#part VII

[morgana-ren]

Come down to the Black Sea VII

Merry Honda-Days and Toyotathon everyone, here's the latest chapter of that story that everyone has forgotten existed lmao

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Mentions of violence, blood, attempted assault, slight sexual content, one very pissy, overgrown fish and bad writing. It's getting worse folks, much much worse. Soon there will be plenty of uh debauchery for all. I swear.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Who is the first to burn?

 What an absolute hell-day. 

The café had been swarming with customers to the point of overflow, and you'd barely gotten a chance to rest your throbbing, aching feet— or even take a damned breath without someone practically breathing down your neck for you. 

With the entire island abuzz with the news of the gruesome beachside slayings, anyone with free time and not much else to do had congregated in social forums and restaurants to speak in hushed tones and exchange gossip. 

Small communities don't have much going on in the way of excitement, so they swarm like bees to honey to any sort of scandal, and it seems that a potential murderer walking among the population is the best form of news to get people in all up in a bluster. Sure, the police had said it was likely an animal attack in their press conference, but people love to talk, and it turns out that a murder is much more titillating than a displaced predator. 

Oh yes, the tips had been great, but you could barely feel your legs, and exhaustion was rapidly taking hold. You’d had another date scheduled for tonight, but in the wake of things, you weren't sure if you could even keep your eyes open long enough to cancel it. A quick apologetic text and a promise to make up for it later is the best you can muster before the dreaded drive home. 

Thoughts of crawling into bed and sleeping through the next afternoon occupy your head, mind on autopilot as you navigate your way back to your apartment. The winding road takes you by the shore, and you can't help but stare longingly for a brief moment before the light turns green. Twilight turns the sky a velvet purple, ocean lapping gently against the sands, and once more, your thoughts turn towards the sea. On nights like this, you’d used to visit the beach, basking in the silence and peace of nature. Truth be told, you miss it terribly; it feels as if a piece of yourself is missing as you deny yourself the opportunity to visit your once special place. 

The vicious sea creature lurking beneath the waves has robbed you of that. 

Vindictive, but more so, utterly drop-dead exhausted, you take the turn the opposite way towards your home– and duvet cover tantalizingly waiting on your bed– instead. 

It’s a rink-dink pop-up apartment that costs more to live in than it likely cost to build the entire thing. It’s not much, but it’s home, and it’s yours– and right now, there’s nothing in the world you want more than to be inside, curled up under the covers layered on your cheap, shitty mattress. 

You’re almost home-free, pulling into your designated parking spot when you spot her : A sun-tanned, leather-skinned older woman that you'd rarely seen without a bent cigarette between her bony fingers is smoking just outside the stairwell. 

Lisa. The resident nosy neighbor. Clearly, news about the beach had reached her as well, as she’s perched in the stairwell like a vulture waiting to pounce on the rest of the unsuspecting tenants and entrap them into a lengthy conversation about her thoughts on it. 

Eyes almost rolling out of your head, you can’t help the audible sigh. You don't have the energy to converse with her, but you steel yourself, knowing it's entirely unavoidable. She's clearly hooking for conversation, several butts lying scattered around her ancient brown sandals. The best you can do is try to cut it short– as short as you can with a woman like Lisa. 

You almost feel bad, being so catty and dismissive of her. She's a very nice lady; she's just exceptionally chatty– and nearly deaf to social cues— and you aren't feeling up to it right now. The only thing you give a good goddamn about is the sink of a pillow. 

“Hey Lisa,” You stifle the sigh that threatens to escape, pulling your bag from the passenger seat and slamming the car door shut with a tired swing of your hip. 

“Howdy kiddo!” She smiles at you, light from the setting sun spotting through the patterned holes in her wide brim straw hat as she nods at you in acknowledgement, clearly gearing up for the whole conversation with barely contained eagerness. “You hear the news?”

“Yep,” You fumble through your bag for your keys, trying to give a clear hint that you aren't in the mood for a chat today, even knowing it's pointless. “Been at work all day. Hard not to. You know how people here talk.”

“Well, I'm glad they let you outta there before it got too dark. It's not safe out there anymore. Not like it was when I was young. You know, used to be you could sleep on the beach and not worry about a thing.” 

That was never the case. Lisa sees things through nostalgia glasses, as is evidenced by her attire, which might have been considered hip at one point before you were even born. 

“Yeah, it's a real shame.” 

“It’s a shame alright,” She inhales another drag from her cigarette, ashing onto the concrete beneath her as she shakes her head. “They were probably good kids. Hurts my heart to see folks so young gone before their time.” “Who?” 

“The kids that were killed— Well, kids to me ,” She purses her wrinkled lips. “About your age, if I had to wager. Nothin’ but youngins. They were having some kind of party on the beach when the tragedy occurred. Such a pity their life was cut short like that, especially in that way. What a travesty.” “Yeah, it’s awful,” You yawn, half intentionally, half unable to help it. “I’ve been warning the city council for years that they’re infringing on mother nature, and she’s going to bite back one day. Looks like she has now. She can be brutal, when she wants to be. You know, I told them about that new harbor. You seen that thing? Like we don’t have enough around here. Pokes right at the boundary line.” You nod, not really sure what else to say. It’s clear she wants to spark a discussion, but your head is a mass of fog and exhaustion, and you’re drawing a blank. Thankfully, she seems to get the hint, frowning slightly as she moves to let you pass up onto the stairwell.

“Right, well, you must be tired– you take care now, girlie. Don’t be staying out too late. Something is stirring on this island. Been here long enough to know something ain’t right.”

“I won’t, Lisa. I’m going straight up to bed. I’m wasted.” 

“Good,” She flicks the butt onto the floor, stamping it beneath her shoes before reaching into a half-empty pack for another, apparently still set on fishing for conversation from another unaware person just trying to get home for the day. “Heart can’t take losing anyone else. Old lady can only take so much heartbreak.”

You offer her a sincere smile before continuing on your way. She’s a genuinely sweet woman– lonely, if you had to guess. She doesn’t seem to have any children or family of her own, thinking of herself as some kind of den-mother to the apartment instead. Normally, you’d be more sympathetic to her, but right now, all you can think about is crawling into bed and curling into a ball. 

“Take it easy, Lis. Don’t stay out too late either.” 

You drag yourself up the metal stairs, footsteps heavy and echoing off the metal steps and against the concrete walls. With one last look at the sunset, you flip through your keyring, more than ready to fall into the sheets. You insert the key and–

The door handle turns without you needing it. 

That’s odd. You’re damned sure you locked the door today. Pretty sure, anyways. It’s possible you didn’t. You were a bit preoccupied, after all. It might’ve been one of those little mental slipups. Either way, you’re too tired to worry about it. With a shrug, you kick open the door with a nudge of your boot, hurtling your body through the archway like a stone. 

Your apartment is dark, and left with a pounding headache from overwork and undernutrition, you don’t even bother with the lights. Instead, you fling your bag onto the sofa, where you resolve to deal with it tomorrow. Right now, you want something to calm your churning stomach. Lunch breaks are a fantasy when things get so busy, and you’d only been able to shovel a few bites into your mouth between rushes.

Poking your head in the fridge, you note over the half-eaten leftovers strewn about the shelves, something foul-smelling clearly hiding amongst them. Whatever it is, it’s permeating what little good food you do have, pulling out a few things of tupperwear only to throw them back in disgust, shaking your hand off as if it could wave away the stench.

No dinner tonight, it seems. Even if the lack of food wasn’t enough to turn you off, the smell certainly is, and waiting for takeout sounds like the worst idea you’ve ever had. Tea for dinner it is. 

The stove hums to life, the burner transforming into a bright, scalding red as you fish the teapot from one of your cabinets. It’ll take a few moments for the water to reach boiling point, and it should be just long enough for you to slip out of your day clothes and into something far more comfortable. Nothing in your life has ever sounded better than getting out of these pants and into something light and airy and comfortable.

