.

As big a fan as he is of respectability politics, Mr. Obama is the most eloquent reminder that they don’t work, that no matter how smart, sophisticated or upstanding one is, and no matter how much chastising black people pleases white ears, the suspicions about black identity persist. Despite his accomplishments and charisma, he is for millions the unalterable “other” of national life, the opposite of what they mean when they think of America.

Barack Obama, like Michael Brown, is changed before our eyes into a monstrous thing that lacks humanity: a monkey, a cipher, a black hole that kills light. One might expect the ultimate target of this black otherness to have sympathy for its lesser targets, who also have lesser standing and lesser protection, like the people in Ferguson, in Ohio, in New York, in Florida, and all around the country, who can’t keep their unarmed children from being cut down in the street by callous cops who leave their bodies to stiffen into rigor mortis in the presence of horrified onlookers.

President Obama’s clinical approach to race was cemented after the 2009 Henry Louis Gates Jr. incident — in which the Harvard professor and the white police officer who arrested him for breaking into his own house were invited to the White House to commune over a beer — convinced him that he should talk race only when his hand was forced.

He has employed a twin strategy: the “heroic explicit,” in which he deliberately and clearly assails black moral failure and poor cultural habits, and the “noble implicit,” in which he avoids linking whites to social distress or pathology and speaks in the broadest terms possible, in grammar both tentative and tortured, about the problems we all confront. It’s an effort that hinges on false equivalencies between black and white and the mistaken identification of effect for cause.

MR. OBAMA spoke twice in the aftermath of the Ferguson grand jury’s decision. He spoke Monday night about America as a nation of laws and said that we must respect the jury’s conclusion, even if we don’t agree with it, and make progress by working together — not by throwing bottles, smashing car windows or using anger as an excuse to vandalize property or hurt anyone.

On Tuesday, the president doubled down on his indictment of “criminal acts” and declared, “I do not have any sympathy” for those who destroy “your own communities.” While he avoided saying so, it was clear that his remarks were directed at the black people who looted and rioted in Ferguson. But their criminal activity is the effect of going unrecognized by the state for decades, a crime in itself. As for the plague of white cops who kill unarmed black youth, the facts of which are tediously and sickeningly repetitive and impose a psychological tariff on black minds, the president was vague, halting and sincerely noncommittal.

Instead, he lauded the racial progress that he said he had witnessed “in my own life,” substituting his life for ours, and signaled again how his story of advancement was ours, suggesting, sadly, that the sum of our political fortunes in his presidency may be lesser than the parts of our persistent suffering. Even when he sidled up to the truth and nudged it gently — “these are real issues,” the president acknowledged — he slipped back into an emotional blandness that underplayed the searing divide, saying there was “an impression that folks have” about unjust policing and “there are issues in which the law too often feels as if it is being applied in discriminatory fashion.”

Whose impression is it, though that word hardly captures the fierce facts of the case? Who feels it? Who is the subject? Who is the recipient of the action? Mr. Obama’s treacherous balancing act between white and black, left and right, obscures who has held the power for the longest amount of time to make things the way they are. This is something, of course, he can never admit, but which nevertheless strains his words and turns an often eloquent word artist into a faltering, fumbling linguist. President Obama said that our nation was built on the rule of law. That is true, but incomplete. His life, and his career, too, are the product of broken laws: His parents would have committed a crime in most states at the time of their interracial union, and without Martin Luther King Jr. breaking what he deemed to be unjust laws, Mr. Obama wouldn’t be president today. He is the ultimate paradox: the product of a churning assault on the realm of power that he now represents.

No wonder he turns to his own body and story and life to narrate our bodies, our stories and our lives. The problem is that the ordinary black person possesses neither his protections against peril nor his triumphant trajectory that will continue long after he leaves office.