The hallway is dark, and you nearly trip over a pair of shoes you must’ve left there earlier. The last few days have left you scatterbrained and in disarray, and clearly you’d been letting yourself lose sight of your mental faculties. Forgetting to lock the door, kicking off shoes in the hallway, and who knows what else you’d been neglecting. Tomorrow will have to be an organizational day– but you’ll deal with that tomorrow when you have the ability to process it.

Fumbling through the dark, you manage to find the closet, shucking off your shirt and kicking your pants off your legs as you reach for a clean tank top and a pair of sleep shorts on the shelf. You hear your phone vibrate in the pocket of your work pants, but you can’t be assed with it right now. You don’t even bother fishing it out as you kick your pants to the side. There is no one in the world you feel like talking to right now. Not even your scorned date who is probably bummed you decided to cancel. You are too, to be fair, but you wager you wouldn’t be much fun right now. 

As you unclasp your bra and slide the straps off your shoulders, you could swear you hear some kind of thump behind you. Creaky, miserable old apartment has you scoffing under your breath. Probably the damned AC unit thunking out again. Yet another chore to add to the list of shit to do tomorrow– not that the superintendent will do anything. As far as he is concerned, you pay to sleep here, and that’s that. 

The teakettle starts to whistle from the other room, and you shuffle your dirty clothes to the side, shutting the door to the closet and stepping back into your bedroom. Your eyes haven’t quite adjusted to the darkness, but you swear you see movement .  

It’s far too dark to truly observe anything in the shadows, but it leaves you with the lingering feeling that something is wrong . Something that sends your hackles raising and a shiver down your spine. Nothing seems out of place, but something feels off . 

You try to shake it clean, ignoring the strange bristling that has the small hairs on the back of your neck rising, opting for the kitchen instead. Everything that has happened lately must have your brain fried and your nerves on end. Or you might just be exhausted. 

Yeah, that seems right. 

The kettle steams and pops as you pull it from the burner, filling an old mug with the water and stirring in a teabag. It smells adequate, and you're halfway through inhaling when you swear again that something moves out of the corner of your eye. You haven’t slept properly in days, and the dull light of the setting sun must be playing tricks. Shadows dancing on the walls. The awful news playing on the edge of your mind, making you paranoid. Whatever it is, it can wait.

It's nap time, and not even the God of the sea himself could stop you from it. Nor can that edging fear that grips at the fringes of your mind and won’t relinquish its grip. 

From the hallway, you can see the finishing line. The pale outline of your bed in the darkness, soft and waiting, inviting and utterly perfect. You don't bother flicking on the lights to settle in first. It's so close now, you can practically feel the pillow. The tea goes onto the nightstand, and you're not sure that you'll be awake by the time it's cool enough to drink. You fall into the feathery mattress, so ready for sleep that you swear you're already practically half way there. Your eyes close, not even bothering to worm under the covers. 

Finally . 

Your body sinks into the feather bed, limbs falling limp and relieved exhale inevitable. It’s unbelievably comfortable in a way you could swear it never has been before, and it feels like you’re wallowing in a cloud. It’s so close now, the sweet, lovely embrace of rest–

But that strange, terrible feeling stays sharp on your mind, ever insistent and refusing to quiet despite your whinging mental protests. 

Something has you on edge. Some subtle thing that doesn't feel quite right. Something uncanny and off that has you shifting restlessly. Your body is so exhausted that you can barely think straight, but something raw and primal and cold has lodged itself in your gut, refusing to let go. 

You try to ignore it. Try to shrug it off as typical weird day strangeness. You flip onto your back, trying desperately to will yourself into the sleep you'd been so desperate for. Your stomach churns, anxiety and adrenaline racing through your veins for no real discernible reason, and even as you grasp for rest, it slips through your fingers. 

The short hairs of your body stand on end, that dreadful feeling of being observed without your knowledge edging into your mind. What was once a persistent tired warps into a cold dread, your heart pounding, something urging you to run–

Your eyes open of their own volition, scanning around for something . Something abnormal, something wrong. You're greeted by nothing but blackness, but you swear, you could swear —

“You humans are so dull. No wonder you’re all half dead already.”

You did not imagine that. Your eyes dart in the direction of the noise, blood like ice and hands beginning to shake. Body paralyzed in fear, refusing to move. That voice, it sounds like—

“It's a– how you say– modern fucking marvel you haven't been killed off already.”

Sparking to life like an old motor, your body shoots up off the mattress, heart thrumming in your ears and legs quaking but ready to bolt. Your feet hit the cheap carpet, knees bent and poised to flee. How is it possible, how is it possible?

A heinous cackle resounds through the room, echoing off the thin walls of your apartment. That hideous laugh that haunted your dreams the first time you'd heard it. 

“T-Tomura?”

This has to be a nightmare. It has to. 

A frantic look around greets you with two horrible red eyes in the shadows, glowing faintly in the dark. Somewhere in the dim light, you can make out the shine of ivory teeth, beset by twin sets of fangs, bared in a snarl. Your hand slaps the nightstand, determined to prove to yourself you must be losing it. A flick of the light on your table only proves true your worst fear. 

He’s here.

Like a horrid shadow, a monster clad in black, a figure stands in the corner of your room bearing down on you. Tall and imposing, menacing as he glares you down with horrible red eyes.Whatever reason he’s here, it cannot be good. Your mind swims through memories of your last encounter: The ferocity, the viciousness, the vindictive and sincere way he’d lunged at you. He’d wanted you dead– and now he’s here to finish the job. 

A desperate rabbit cornered by a fox and left with no other options and, frankly, nothing to say to him, you bolt . 

Like a newborn fawn on stilted legs, you tear towards the door of your bedroom, almost tripping over a pair of wayward pants. You barely manage to catch yourself on the wall, scrambling to right your balance. There's heavy football behind you like the beat of a drum, approaching inhumanly fast. You claw at the door frame, desperate for the extra momentum. Another cruel laugh, this time immediately behind you.

He's on you before you can even manage a scream, large hand encircling your neck, sharp nails dimpling painfully into the soft skin. Squealing and dizzy, he rips you to your feet with a fluid and disconcerting ease, tossing you back on the mattress with a shove of his arm. 

You try to scramble backwards on the bed, efforts squandered as his frigid, clawed fingers wrap themselves around your ankle, yanking you forward once more. Fear and horror mix a caustic cocktail in your gut, kicking fruitlessly at your assailant. His soft chuckle is almost somehow more dastardly than his shrill bark of laughter, sending a riptide of terror through you as he approaches, your leg held in his unrelenting iron grip. 

“How is this possible?” The words force themselves from your throat, your hands clutching the sheets as if they could protect you somehow. “You can't— it's not possible!”

“You arrogant little idiot,” he spits, a guttural growl overtaking the ends of his sentence. “You don't know what I'm capable of. But you'll find out.”

“But you're— your tail and— But –” 

His other hand curls into the neckline of your tank top, the fabric audibly stretching between his fingers. “ Disgusting , isn't it?”

He pushes forward, your head pulling instinctively backward as he leans closer. An overly large hoodie envelops his upper body, with an ill-fitting pair of black jeans riding low on his hips. The hood is pulled over his head, pasting a smattering of frazzled silver hair to his forehead and over his face, leaving only his chapped, snarling mouth visible to you. 

“ How ?”

Another derisive laugh, mouth curling into a twisted grin. “I'm capable of all sorts of things you can't even fathom.”

The metallic, acrid scent of copper becomes palpable and assails your nostrils as he leers over you, and even in your terror, you begin to notice suspicious, dark stains spattered over the fabric of his ill-fitting clothing. Sand stubbornly layers in the creases, rubbed obstinately to the cheap cotton, and you notice strange rips and tears far too clean to be organic and ‘hip’ all over his attire. 

Still, it’s not until you see the barely visible logo for a local college, bloody and half-torn from where it had been ironed on, that it hits you. 

The clothes aren't his. They can’t be. 

He took them. From his victims.

“Jesus— it was you !”

“You'll need to be more specific,” he grins. 

“The beach! Those college kids— the massacre— you killed them!”

He rolls his slitted eyes, an obstinate sense of  pride still shining through his dismissive expression. “Don't act surprised . You thought someone else had finally had enough of your kind to do something about it? Don't be stupid.”