More than 45 years ago, the Kerner Commission concluded that we still lived in two societies, one white, one black, separate and still unequal. President Lyndon B. Johnson convened that commission while the flames that engulfed my native Detroit in the riot of 1967 still burned. If our president and our nation now don’t show the will and courage to speak the truth and remake the destinies of millions of beleaguered citizens, then we are doomed to watch the same sparks reignite, whenever and wherever injustice meets desperation.

[heckboiandfam]

B.P.R.D. Case Files - Muller Incident

B.P.R.D.  / Bureau for Paranormal Research & Defense / Kaiser Müller Incident

Location – Chicago, Illinois / Apartment of “Jason Smith”

Subject – “Jason Smith” – formerly known as Kaiser Muller

Incident – Mysterious Cause of Death

Agents – Hellboy – left the B.P.R.D. in ’94; returned early 2017 after being thought deceased for several years/ Ashley Strode – former Navy; amateur exorcist of considerable skill

_______________________________________________________________________

November 2017 – The body of one ‘Jason Smith’ is found in his apartment. The deceased party is between 93 to 97 years old; forged birth records suggest the former, but may have been altered from the original documents.

It is known a large number of German soldiers after World War II (WW2) fled their country to avoid prosecution. For the most part, this was allowed after the surrender if the deserting soldiers were not persons of interest. However, after the rise of Neo-Nazism in the United States, the CIA began to track down and monitor those soldiers that successfully integrated themselves into American society. Jason Smith was discovered to be Müller nearly 60 years ago, but no action was taken against him.

Neighbors reported a lack of communication from ‘Smith’ for two days, followed by complaints of a foul odor. The owners of the building opened the door of his apartment to find him ‘horribly mauled’.

After police investigators were unable to determine that anyone had been in the room in two days, and were further concerned about the nature of ‘Smith’s’ injuries, the B.P.R.D. were notified of the suspicious death. Agents Hellboy and Strode were sent to investigate.

The following is a transcript of Agent Strode’s audio recording:

_____________________________________________________________________

Ashley Strode: This is Agent Ashley Strode, here with Agent Hellboy–

Hellboy: I DON’T like being called ‘agent’. When did they start that? When we got upgraded by the U.N.? It’s so pretentious.

AS: I… kinda agree. Anyway, Hellboy and I are IN the apartment–

HB: Smells like ass.

AS: It does.

HB: Probably because they tore up the old man’s guts, huh? Reeeeally dug into him.

AS: Uhm… Yesssss… they DID, didn’t they… We’re, uhm, looking at the deceased–

HB: So he was a Nazi, huh?

AS: Can you stop?

HB: Stop what? I’m not touching him.

AS: I mean stop interrupting. I’m trying to explain what we’re seeing.

HB: I thought the crime scene guys already took videos and photos and whatnot?

AS: Yeah, they DID. But they want our commentary on what we see. And you’re interrupting me talking. Anyway, looking at the deceased. Man in his late 80s–

HB: Nineties, for sure.

AS: LATE 90S THEN. And he’s clearly been… attacked.

HB: Tore his arms off first. They’re over there, and there. I’m pointing, nerds that’re listenin’ to this shit later, at the arms. Popped them right off him. Effortlessly. Seen it before. Elephant demons, yetis, that drunk demigod bastard in Rome? They weren’t cut off. This is pulling. The muscles tore, popped up into the skin a bit, but not much because he was old and they were atrophying. Loooks like… bone. Yeah, the bone mostly just came right out the sockets. Don’t ya think, Strode?

AS: -silence-

HB: Yup, yup. Oh. Yeah. Now I’m looking at… the body itself. And yep, they popped his arms right off him. Shoulders are all messed up. Skin definitely just tore away, like tissue paper–

AS: He WAS a Nazi. But he was a deserter.

HB: What was that?

AS: He was a Nazi. But he ran after the war. Lived a peaceful, quiet life. Never caused any trouble.

HB: Good for him. Still, trouble caught up to him, didn’t it? Anyway… looks like someone bit his neck. Something with… some pretty gnarly teeth. Just bit a nice hunk out of him. Don’t think they spat it out, either, unless you wanna go digging through the pile of this poor bastards–

AS: -whispered- Do you HAVE to be so rude? I mean, he’s dead.

HB: -not at all hushed- Yeah. Dead. Probably because he was a Nazi. Might’ve kept something spooky. For old time’s sake. Something that dug out his guts like they were a damn dog trying to bury a bone on the beach. Sometimes, kid, bad things happen to good people. And other times? If they’re a bad person? The bad thing happened cuz of that.

AS: …Right. Okay. Anyway… I don’t really sense or see anything occult around here, do you?

HB: Nope. But we’ll find out once the other guys get finished bagging and tagging everything, won’t we?

_____________________________________________________________________

Among the deceased’s belongings was a journal, dating back to WW2. After it was scanned and archived, Agents Strode and Hellboy looked over the notes on a flight to Germany.

_____________________________________________________________________

AS: So… sometime in December of 1944–

HB: What?

AS: WHAT what?

HB: December 1944?

AS: That’s what it says.

HB: Where was he? He mention–

AS: Nooo, Big Red, he’s nowhere near England at the time. Says that he’s… yeah, he’s in Germany. This isn’t Project Ragna Rok at all. Let me finish. It looks like Muller and some friends went wandering off from base camp because they were bored. They went walking and, in his own words, he says they went from a snowy part of the forest and into ‘forest blacker than night’. With blue, glowing dew.

HB: Sounds like they were drinking or smoking something to me…

AS: No, I doubt it. Because what it says next is that he saw ‘gates of horn and ivory’. Which is–

HB: Yeah, it’s a Greek thing. True dreams, false dreams. ‘True’ ones come through the horns, the others through the ivory. The old man said it was sort of like an old Greek pun.

AS: Oh. Uh… Yeah, that’s been highlighted by our analysts as significant. It’s mentioned in The Odyssey. Homer, Socrates, Virgil… A bunch of more modern poets, they mention them. Anyway, it seems like these guys come up to these gates and look through. Uhm… Muller says some interesting things about a kingdom, but one without a king. Things are dusty, unused, dead, and abandoned, but they can’t get in.

HB: Uh-huh… a kingdom. Behind dream gates. A kingdom of dreams. Got it.

AS: You’re skeptical.

HB: You sure this is an actual account, or is he just some undiscovered modern poet that liked Greek and Roman shit?

AS: I’m GETTING there. So, some of his friends, they go on about Himmler, it seems. Probably about his crazy theories about an ancient Aryan kingdom? That stuff is only crazy theories, right? I mean, other than the Hyperborean stuff. That’s not the same, though, is it?

HB: Should probably ask Howards about it when we get back. I’m not an expert.

AS: Okay. Anyway, so… uhm… Muller deduces that they’re not in Germany anymore–

HB: So he was a smart guy.

AS: Yes. Hush. He deduces they’re not in Germany anymore, and they start walking. And then… Okay, yeah, so he sees… a scarecrow fighting off a raven, a dinosaur, and then a British librarian stops them to talk.

HB: Yeah, none of that makes any sense at all. What’s this librarian got to say?

AS: Stuff about… they’re intruding? They found a ‘Soft Place’, where the real world and the, uhm… ‘Dreamscape meld into one’. The librarian also says that ‘the Lord’ is away, and that they should leave, so they start to… kinda against their will, maybe? He writes it weird. But, they lose a guy, a fellow soldier. Like he got lost in the Dreamscape. Says he’d been running, I think? Acting strange. They went to look for him again, but couldn’t find him.

HB: So… Nazis found a Dreamland of Oz, lose a guy, walk away, and lose a guy there. Weird.

AS: Aaaand that’s why we’re going to Germany. To find out if anyone else knows about this ‘Soft Place’ or ‘Dreamscape’ in the area. We found out where Kaiser Muller’s base camp was in December 1944, and we’ll be searching the area as best we can.