“God— how could you? They were innocent—”

Snorting air through his nostrils, he scoffs. “Innocent? There's no such thing for one of you ,” He pushes your back further onto the mattress, torso leaning down and head pushing closer until he's so near that you can feel his breath puff on your collar bones as he scents you. “Besides, it's your fault.” 

“I didn't kill them!” 

“But you made me do it. Didn't you?” 

“What are you talking about?” You try to shove at him, feeling his chest against yours. The burn in the back of your thigh from how he’s stretching your leg wails and whines, but it’s a dull roar compared to the cacophony of fear that blares in your brain like a siren as you hear him snap his teeth. 

“I couldn't even eat them all. I wasn't even hungry ,” he giggles maliciously, driving the point of cruelty home. “They died because of you, you know.  Because you had to be a stubborn little brat.” 

“You're a fucking monster,” you hiss, anger starting to bleed through the fear. “Don't you dare blame me.”

“If you'd have let me do what I wanted, they'd still be alive,” Softly, he huffs onto your neck, raspy voice laced with faux-sympathy. His hand releases your newly-maimed shirt to trace his thumb over the hollow of your throat, fingers eventually settling to rest on the precipice between your shoulder and neck. You can feel the tip of his claw prick at your skin, threatening to sink deeper. “So it's your own fault.”

“ Fuck you!”

“Offer still stands,” He mockingly grins, tongue lashing out against your pulse point as you recoil. “I'm sure I could figure it out in your clunky human form. The outcome will be the same either way. I wasn't hungry then, but I am now. Starved , even.” 

His fangs graze your flesh, finally removing his hand from your ankle only to anchor you down by the hip instead. His grip is steel, claws sharp as razors resting threateningly against your skin. You whimper as he chuckles, tongue lapping more insistently this time. 

“Where's all that fight now? All that brattiness you had? Not so brave now that I can touch you, are we?” His fingers tighten on the rounds of your hip, nails divoting just enough to punish and leave you twitching. “It doesn't matter now.”

Hate sparks your survival instincts, your arm slowly moving to the side and praying the movement doesn’t catch his attention, your hand desperately searching for something— anything— you can use against him. It reaches the cool wood of the nightstand, fingers fumbling about for a grip on something weighty. 

“It doesn't have to hurt,” He pants, fingers beginning to wander beneath the hem of your shirt. “I can be merciful— if you beg me.”

“Like hell ,” you spit, longing to tear those terrible eyes from his head as they scan over you.

“There's a girl,” He exhales in a ragged way that leaves your gut shooting through the floor, hand slinking to squeeze at the rounds of your waist. His tongue slips through his teeth one last time, lapping at the tender spot on the crook of your neck until you’re certain it’s gone raw. “I'll almost miss you when you're gone.”

Faster than you can register, his lips latch, fangs driving into your yielding throat without pity or remorse. Your mouth opens in a wordless cry, scream caught like a flightless bird in your chest. He wiggles above you, worming his way further onto you and clutching for leverage as he gnashes. His teeth are like knives, your blood warm and feeling horrifically uncanny as he tears into you almost teasingly with every whimper and whine, clearly testing the limits of his restraint. You can practically feel his every synapse longing to rip into you, quaking with ravenous need. A true predator, held back only by the leash of his own urges.

It will only satiate him for long. He's supping on your fear— your terror— reveling in his own victory. 

You won't let him have it. 

It's now or never. 

Your voice strains with pain and adrenaline, your shaking fingers curling around the handle of the mug of tea, still almost warm against your flesh. 

“The feeling isn't mutual!”

Driven by pure survival, it’s over in a flash. With as much momentum as you can muster, you bring the ceramic down on the top of his head. There's an audible thunk hidden somewhere underneath his animalistic howl, and your body slams into overdrive, kicking him off of you with every ounce of hidden strength you have as his fangs release their hold. Faster than you knew yourself capable of, you're off the bed, hand still cradling the sodden mug, body hunched in a defensive position, unsure of whether to fight or fly. 

He turns to face you, mouth still wet with your blood and eyes ablaze with fury. His hands brandish those dastardly claws, so eager to tear you apart. Abject terror nearly nails you to the spot, a deer in wretched, red headlights, but some hidden strength drives you to throw the heavy mug square at his head and make a break for it. He narrowly dodges it with inhuman reflex, lip curling into a vicious snarl as it smashes against the wall instead, shattering into fractured pieces that scatter across the floor of your bedroom. 

You don't stick around to hear what he says next. Feet pounding the carpet, you take off down the hallway, desperate to reach the front door. So close, if you can just get outside, you can call for help. You can almost feel the air from outside, hand reaching forward towards the handle—

“ Get back here! ” 

Fingers snag in your hair, nails grazing your scalp and ripping you backwards, a high-pitched cry erupting from you as agony sears through your spine. Your back hits the wall of the hallway hard enough to bruise, a cold hand curling around your neck once again and squeezing hard enough that it leaves you gasping.

“You little bitch .”

The back of his hand meets your cheek with uncanny strength, and now it's your turn to taste blood– your own – as one of your teeth juts into the tender, soft flesh of your inner lip. You see double for a moment before your eyes manage to focus in on his face. His expression is twisted into one of hateful rage, teeth bared and dyed a watery crimson. Another yank forward only to slam you against the wooden wall once more, your head making a hideous crack as it makes contact. Pain explodes through your skull, tears forming on your eyes against your own will. 

“You could have made this easy,” He tightens his grip on your throat until you struggle for breath, hiccuping air pathetically where you can. “But now? I'm going to take my time with you. I'm going to make it hurt .”

“Go to hell— you overgrown clownfish—”

“Talk tough while you can,” Five sharp pains where his fingers dig into your skin. “Soon you won't even be able to beg me to stop.”

You slam your bare foot into his bony shins, trying to kick him off. You swear you hear him chortle, tongue flicking out over his lips. A stray picture frame clatters to the ground at your struggling, glass shattering as it makes contact with the floor. 

“You humans are so weak. It's pathetic. ” he loosens his grip only a modicum, just enough to watch you flounder in his grasp. You grab at his wrist, raking your nails across his pale skin, tearing at his sleeve and leaving red welts in your wake. If he even notices your weak attempt to pry him off, he shows no indication. 

“Let me go!”

“I don't think so, you sniveling little brat. I gave you a chance, and you spit it back in my face.” 

“What are you even talking about! You're the one who threw a fit and attacked me again out of nowhere! I didn't even do anything to you!”

“You're just like the rest of your kind,” he growls, spitting the final word like an insult. “You understand nothing .”

“You don't even try to explain! You just— you just get all pissed off and start throwing tantrums!” 

His face contorts, and then evens out. “Do you really think mocking me is the wisest idea?”

“What does it matter? You're going to kill me either way!” 

“True,” he shrugs, lips curling upwards into a sinister smile. “You might as well just let it happen. Let this all be over.” 

You wince as he leans in again, legs kicking wildly, ankles pounding the wall of the hallway. 

“Yes, soon, it'll all be over, and things can go back to the way they should be. You'll be gone , and I can forget all about this and you —”

Something pings in your brain. As you scratch and claw at his skin, something nags at you. Something he’s said.   It doesn’t add up. Even your fear-shackled brain recognizes that something is off . He can hate you, sure, but all of this? Forgoing the sea, dragging himself through a city he loathes filled with people he wants dead? Risking life and limb and his prized freedom simply to teach you a lesson? He could have waited and watched, but he didn’t . He was willing to bet it all to see the light leave your eyes and suffocate the lingering flames of your influence on him. Behind the terror of the situation, the logic cracks apart and begins to break. 

Through some effort, you manage to drag your gaze away from his hate-filled one, eyes flickering to the pale of his bony wrist, your fingertips brushing against a bit of fabric tied around it. 

Clothing. Your clothing. The scrap he’d ripped from you in his last monstrous fit of rage. 

Something clicks. 

“S-sounds like you’re the one with the problem–” You try to force a snigger, laughing in the face of death. “You think killing me will make it all go away, huh?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” He sneers. 