_____________________________________________________________________

After arriving in Germany, Strode and Hellboy searched the forests around where Muller’s base camp would’ve been based on old records. They spent two days searching for anything, as well as questioning the locals about anything that might corroborate Muller’s account of the area.

While they found nothing about Muller himself, signs pointed to other things, local police were dealing with violent attacks by Neo-Nazi gangs that were rising up in the area, mostly small towns with dissatisfied youths. There were a string of violent deaths and attacks, with older men torn apart in their homes by mysterious intruders, or beaten to death by Neo-Nazis. Further investigation hinted that some of these men were also formerly associated with the Nazi regime, but had gone into hiding for one reason or another. Authorities had neglected to contact the B.P.R.D. to avoid scandal.

The only things that were said came from older sources, individuals who were nearly Muller’s age, speaking of the Dís. Disir are Norse spirits, known as either simple spirits, ghosts, or even goddesses. The suspected forest was noted to be haunted by the elderly, but the few young people who lived in the area either had not visited the forest in question due to lack of interest.

However, once Strode and Hellboy’s search extended into the night, they were accosted by something. Strode described that it was ‘initially’ a purely unseen force that lifted Hellboy by the coat and began to drag him through the tree tops. However, Hellboy was able to interact with the unseen assailant, and injured it enough to force it back to ground.

Strode’s account then explains that the assailant became visible to the naked eye as a ‘hag’, with grey hair, tattered robes, wrinkled and dead skin, a toothless mouth, and long, claw-like nails. The hag violently attacked Hellboy, but they seemed on mostly equal footing. The hag spoke in what Hellboy assumed was ‘Ancient Norse’, but after nearly 20 minutes of fighting, Strode managed to catch up with them, and utilize her own talent at subduing spirits to assist Hellboy in the fight.

Upon partially entering an astral plane, Strode said she saw the ‘hag’ as what she clearly was; a ‘radiant woman of spectacular naked beauty that was nearly blinding’. Scholars are now looking into the possibility that, in the prehistoric period of Germany, tribes worshiped this Dis as a forest goddess, but climate changes left the area infertile and absent of wild game, forcing them to leave, and leading to what is known as ‘spiritual decay’ in the area.

After subduing the Dis by force and spiritual warding, Strode and Hellboy began their interrogation, which was somewhat hindered by the fact the spirit in their custody only spoke German, despite our translators being able to determine that she had a full grasp on what her captors spoke about.

_____________________________________________________________________

AS: Are you sure you’re–

HB: I’M FINE.

Dis: Du wirst bezahlen! (You will pay!)

HB: The hell is she saying now?!

AS: I don’t speak German goddess, I’m sorry! Are you SURE–

HB: The hell do you mean ‘goddess’?

AS: I’m looking at her purest self. She’s definitely some kind of higher spirit, or a goddess, from how she, uh, looks.

HB: Well I’m glad you think she’s pretty.

Dis: Die Frau sieht mich mit Verlangen in ihren Augen an. Ist sie eine, die nur Frauen liebt? (The woman looks at me with desire in her eyes. Is she one that only makes love to women?)

AS: She’s being talkative now, in any case…

HB: Uh-huh… Whatever. Just… let’s ask her some questions.

Dis: Ich werde nicht ein Sklave der Dämon des Abgrunds sein! (I will not be a slave to the Demon of the Bottomless Pit!)

HB: Lady… we were just looking for some magic dream gates, okay? And sure, we heard you MIGHT be in the area, but goddamn, do you have to be so rude?

Dis: Du wirst hier nicht die Tore der Träume finden. (You will not find the Gates of the Dreaming here)

HB: Speak English!

AS: Maybe she can’t?

HB: Bullshit.

Dis: Der Traumlord hat die Tore zu meinem Wald geschlossen. Der Sohn von Nott spricht nicht mehr zu mir, und das seit vielen, vielen Jahren nicht. Er wird dafür bezahlen, dass er mich vergisst! Haben wir uns nicht geliebt ?! Bin ich nicht gut genug für ihn, nachdem er sich verändert hat? (The Dream Lord has closed the gates to my forest. The Son of Nott speaks to me no longer, and has not for many, many years. He will pay for forgetting me! Did we not love one another?! Am I not good enough for him now that he has changed?)