“Don’t I?” You heave air into your lungs where you can beneath his steely fingertips, body panicking at the looming suffocation. 

“No, you don’t!”

 “It’s almost romantic. You made yourself human just to get little old me– ” 

“Shut up .” 

“N-nah,” You offer him a cruel smile, equal parts spite and amusement. “Got you really twisted up, doesn’t it? Never been told no?” “You’ll be quiet if you know what’s good for you–” 

“Don’t think– Don’t think I will. And I don’t t-think that’s what you want either, if you think about it.” “You will ,” He tightens his grip. 

“Did it make you that j- jealous ?” 

Another slam before you can even finish the word. Your head is spinning, pain splitting your skull in two. Your head lulls, eyelids fluttering. 

“Y-you can’t take it– being told– n-no,” Your head swivels loosely. “And that’s why you’re here. I mean, that—” You inhale raggedly, regaining your strength to glare up at him with unrelenting accusation. “—Or you’re that lonely .”

“You have an awfully big mouth for an idiot about to die!” “Admit it,” You swallow, cringing at the taste of pennies in your throat and tinging the taste buds on your tongue. It’s thick and sickening, but you power through. “You were bored . I’m the closest thing to entertainment you’ve had. The closest thing to a friend. You missed me–” 

“You’re a pathetic human whore . I came here to end you like you deserve .” “Did you?” You grin up at him, your own teeth slick with blood. “How’d you find me, Tomura? ”

He says nothing, but his lips twitch ever so slightly. There’s that murderous glint to his eyes, a fire feeding into an inferno, but you can’t help pushing. It feels like he’s accidentally revealed some sacred part of himself against his will. Some baleful, forsaken, deep place he keeps hidden even from himself. 

“And now you’re in my apartment, t-trying to kill me. Or is it your own misery you want to snuff out? You think if you kill me, it’ll all go away–” 

“I’d kill you and every other filthy human if I could,” He says, eyes flashing and voice full of conviction. 

“But you can’t ,” You cough, still trying to breathe through his steely grip. “So now you’re here.” 

“Not yet. But I can sure as hell kill you .”

It’s a gamble. A huge one. But the way you see it, the bad end will come either way. 

“And let me guess, you think if you kill me, everything will go back to the way it used to be? That the crippling loneliness will subside, and you can go back to sustaining on pure fucking hatred alone? ‘Kill your friends and you can miss them’ type of deal? That you can pretend that you never cared at all? Fool even yourself?” 

Looking back at your ‘friendship’ with him, it seems more antagonistic than anything, but for him, that’s probably the only contact he’s had in ages. There may be others of his kind, but you have an inkling that they are either gone, or he hasn’t seen them– or isn’t welcome among them. Despite his best efforts to appear otherwise, he has the quiet desperation of a man who hasn’t been heard and allowed his sadness to fester and harden into molten rage, oozing and destructive and directionless. 

“We are not friends !” 

“Fine line between care and hatred. You just seem like you can’t tell the difference anymore. You’re here trying to murder me and that doesn’t happen when you’re as apathetic as you claim to be.” 

“You’re a fool.” “And you’re lying to yourself! You think killing me will make it go away? You think that ache will stop? Stop and think for a fucking minute, Tomura! You have no plan, no prospects, and the entire island on high alert. You risked your life to be here and do this. You think that’s normal?” 

“It’s your fault!” He hisses, spitting words between his teeth. “I hate you!” “Well at least you can admit you feel something! ” 

He growls, a low rumble in his chest, but again, he says nothing. 

“Look, if I disappear, people will come looking. I have a job, family , people that will know something is wrong. They’ll find you here, and you’ll be carted off to be a glorified science experiment for the remainder of your life. You’ll never see the ocean again. Is that what you want? Is this really worth it?”

Silence. The wheels in his head are turning, and while he will never admit it, there’s the tiniest flicker of dubious doubt there. “Your only hope of ever making it home again is to let me live– unless you’re willing to die for me. For this . I could take you back, and we can just– just forget about this. But that’s your only chance. If you kill me, it’s game over. For both of us.” 

A stand-off between the both of you. His white-hot stare, eyes like malignant rubies boring into yours, steeling himself against your invasive words. There is no part of him ready to admit anything close to what you've accused, but the pressure on your body doesn't increase. Frozen, a violent moment in time suspended for what feels like eternity in amber. 

You're certain he could have waited like that for an age. A never ending nightmare he's more than happy to keep you held hostage in. 

At least, he would have. 

Something catches your attention. A noise that isn’t your wild thrashing or his whispered threats. A thumping noise, a bit too rhythmic and controlled to be from your struggle. 

Just down the hall, someone is knocking on the front door. 

It only takes him a moment to realize as well. He looks at you, and you look at him, both of you in a stasis. His hand on your neck, your nails dragging against his wrist. An endless moment with the both of you frozen in a tableau of violence.

“Darlin’, you in there?” 

Lisa . It’s Lisa. Oh, you could kiss her. 

He shoots you an accusing glare, as if you had planned this from the start. A large hand slaps over your mouth, fingers still flexing on the rounds of your throat. His body bullies you further into the wall to stay your struggling, doing everything in his power to keep you quiet. 

“Not a single word,” He hisses. “If you even try to scream, I’ll break your neck.”

It’s difficult to breathe through his large hand cupped on the latter half of your face, leave alone through the pressure on your windpipe, but you obey, nodding to his command. If nothing else, it might buy you a bit of time to think. 

“I heard some commotion from downstairs, so I thought I’d come check on you. Are you in there?”

Neither of you move a muscle, entirely frozen in place. Moments pass, but you know Lisa. She’s persistent. She won’t be leaving.

“Sweetheart?” she's pounding on the door insistently. “You’re worrying me. I know you’re in there. Is everything okay?”

“Don't fucking move,” He reminds you. “I'll kill you both .”

Lisa, nosy as she is, is a good woman. You don't want her hurt. You keep your mouth shut, even as you could scream. She keeps knocking, even as you pray for her to leave. Think, think, think–

Tomura’s entire body is tensed and coiled like a cobra, each muscle pulled taut and poised to strike. He seems caught between fight and flight; his instincts screaming that he turn tail, but his hatred demanding he stay. More humans is the last thing he wants, but he refuses to allow this to have been for nothing. He won’t get the chance again.

“Well, that does it. I'm calling the cops!” She croaks from outside the door, panic rising in her throaty voice. 

His eyes widen the tiniest bit, and for the first time, you see it. Fear. He can't take on an entire department. Guns drawn and ready and eager to brutalize. At best, it cuts his plans short and kills him. At worst? They take him alive. 

That. You can work with that.

His smothering grip on your face muffles what you try to say. His eyes flick to you, and against his better judgement, he eases it the tiniest amount. Just enough that you manage to squeak out a sentence, but ready to clamp down again if you’re foolish enough to try to yell.

“She's not going to leave, and she will call.”

“Then perhaps she needs to die –” “People will notice her missing. Two missing people in the same apartment? There’s no way in hell you’ll make it back to the ocean. You won’t make it anywhere! They’ll cordon off this entire block. We’ll be dead, but so will you. Or worse .” 

He seems to panic for a moment, eyes flitting about, and gripping tightly. He clearly didn’t plan for nosy neighbors– if he planned at all. “And how do I know you won't run anyway? You humans are stupid like that–” 

“I don't want you to hurt anyone else! If I run, you'll just kill us both, like you said! I’m not in any grand hurry to die!”

He seems to deliberate for a moment, fingers flexing and eyes narrowed as he realizes his time to decide is running short. Even as he tries to hide it, there’s the tiniest hint of panic hidden behind the wrath of his expression. 

“Look, the longer you wait, the more likely it is she’s calling the police. Then we’ll both have a lot of explaining to do that I know you aren’t keen on. I can make her go away, but you need to trust me.” 

He flinches at the word trust , mouth pulling into a snarl. 

“You don’t have a choice!” You remind him sharply. “Go ahead and answer the door yourself if you want, but her seeing a strange man in my apartment isn’t going to ease her suspicion!”