AS: She said… something about a ‘Lord’. We’re looking for a ‘Lord’, yes, but I don’t understand why you’re so angry, or why you attacked us?

Dis: Der Herr der Träume wird mich richtig ansprechen, sobald ich auf seinem neuen, jungenhaften Hals stehe und ihn zwinge, meine Macht zu erkennen! Denn ich besitze den Traumstein! (The Lord of Dreams will address me properly once I stand upon his new, boyish neck and force him to recognize my power! For I possess the Dreamstone!)

HB: She’s just babbling.

AS: She’s sayin’ something–

_____________________________________________________________________ Strode’s account says that Hellboy struck the spirit several times in the face, asking different questions every time – Who are you? What are you doing? Who are you working for? What is your ‘deal’? What does this ‘shit’ have to do with Nazis?

Strode says that it was very ineffective, as the only thing the Dis had to say between strikes were various swear words and slurs, until she began to repeat the same thing over and over again.

_____________________________________________________________________

Dis: Sandman! Sandman! Sandman!

AS: Wait, she’s actually saying something now! Stop hitting her! HELLBOY!

HB: I ain’t hittin’ her no more, just shakin’ her. Say that again, ya biddy, loud and clear?!

Dis: Sandman! Sandman! Ich habe seinen Traumstein! (I have his Dreamstone)

HB: Sandman? What is she talking about?

AS: No clue, but… I’ve been recording this, so our guys can translate what she’s said so far–

HB: You’ve been… Strode, you and that goddamn phone–

AS: AND I know, I think, how to bind her so we can transport her, just give me a moment…

_____________________________________________________________________

Strode’s attempt to bind the Dis for further transport failed, resulting in her escape. After their return, translators determined that this spirit was angry at what is likely the unknown ‘Lord’ of the ‘Dreamscape’. She refers to him as the ‘Son of Nott’, a Norse goddess, the personification of Night, and claims to speak of a ‘Traumstein’ or ‘Dream stone’ of some kind in her possession.

It is not conclusive that she is directly related to the deaths and attacks, but the B.P.R.D. will be dispatching Agent Johann Kraus to further investigate these occurrences. Agents Strode and Hellboy will return to the off-world office to resume their duties there.

It is the opinion of Director Manning that Hellboy’s use of force was ‘excessive’ and ‘not a viable means to obtain information’, while Strode’s inability to bind the spirit for future interrogation, while unfortunate, did not overshadow her professionalism in the field.

A new case file will be started to investigate ‘Lord Sandman‘, if such a being exists and it is related to these deaths.

[nancydhooper]

Kenneth Eng Is On The Other Side of Viral Now

Kenneth Eng is on the other side of viral now, where it's hard to see him.

11 years ago, in 2007, it was easy to see him. He achieved a brief burst of viral infamy for writing a column titled "Why I Hate Blacks," inexplicably published by the now-defunct AsianWeek. He had every quality we require for online notoriety: he did something we feel good about hating, his response to criticism was unrepentant and odd (he defended his column and declared himself an "Asian Supremacist"), and a little digging into his background revealed things we could easily mock, like his authorship of really awful science fiction:

[The Darkaeon] slashes the Universe with a blade of dark flame.

UNIVERSE: AAAAHHH!!

He experienced — and perhaps enjoyed — widespread condemnation and ridicule in blogs and forums, and on sites like Wired and Gawker. A few months later, he enjoyed a short resurgence of infamy when he was arrested for bizarre threats, making the pages of the New York Post and the Village Voice. Then, like a uninspired meme, he slipped from our consciousness, making room for the next freak-of-the-week and the next and the next after that.