He huffs, hand pulling from your mouth to ball at his side. The other still tenses threateningly on your neck, even as he realizes he’s been bested by unforeseen circumstance. 

“ Fine ,” He releases you slowly, questioning his decision even as he does it. “But I'm listening. And if you so much as hint— ”

“I won't!” You rub at your sore throat, voice croaking. “ Now give me that robe! Inside the bathroom door.”

He seems perplexed, but does so, throwing it carelessly over and watching intently as you pull it over your shoulders and cover your freshly bruising neck and bubbling bloodwork smeared over your chest. 

“Just– Just stay here! Don’t move! And don’t let her see you!”

You unlock the padlock to the door, just noticing the damage now from where Tomura must have forced his way in earlier. Great. No way in hell you’re getting your security deposit back now. A flustered Lisa stands outside the doorway, cellphone in hand, smelling of stale and acrid cigarette smoke.

“Hey! Hey— sorry,” You offer her your best ‘ I swear nothing is wrong’ smile. “I was a bit tied up.”

“I— Jesus, girl. Are you okay? There's been one hell of a ruckus coming from up here. You're bleeding—” Her eyes settle on your temple where you’re certain a dribble of blood is matting in your hair.

“C— Closet shelf fell on me when I was changing out of my work clothes,” you smile, wiping your hair out of your face. “I knew I shouldn't have put it up myself. Came crashing right down on me. Broke all my stuff right on my head.”

“My God, that’s horrible! I knew I should have told the superintendent to do his damn job and come up and help. Do you need an ambulance? Here, I'll call—”

“No!” You almost snatch at her phone, panic rising as you can practically hear Tomura gearing up. “No! Really, I'm okay. Just a bit of ice and a few bandages and I'll be fine. It looks worse than it is.”

She gives you a skeptical look, trying to peek into your apartment in a less-than-inconspicuous manner. 

“Honest. I'm fine! Just a bit of a shock, is all. Scared the hell out of me, but I'm fine. I’ll fix it later. I’m just exhausted, is all. I want a nice bath and some sleep.”

“I—”

“If it's bad, I'll get it looked at,” You insist, unsure if you’re more desperate for her to stay or to leave. With the threat of the malevolent creature perched in your hallway, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, you decide it’s the latter. 

“I don't have insurance, Lis. The café can’t afford it. You know I can't go to a hospital. It'll put me in the poor house. I can barely afford anything as it is, leave alone medical bills.”

It's a dirty card to play, but it's honest, and more importantly, it works. She pauses, shoulders falling in defeat after a moment as shakes her head, slipping her phone back into her pocket. “Damn shame, the state of things. Ridiculous.” 

“Yeah,” you force a rough laugh, trying to appear calm and composed even through your rabbiting heart. “I'll take it easy. I'm going to lie down. It’s not that bad. It just looks that way.”

“Alright, honey. You know to call if you need anything, right?” 

“I do. Thank you, Lisa. Really.”

You mean it sincerely. Her interference probably saved your life… for now.

“Do you want me to stop by tomorrow? Help you clean up?”

“I’ll let you know. I’ll give you a call either way and let you know everything is alright.”

“You better,” She pokes at your chest with an orange acrylic. “Don’t go scarin’ me like that.”

“Sorry again. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” 

Reluctantly, she turns, offering you one last look. This won’t be the last you hear of this, but you’ll have to deal with that later. You have a bigger issue to deal with now. 

But you think you have just the idea how to.

[randomfoggytiger]

Mulder's Alien Baby Baby Trauma In-Depth (Part VII): Trickery, Terror, and Tears

Mulder and Scully have, overall, managed to navigate his return from the dead rather well.

The distance put between them is constructed from his guilt and shame, not misplaced or irrational anger. He knows, logically, the baby is his (posts here and here); and she's backed off from bringing it up for the sake of his recovery. He's sneaked into the basement and sneaked into the evidence room and sneaked in a shove (to Doggett); and she's sneaked along (disapprovingly) after him.

But there's a bit of a shift that happens here: boundaries are clarified, and Mulder and Scully follow faulty personal decisions to their dissatisfactory ends (and also share tender angst and another near-death experience. What else is new on The X-Files?)

WALKING THROUGH (FIRE)WALLS

Back in the saddle, Mulder is alive with the scent of the chase, nodding and swiveling his eyes from one talking head to another as Scully and the Lone Gunmen fill him in. He has, indeed, found something big.  

“All right, what are you boys waitin’ for, get crackin’.” 

It’s Frohike who pumps the breaks: “Unless you think we’re all idiots, it’s only Langly who’s the idiot.” 

Mulder, pulled up short, looks at the guys in confusion while Langly decries the allegations brought against his expertise. 

Frohike, meanwhile moves further down the table to look over Langly’s shoulder… but also to stand next to Scully. (During the rest of this conversation, he and she will exchange loaded glances that are very interesting.) 

Scully shifts around as she uncomfortably explains that nearly impenetrable firewalls were recently constructed, making it not only increasingly difficult but also exponentially more dangerous to hack the system.  

“And why do that?” Mulder’s rhetorical is filled with muted ire, and a thrilled, sarcastic little smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth. He’s ready to dig up more information, track down more villains, and shove them back into their chairs (ala the Doggett treatment here.) 

It's here that Frohike and Scully begin to share subtle glances: the Lone Gunmen will try to keep Mulder off the field; but the burden of talking him out of it falls solely to her. 

We, the audience, later find out that TLG and Scully had an off-screen conversation, concluding that Mulder needs to be kept off the case. However, Mulder’s findings have proven to be substantial; and Frohike’s serious, firmly resolved expression is showing his change of heart-- letting Scully know that, if Mulder pursues the truth, the guys will back him up. Scully sees this; and, frustrated, looks to the others for confirmation before sighing.

“Because I’m right,” Mulder crows, delighted to have his instincts proven once again. 

He’s back. And he is. And Scully is aware of this, is aware that TLG are aware of this, is aware that something needs to be done and by someone. She is also aware that Mulder is insisting he be that someone-- and right now, Scully is convinced Mulder's not ready for hero work. 

Scully wanted him back on the X-Files with her, like old times; but since Mulder’s apathy, his sudden desire for reinstatement, and his prickly insistence on charging ahead without listening to reason, she now believes (correctly) that this mission is tainted with dark intentions and darker outcomes for her partner. 

At Mulder’s “Because they would kill to protect what’s in those files,” everyone becomes fidgety.

“Unless you’ve got a password,” Byers stipulates, “we don't any way short of that of getting a hold of this data.” 

“And the thing is, even if you have a passcode, you’d still have to break into the FFC just to use it,” Langly adds, a nice little period to the other’s statement. 

The camera shoots from Byers’s watchful, appraising stare of Mulder to Mulder’s befuddled reaction as he tries to process why the guys wouldn’t consider breaking into the FCC as a matter of course. 

Then Langly-- true to Frohike’s claims of idiocy-- reveals the hidden agenda: “We all agree. You’re going to have to let this one go.” 

Mulder takes a moment to respond, scratching at his face as confusion morphs into anger. He feels placated rather than respected: that Scully has overstepped in her zeal to protect him.

“Oh. I see.” 

Mulder turns the full weight of his rebuke at Scully-- a first in the entire episode. Before, any flare of irritation had been extinguished by her support, reason, and even humor; but now… now he’s caught her plotting behind his back with the expectation that it’d go right over his head. It’s such poorly executed manipulation that it irritates more than angers or upsets; but if not for his instinctive understanding of Scully, Mulder might have felt truly hurt or betrayed. Instead, he feels coddled and head-ruffled; and responds in kind. 

“Somebody’s been doing a little campaigning for her cause,” he smirks. It’s a warning more than a flat-out accusation-- this is a line you do not cross-- that directly addresses Scully’s actions and indirectly references her underlying motivation (i.e. Mulder being around for the baby.)

Scully is taken aback by how quickly she was caught out, opening her mouth and looking over at TLG (possibly to fumble together an excuse.) 

Mulder ends the conversation with, “Well, just remember boys this is America-- just because you get more votes doesn’t mean you win” before turning from TLG to Scully, letting his meaning sink in with a pointed staredown.  

Now the question is: did his remark wound Scully? No-- nor did he intend it to-- because she is exasperated (even a touch amused) instead of hurt or ashamed. The distinction is crucial; and lays groundwork for the next scene.

NOT EVERYTHING IS CHANGED

After the Lone Gunmen leave, Scully is caught outside her apartment by Doggett, who eagerly fills her in on the (very conveniently handed over and named) password. Conflicted, torn, and fearful over having the responsibility to tell her partner herself and potentially lose him (or not tell him and potentially lose him anyway), she trudges back inside with tears nearly spilling from her eyes. 

Freezing just inside the doorway, she turns her head side-to but stays still and silent. For all intents and purposes, Scully stares at Mulder like she’s seen a ghost (or will again, if we factor in her partner’s spectral form in This Is Not Happening.) 

The music softens as we pivot to Mulder, who is hunched over his computer, guard down, silent himself: likely staring with dwindling hope after his and the Lone Gunmen’s fruitless attempts. It’s an all-too-rare look into Mulder’s state: fragility that he covers up with distance or constant movement-- the look of a man who'd rather sit in his apartment than seek reinstatement.

In this frame of mind, he looks up, taking a half-second to focus fully in the present. 

“Scully, what are you doing here?” he asks, expression guarded but voice soft and intrigued. 

It’s another incredibly rare glimpse into Mulder and Scully’s Three Words off-screen dynamic: his question zeros in on her, not the case; and, while more open and interested than we have seen him, Mulder still bolts upright and scoots back into a less vulnerable position. Work is stabilizing him-- which explains why Scully lobbied for Mulder to come back to the FBI as soon as she did-- and his interest in Scully’s comings-and-goings are an extension of his gratitude and buried tenderness.  

When Scully turns fully, Mulder jumps to his feet, on-edge with worry: “Did something just happen?” he demands, walking swiftly over with dangerous intent for whoever bothered or hurt her. 

“I’m… um…,” she begins. 

Mulder reacts to her vulnerability: he tents his eyebrows, loosens his jaw slightly, and bites his lip briefly. 

After Scully evens out her shaky voice, she replies, “I’m not exactly sure I should tell you, Mulder.” 

On the heels of her secret meddling earlier that day, It’s the worst thing Scully could have said.

He blinks, gathers his thoughts, and says, “Scully, if you know something that can get us moving forward again, then you need to tell me” with increasing frustration. Mulder has never taken kindly to being kept in the dark, especially concerning important mytharc information-- in fact, most of their professional (and personal) fights bloomed from either his stubbornness or her purposed silence. Now that it’s of life-or-death importance to him to end these abductions, Scully quibbling over sharing important information with him is stretching the last of his patience thin. Still, he doesn’t handle her roughly: insistent, but not angry; sharp, but not caustic; demanding the truth but not prying it out of her. 

Scully is even more shaken, knowing she can’t keep this from him but wishing, deep-down, she could. The last six months have stripped her of her past denial: she is no longer able to fool herself with half-truths or half-hearted ignorance-- and she was never good at lying to Mulder, regardless.  

So, she tells him the truth. Unfortunately for them both, it's actually a lie. 

MULDER'S SOUL LAID BARE, PART ONE

By the time Doggett shows up to save the day, Mulder's already hacked into the system and is working fast and furious towards (what he believes to be) the truth. He ignores the other man's ferocious banging and warnings, turning once towards the door to take in the view before turning back to the task at hand; and brushes off Frohike's concerned question with a flippant, "Just a fly buzzing around the window."  

Doggett shoots the glass out and Mulder startles, staring blankly in his direction while the Lone Gunmen react in pain on the other end of the line. It's an interesting symptom of Mulder’s months of torment: an underreaction to milder forms of pain or fright (the opposite of his typical response.) When no other shots are fired, he, again, turns to the computer while Doggett, closer now, implores him to get to safety. 

Mulder's response perfectly exemplifies the turmoil, pain, resentment, bitterness, and fear he is fighting with: nearly in tears-- and without meaning to-- he lays his soul bare: “I think you’re trying to keep this information from ever seeing the light of day just like you did with this before, Agent Doggett. That’s what I think. …[A lot of other people] Are going to learn they’ve been targeted because of their genetic profiles for abduction....”

He pauses, tightening his mouth for a split second before continuing in an increasingly distanced voice-- “and replacement by alien facsimiles.”

He swallows another wave of emotion while flippantly asking, “What’d you say we start with the Washington Post?”  

It’s painfully obvious that this mission is about righting the wrongs done to him, more so than exposing the truth. And that’s not a bad thing-- it’s a reckless thing, with so many variables that can (and will) go wrong because of the willful abandon with which he’s acting out. 

The only other time Season 8 tackles Mulder's fears to this transparent depth are in his opening monologue in Essence-- too few moments for such a potentially rich, complex storyline.

“You can believe whatever you want, but that information’s never going to make it outta here,” Doggett warns.  

“What are you gonna do, shoot me?” Mulder sarcastically snipes, daring him to do so. He isn’t surprised when the other man doesn’t, figuring Doggett’s intentions aren’t lethal because there isn't a bullet already lodged in his head.

The cavalry shows up; and Scully calls in, telling the Lone Gunmen to get Mulder out of the building. 

Mulder immediately blames Doggett-- who had brought Scully the password-- but continues his reckless truth seeking, accepting that his life may very well end in a matter of minutes. When Doggett tries to pull Mulder off the computer, he fights back, then sinks down to continue typing. (This dynamic between them builds on itself in Vienen, when Mulder doesn't want to die.)

It’s pretty clear Mulder is willing to perish for this truth; and Doggett, realizing the gravity of the situation, gets eye-level in a last attempt to get through to him. 

“If I set you up, I wouldn’t be here trying to convince you to go. They’re coming to kill you-- they’re gonna kill me, too. That’s the setup.” 

Mulder drops his deaf pretense after Langly’s voice pipes through, confirming that it’s useless to pursue this data; and he looks up at his hated rival with clearer, eyes, only shifting them away when yelling over Byers’s fumbles for an escape route. 

The last we see of him is their quiet escape through the ceiling. 

CONCLUSION

Mulder and Scully drive away (together or separately) have a conversation, maybe some space, and iron out a few things between them. ...We'll never know what those things were exactly; but we'll be making a deduction or two as we go. That conversation had to, at least in part, address his PTSD symptoms and recovery; though, again, to what extent we'll never know.

Personally, I believe Mulder and Scully laid out a plan post Three Words; and part of that plan involved him putting the pieces of his life back together in paperwork and therapy. (Perhaps that's why Scully thanked him for joining her in Lamaze-- because he rescheduled a therapy appointment for her.) Who knows?

Inferences can (and will) be made about the missing scenes between this episode and Empedocles; but those will be explored in the next post. Until then...

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[seirindono]

Update

Hi everyone!

It's been a while, hasn't it?

For some of you, this may be the first time you've actually seen me on your feed since I'm on my annual hiatus so... Hi! I'm Seirin, your friendly skeleton lover and author of The Missing Scarf, that one Undertale comic (o´▽`o)

If you were not aware, this blog is usually only active in the summer and/or during the holidays as I'm a student, but I figured I should still write a little smth as I really haven't given any news for a long while now.

So, um, this blog is still very much alive, and so is TMS!   DEMON AU TOO

Truth is, I didn't anticipate back in September the sheer amount of work I'd have to pull off this year as well as the crazy schedule, house mouves, and many, many group assignements... I've always managed but this year is just rough, both physically and mentally (that was new). I had a serious slump around new year and didn't even have the motivation to draw or open social medias for a while. 

But you know me, always ranting that health comes first and that I’ve seen enough burned out artists to know not to go beyond my limits. (*￣▽￣)b  So knowing that I had this 30 pages+ lore doc, unfinished sketches and pile of unanswered asks just waiting for me whenever I wanted to work on TMS, I knew I wasn’t up for the task and had to put it off for later. And later. Again and again. 

That's about it for the venting section.