Where do people like Kenneth Eng come from, and where do they go after their virality pops like a soap bubble? Surely they differ. But Kenneth Eng came from mental illness, to which he returned. How many other people we gawk at are like him?

The cover of Kenneth Eng's book.

Kenneth Eng's journey to fame and back takes on a very different tone when you start at the beginning rather than in the middle.

Eng is schizophrenic. This is how his lawyer described it in 2008, seeking a probationary sentence on federal threat charges:

Mr. Eng suffers from schizophrenia, a severe, lifelong disorder. He takes an anti-psychotic, with strong side-effects. Yet, with a somewhat grim prognosis for a lifelong affliction, the report notes Mr. Eng is making fair progress on treatment goals. The fact that he is making progress bodes well for him.

Counsel has noted a remarkable softening of Mr. Eng’s affect since he entered the treatment environment. Conversations with him are rather pleasant.

His severe mental illness was well-known years before his brush with modern fame. In 2003, he enraged and terrified fellow students, professors, and administrators at NYU, where he studied film. We know this because he attached much of the NYU email correspondence to his 2014 pro se federal civil rights complaint against everyone he could remember from NYU ten years before. Eng's version of events is not particularly exculpatory: he claims he was mistreated for refusing to work with "Negroes," for using racial epithets, and for proclaiming that he worships Hitler. He also claims to be the victim of anti-Asian racism, but his complaint is full of patently paranoid, bizarre conclusions, and hints at how terrifying he could be to others:

For the past 3769 days, I have wondered about what it would feel like to exact my revenge on this cowardly woman. I will never recover from the damage she and her ethnic group have inflicted on me, and the pain I feel every day because of cravens like her.

The NYU emails he attaches suggest what it was like for the people around him. "I want to go on record that keeping Kenneth could have serious repercussions," wrote one administrator. "It is my belief that Kenneth poses a real threat to the [NYU] community and has the capacity to harm or kill someone," said another. One professor told of getting an insulting, threatening call at home from Eng; another told of two students "so terrified" that they locked the classroom door after Eng left after a heated dispute. This was not always the case: one professor found him "intelligent, creative, talented, and fun to have as part of our class." But expressions of concern soon outweighed these positive reports. Eng was erratic, confrontational, sometimes incoherent, floridly racist, threatening, and generally a nightmare to those around him.

In 2004, after a confrontation in a NYU counseling session, the NYPD detained him and transported him to Bellevue Hospital, forcibly medicated him, and confined him for two weeks. We know this because in 2006 he convinced attorneys to file a civil rights lawsuit on his behalf against New York authorities. Eng dropped the suit based on an undisclosed settlement in 2007. That is the last time, as far as I can tell, that lawyers sued on his behalf; his many subsequent lawsuits are all pro se. But it was not the only time he was confined at Bellevue; he was committed again in 2009. He complains of that confinement in a 2014 pro se civil rights complaint replete with assertions that he was mistreated because he is Asian, because of his racial views, and because he was confined with African-Americans.

A wired article on Eng, typical of the tone of coverage of him.

We all knew perfectly well in 2007 that Kenneth Eng was crazy. But we pointed and laughed anyway.

I knew. I had no excuse not to know. Looking back at forum comments (it was before the time of this now-venerable blog), I see that I referred to him as crazy. That did not leaven my ridicule.

Eng, who was clearly not successfully treated by Bellevue, somehow won a columnist position with AsianWeek. This is consistent with the accounts of many who said he could be brilliant, articulate, and dedicated. He wrote his loathsome and bigoted column, and the paper made the inexcusable decision to publish it. Spectacle followed. Eng doubled down again and again, affirming his racism and proclaiming himself an "Asian supremacist." Journalists and bloggers gleefully dug up his science fiction and his imperious communications promoting it.