As of today, I'm still short of time but I've got some of my energy back, enough to write this anyway. But also *drum roll* to work on the next part of TMS! 

And this is where the real announcement comes in: while I'm still on hiatus, I'm planning to adjust the publication schedule a bit for this part. Until now, I'd post a chapter (1 page per day) only after I finished drawing it in its entirety. For this part however, I've decided to try a monthly (or bi-monthly) publication, to give me some leeway, and for you to have actual updates.

We'll see if I can keep up with this pace, but it seems much more satisfying for everyone  ( ´ ▿ ` )

So there you go. Sorry again to those who kept sending me Asks and dms I never got to answer. I just kinda turn into a hermit when overwhelmed or don’t notice them at all (I feel extra bad when I eventually do but every drop of energy needs to be salvaged for irl emergency), but I really appreciate the thought! And, yeah, I haven't disappeared into thin air. I’m just... Lurking here and there.  

Thanks for your patience and I'll see you soon!

Updates will be on the 1st of each month (and occasionally on the 15th)

[seoul-bros]

My hope is that you experience a moment of joy and happiness at least once a day - GQ Interview Part VII

Post Date: 18/10/2023

[dangerous-drabbles]

some snippets from the upcoming part vii (may be subject to change):

(Image description below cut.)

(uhhhh link to fic ig?)

[Image ID: Two images, both displaying screenshots of unpublished text. The first reads, “It was a desolate, empty place, more so in the stark light of a new morning. Here, distance was relative. The only direction that seemed to matter was away, a mass desertion from a single focal point: the city. Any other sense of goal or purpose would be at odds with the land itself.” The first screenshot ends here.

The second screenshot reads, “He recalled those he had seen before, snapshots of shape and form moving off in the distance, and compared them to the person before him. They had been little more than a mirage, it was true, but there was a marked difference in the cadence of their motion. If they had shambled, then the phantom before him flew.” Then, the second screenshot ends. /.End ID]

[bublinko]

Cruel Youth / Teddy Sinclair, Prequell - Part VII. comic painting Size: 21cm x 15.7cm #TeddySinclair #CruelYouth #NataliaKills #trouble #prequell

[rye-views]

Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood (1988) dir. John Carl Buechler. 7.2/10

I wouldn't recommend this movie to my friends. I wouldn't rewatch this movie.

Why are we bringing telekinesis and precognition into this now? Jason really meeting all types of people.

Damn, to be killed in your own sleeping bag.

Melissa's a bitch. This is a trash doctor. Literally, everyone's death but Jason's is so fast.

Sandra, you really did not do your best to swim away.

I feel for Maddy's death.

[swingstep]

this sad wet cat has bewitched me mind and soul

[junkfoodcinemas]

Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood (1988) dir. John Carl Buechler

[emeraldblonde]

Final Fantasy VII Rebirth » The Saga of Seaside Inn

[thirstywaffles]

Um guess who finally played ff7

[angel-sephiroth]

Sephiroth in Final Fantasy VII: Rebirth, Chapter 1: Fall of a Hero

[randomfoggytiger]

How the Ghosts Stole Christmas In-Depth (Part VII): Mulder Will Never Let Go

The last part is here at last-- here we go!

We pick up with either Maurice or Lyda popping on a background vinyl as the ghosts prepare for the FBI agents' lethal gun down (my bets are on Lyda.)  

Scully wakes with another flash of lightning and crack of thunder, turning her head and slowly coming to life. Immediately, she gets up and starts crawling back to her escape: she’s a fighter, she won’t give up, she won’t let this thing beat her. 

Mulder, meanwhile, crumples his way downstairs… which means he somehow crawled up that ladder, mounted the second story, and wobbled his way through the door, down the hall, and to the stairs with a gunshot wound (perhaps that should have been the giveaway.)

Also: I noticed brown patches on the front of his pant-thigh… did he have those before? They disappear after this scene... so, are they blood stains or padding for David Duchovny? 

Fatigue and desperation warring for supremacy, Mulder drags himself face-first down the rest of the steps; and, after scraping himself along to the main foyer, finds Scully’s snail trail of blood nearly beating him to the exit. 

The song the ghosts chose just happen to be singing “From now on our troubles will be miles away--” as the two agents' paths collide with their weapons handily close by. 

Even with all this bad blood between them, Mulder still calls out a hesitant “Scully?” when he sees her collapsed body. This effort is too much for him, and as he collapses as well.  

Snail Scully is on the move, not responding as adrenaline gives her a little boost to get going again… especially since Mulder-- the (as she currently sees him), raving lunatic-- is inch-worming his way closer. 

“Scully,” he calls out again in agony.

She knows she’s not going to make it out of the house; but that doesn’t mean she won’t go down without fighting for her dignity, even against Mulder (perhaps even for Mulder.) Scully may not live, but her death will be on her terms; and she’s not going to let Mulder make that choice for her, half out of his mind or not. 

Abdominal crunches are no joke, and a shot to the gut on top of it makes everything worse… but none of that matters to a Scully in survival mode. 

As Scully pulls up her gun, Mulder raises his own gun-- not surprised so much as stressed and frustrated with the seemingly insane choices his partner keeps making. 

“Pfff… I’m not gonna make it,” Scully admits, eyes fluttering in defeat. 

“Nno, you’re not,” Mulder snaps, repressed anger surging to the surface; and he refocuses with deadly intent, “Not without me you’re not.” 

And here we see the touch of madness to old Spooky: drawn to the romanticism of a Lover’s Pact, he was betrayed by the only person he trusted; and his corpse was about to be left for dead. Maurice so effectively got into his head and twisted his darkest fears-- Scully leaving him-- that he cannot see past his own pain and fear to notice that he’s acting out what his partner is afraid of: dragging her down into the depths of madness with him.  He WILL be avenged: Scully’s shot (unlike Anasazi) was an act of selfishness which robbed him of a chance to find closure for his sister, the ultimate treachery. The one person he relied on to be selflessly steadfast and loyal (which the ghosts spun into purely consuming and self-absorbed motives) was, again, the one who gutted him, like all the others before her. 

But does that stop Mulder from wanting Scully for all haunted eternity? No: just as Mulder fell for Phoebe’s tricks and settled for Diana, so too will he cling to Scully until there is nothing corporeal left. And Scully, ordinarily, feels wanted and needed and “whole” being consumed; until she looks about, finds half her life gone and nothing to show for it except an ouroboros. Mulder is satisfied with second (in this case, hundredth) best, clinging unhealthily to what he believes makes him happy, or at least secure… or at least is close enough to happiness that he can endure it and try to be content. 

Scully lets out a gasp of pain (and fear); and decides to get to the heart of the issue. It takes guts (heh), but there’s no denial left to hide behind. “Are you afraid, Mulder?” 

Maurice has told her he is; Lyda has told her he is; and Mulder has been told he is (and he is, to an extent.) But Scully asks him if he is: she must have proof, yes, but she also will always ask and listen to Mulder when no one else will.

He says nothing, only grips the gun with both hands and inches even closer. 

With another gasp of pain, Scully falls back and, metaphorically, breaks the first part of the curse with her courageous and trusting admission: “I am.” 

Mulder turns away, his hands loosening their grip as her confession seeps in, hurting and healing at the same time. “I am, too,” he says in a soft, vulnerable murmur. 

Scully takes another first step, clunking her gun down (with safety in mind) and fully giving in to the pain of death. Mulder turns on his back, too, mirroring his partner’s actions.  

His anger has not abated, however, redirecting itself into chastisement-- bickering over the truth to the last. “You should have thought of this.” 

“You should have,” Scully bites. She is not taking the blame for this sordid misadventure when she did nothing wrong and advised him against it.  

“YOU SHOT ME,” Mulder yells, enraged that the truth is being denied even on Death’s doorstep. 

“I didn’t shoot you, you shot me,” Scully counters, her voice even, unwilling to be taunted into a screaming match during her final moments… but not willing to have Mulder’s ridiculous assumptions be the last word on the matter.

This is a full-blown domestic fight, courtesy of Chris Carter. 