The coverage does not age well in light of what we know about Eng's schizophrenia. We knew that he was crazy, but only envisioned him as crazy in an entertaining way. "Deep Inside Kenneth Eng's Brain With His Unfinished Screenplay," teased Wired, promising an "obscure literary treat," and mocking his writing at length. The same author collected what she called "gossip" from NYU and confessed herself "fascinated" with Eng's "bizarre career," concluding "Yup, Eng truly is 'God.' Too bad he gets called names when he leaves the house once a month. Now you too can read his work." Eng later harassed the author, who penned a follow-up telling him he should "chill out." Gawker called him a "wacky Asian racist" in a column detailing his second arrest for bizarre threats. Gawker — which had a Kenneth Eng tag — maintained that tone throughout 2007. "Remember Kenneth Eng of 'Why I Hate Blacks' fame? He sure hopes you do" chortled Gawker when Eng gave an interview saying he thought and hoped he had inspired the massacre at Virginia Tech.

Fox News invited Eng on television to explain himself. The resulting interview is, in retrospect, sick and excruciating.

A few months later, Eng hit the news again when Village Voice published an interview in which he celebrated the Virginia Tech massacre and, decrying racism against Asians, proclaimed he would have done the same thing at NYU if he could have afforded a gun. The Village Voice's tone is no longer quite so jolly, but still strikes me as oddly detached. Eng got more publicity when he was arrested, prosecuted, and sentenced to therapy for threatening a neighboring family with a hammer. This news did not notably change the tone of coverage of Eng. Angry Asian Man (which, as a parent of Asian-American kids, I find to be an indispensable source of information about Asian-American struggles with racism, culture, and advocacy) reported on Eng's new legal troubles rather lightly, referring to him as "everyone's favorite "Asian Supremacist'" "the dragon master," and "krazy-ass Kenny."

But someone was genuinely concerned about Eng's deterioration — his family, and oddly, the federal criminal justice system.

The caption to the federal criminal complaint against Eng.

"Kenneth Eng Threatened A 'White Pussy' With Violence," the Village Voice leered when federal officials took him into custody after his state conviction. The feds — through the United States Attorney's Office for the Southern District of New York — prosecuted Eng for an incident years before during his troubles at NYU. The affidavit in support of the federal criminal complaint tells the tale: in 2004 Eng got into a confrontation with another student at NYU who objected to Eng derisively calling another classmate a "Negro," Eng spat in the classmate's face and called him a "white pussy," and in 2005 Eng called the classmate and jeered at him "remember me? I'm the one who spit at you." This call formed the basis of a felony charge of threats through interstate communication.

Two things are clear from the complaint. First, the feds were deeply concerned about Eng. The phone call is an extremely marginal basis for a charge, as they would soon see. And the complaint has information about Eng's Virginia Tech rant, even though that happened years after the charged offense. In looking at the record, it's clear that the feds, Eng's parents, Eng's lawyers, Eng's doctors, and an extremely cooperative federal court were using the prosecution as an instrument to compel Eng to submit to ongoing treatment. Eng's parents had the resources to post a $500,000 bail in one of his state cases and to hire a series of lawyers and psychiatrists, and the government's resources, of course, are formidable. The record reveals six years of everyone involved going to extraordinary lengths to make Eng get treatment, to deal with his relapses and outbursts, and to help him.

But it was not enough.

The first problem, oddly, was legal. Eng fairly rapidly agreed to plead guilty to the charge in exchange for five years probation. But the court, after very thoughtful analysis, rejected the plea, finding that it lacked a factual basis because the mocking call was not a "true threat" and therefore not a violation of the statute. True threats, as Popehat readers know, are threats that are intended, and reasonably interpreted, to be expressions of genuine intent to do harm. Here, Eng called his victim and made fun of him for having previously spit on him. The judge decided, not unreasonably, that nothing about that was a threat of future harm.

At this point, in a standard scenario, the government would have appealed the determination or the defense would have tried to convince the government or the court to dismiss the charges. This was not a standard scenario. Eng eventually agreed to plead guilty to a misdemeanor charge of interfering with someone's right to education through intimidation. The goal remained the same — his family, his lawyers, his doctors, and the government wanted him to get a sentence of probation with mandatory treatment. When the probation office recommended jail time, the government argued vociferously against it, supported by Eng's own lawyer's bleak assessment of his illness. Let me assure you as a federal criminal defense attorney that this is not a typical course of events.

Eng got his probation and his mandatory treatment. But the next five years were fraught with the sort of repeated problems we should expect with an intractable mental illness. Eng fell in and out of treatment, he was repeatedly cited for probation violations. He was arrested and prosecuted by New York authorities for harassment and stalking, which led to more federal probation violations. The attorneys, doctors, and the judge made extraordinary efforts to avoid prolonged incarceration and to continue treatment — the judge held multiple hearings with physician testimony.

Everyone did everything they could.

It was not enough. In wealthiest country in the history of the world, a country with the power of an angry god, with weight of doting affluent parents and lawyers and doctors and an utterly out-of-character criminal justice system, it was not enough. This is, perhaps, the most grim part of the story, grimmer even than our indifference and casual cruelty. If Kenneth Eng can't be helped successfully, what's the hope for the millions out there in worse circumstances, some of them potentially violent? Kenneth Eng didn't slip through the cracks. He got support that, if you described it in a story, I would dismiss as fanciful. What about people without those resources and without that support?

Kenneth Eng's federal probation ended in 2013. We can trace his life for a while thereafter through his campaign of federal lawsuits. He filed two dozen, all pro se, in 2013 and 2014 in federal court in New York. He sued people for posting his books online, and he sued people for using ideas he claimed he invented, like space dragons or the character name "Terrordactyl" and the concept of a sentient universe. It would be easy to laugh at them, as we often laugh at crazy lawsuits, as we laughed at his bizarre racist rants. You'd need a heart of stone not to laugh at Eng v. Philosoraptor. He did, in fact, get a little coverage of these intellectual property suits. There was no coverage of his other suits — the ones claiming racial discrimination, the ones claiming he was discriminated against because he was a racist, the ones engaging in virulent racism and using racial epithets, the ones relitigating his treatment at NYU and Bellevue and Rikers. His vexatious litigation reveals bits of his out-of-court life in 2014. The suits describe his unsuccessful efforts to maintain work in the face of his inability to interact with others, his public confrontations, his repeated brushes with law enforcement, his subsistence on disability and unemployment payments. The quality of his filings steadily degraded, varying from meritless but coherent and neatly typed copyright claims to enraged, barely legible scrawls incorporating racial epithets into the case captions. Courts dismissed all of the suits, usually by refusing to let him file them without filing fees.

When I was a prosecutor, we used to get lawsuits and motions from prisoners. They stank of cigarette smoke, a stink that penetrated the plain manila envelopes containing them. Eng's lawsuits stink of untreated madness. I might ordinarily mock them. I've mocked ones like them before. It's harder after reading about who he was, who he is.

Towards the end of 2014, with the last of his lawsuits dismissed, Kenneth Eng dropped from sight. I can't find more references to him. I do not have the heart to go beyond the web and research whether he is confined, whether he continues to relapse without notice, whether he's even alive. Maybe he's even better. Maybe.

Why are we the way we are? Is Kenneth Eng a schizophrenic whose illness finds expression through florid racism? Or is he a racist asshole who is also schizophrenic? It makes little difference to the people he abused or threatened or assaulted, the people terrified that he would go on a violent spree, or the people repulsed to see the seemingly mainstream AsianWeek publish his racist screed. It is right and fit that we should support those people and acknowledge how they felt, whatever Eng's motives were. It is appropriate to protect them. But how should we treat Kenneth Eng? Not, I think, with carefree laughter.

Kenneth Eng is on the other side of viral now, and it's hard to see him there. But we can still see ourselves, and the view is not always pleasant.

Copyright 2017 by the named Popehat author. from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8247012 https://www.popehat.com/2018/02/25/kenneth-eng-is-on-the-other-side-of-viral-now/ via http://www.rssmix.com/