Mulder’s brilliant mind makes all the connections in literally four seconds, staring at himself, then Scully; then back at himself to test his theory. Poking at bloody, gooey crime scenes has always been a pastime of his, anyway. 

“Scully,” he perks up, way too much zest in his voice for a man who took a slug to the stomach. After Scully’s “What?”, he upgrades from inchworm to upright seal, plopping his gut to the floor with careless abandon; then rises to his knees, a jubilant smile on his face as he slaps the illusion blood on his chest. 

Ahh, Lyda, you almost got ‘im.   

“Get up,” Mulder commands, slip-sliding his way to his feet. 

Scully immediately protests. “I can’t,” she stresses, emphasizing the last word as a pointed reminder. 

Looming over her triumphantly, Mulder visually demonstrates: “We’re not shot." 

Scully, covered and rolling around in her own leaking blood, asks, “...WHAT?” 

Ecstatic (and a little bit crazy with relief), Mulder gently reaches for her. “C’mon,” he cajoles, helping his partner off the floor.  

Her mind starting to implode with all the hoops it's jumped through in the last hour, Scully passively lets Mulder hoist her dying body up and slap his bloody mitts to her wound, proving to her rational mind that this, at least, is real enough.  

And now for a tenderly romantic scene from Mulder’s perspective and an absolutely mind-melding one from Scully’s: 

Mulder has a dark thought-- this happy ending might have a twist to it-- and leaps for the door, pulling a barely-processing Scully firmly along with him. 

By the time they bolt outside, she’s gained her independent stride, both awed and spooked with her partner over their fresh, clean clothes. He, wisely, continues their winning streak and runs with her across the lawn, booking it to his car without looking back (but waiting until Scully’s car is turned on before hightailing it away from the mansion.) 

Midnight strikes-- another failure for the year. 

“Two such lonely souls…” Lyda ruminates, contemplative and moody. 

“Can’t let our failures haunt us,” Maurice says amicably, self-awareness at an absolute zero.  

Lyda admits to the game: “Do you wonder what they were really out here looking for?”

“Hard to say. People now… this is just another joyless day of the year.”

“Not for us,” Lyda reflects, the bitterness of her talk with Mulder melting away. She’d rather be dead and old with Maurice than playing eternal mind games with handsome, haunted young men. 

“We haven’t forgotten the meaning of Christmas,” he agrees. 

It’s Lyda who reaches out first, Maurice clasping her hand tenderly with his own; and the two vanish, awash in the glow of love and Christmas joy. 

It’s their own twisted way to bring love together, seeing eternal restless and devious acts as a conspiracy all their own; one that Mulder and Scully had to beat together.  

Back in Mulder’s lonely apartment, he’s interrupted from his dreary, morose mental contemplations (where he sits in front of while not watching an old black-and-white Scrooge laugh over not deserving so much happiness) by an unexpected knock on his door. It’s so unexpected that Mulder’s sudden happiness is doused with suspicion. He peeks from his living room warily, mulls over his next move, and decides to investigate. 

Doubling back, Mulder clicks off the tv, taps his living room doorway posts (for good luck-- knock on wood? nervous energy both?) before launching into the unknown. 

It’s Scully-- and she looks both annoyed and amused with herself over her inevitable pitstop. 

“I, uh…” she casts about for an excuse, pivoting her eyes away from Mulder while scrambling. Finally she gives up, surrendering to the clumsy truth (hunching her shoulders up, squinting at her smooth ineptitude, knowing her upcoming question will be awkward for them both.) She heaves a big, dramatic sigh-- “Can I come in?” 

“Yeah--” Mulder says too quickly, guiding Scully in by her shoulder, a soothing gesture for the both of them (in fact, for him it passes from soothing straight to thinly concealed joy.) 

Still. Mulder has to know, ever dedicated to finding the answers: “Aren’t you supposed to be opening Christmas presents with your family?” 

And here’s the set up to unwrapping presents between the two of them as an acknowledged family. Mulder and Scully have yet to claim or label the family tag-- Mulder because he doesn’t know what he can claim of Scully or even what he can offer, and Scully because she doesn’t know how much Mulder will let himself claim and she’s not going to be rejected ala The Beginning again-- but their confessions and unspoken affirmations by the end of the scene seal the deal in a way only the two of them can do. It's a little extra gift of their own. 

“Mulder,” Scully begins, swinging away from his dark and undecorated living room (another sacrifice to his Spartan living for his quest-- better to chase aliens or look into haunted mansions than to wade the holiday lines at the nearest department store. Besides, who would stare at the tree with him? His fish?) “None of that really happened out there tonight. …That was all in our heads, right?” 

Mulder can work with denial, especially because he was gutted (metaphorically, but also) all night; and he’d rather not get into his new, sinking opinion of his actions. 

“Y…must have been.” 

“Hm.” Scully mulls over her next thought, not too satisfied with her own experience but feeling she owes Mulder at least a half-baked apology… though for what, she isn’t brave enough to say (yet.) She may be filing the ghosts under hallucinations or paranoia, but Scully is going to dismiss what she thinks are repressed and untrue thoughts of her partner. She pokes a little at herself-- “Not that, uh… my only joy in life is proving you wrong”-- and hopes that Mulder will reassure her that those thoughts never entered his head. 

Her teasing brings out Mulder’s natural banter-- “When... have you proven me wrong?”-- but it, too, butts up against Maurice and Lyda's poisonous words. Mulder can be stubborn about his opinions, willing to chase them and ditch Scully if need be; and it leads to her hurt at his dismissals and his anger at her scoffing (ex. The Beginning and Field Trip) That selfish tendency to forget all for the chase ultimately tightens the noose of stagnation around Scully's throat: when he does so, it leaves her foolishly floundering for answers, feeling like she contributes nothing and only slows down Mulder's work.

But tonight is not about the noose for Scully: tonight is about stamping out Mulder's joy just to get a cheap thrill of self-importance: “Well… why else would you want me out there with you?”  

Fascinating: it’s early S6-- after The End shattered her confidence and FTF restored it, after The Beginning struck away her importance to the work and Drive reestablished it, after water boy tossed an “I love you” in Triangle but dropped the “normal life” cue in Dreamland I-- so this episode isn’t about Scully’s stagnation like Never Again-Milagro-All Things are: it’s about realizing her lonely, lovely man knows that, yes, she’s sticking around… but can only guess at how long. 

Mulder is touched by her Starbuck-ism: wanting to always be there, his helping hand, lovingly spieling away about the connections between lonely people and footsteps in the attic while waving her gun ready to cap anyone that threatens him. 

But her lukewarm, unsteady answer only sloshes at the wound’s vicinity rather than cleaning it: “You don’t want to be there?”  

Scully sees two options before her: 1. wiggle her way out of a confession or 2. admit. While she is ruminating, torn on her next action, Mulder misinterprets her silence. 

“Oh, that’s…um,” he pauses, closing his eyes to search for Maurice’s exact wording. “...self righteous and…  narcissistic of me to say, isn’t it?” Mulder adds in a low and burdened voice as he grimaces and swivels his head in self-reproach. 

The manipulation of his higher impulses cuts deep, casting his need for Scully in the same box as his thoughtless, single-minded actions. They are not equivocal; but the camaraderie he was enjoying melts away as he sinks back into that self-lashing low his partner had interrupted. 

“No, I mean…” Scully trails off, diagnosing the problem she and Mulder are suffering and, like a good doctor, deciding to disinfect it as quickly and efficiently as possible. She’s not used to being the candid open-book in this partnership; but some of the blame does fall on her shoulders; and she won’t let Mulder take his undue share (while she shoulders perhaps more blame than she deserves, too.) “Maybe I did want to be out there with you.” 

She turns her earnest little face up, giving Mulder a complete and unprotected look into her soul.

Mulder here completes the role-reversal: he keeps his guard up-- a defensive half-smirk cloaking his reserve-- as he tensely probes Scully’s expression. When she doesn’t waver, he softens, loosening his tense posture and smiling more deeply, touched and honored. 

Scully’s had enough ungainly revelations for one night, scrunching her face in discomfort and briefly opening her mouth to answer her partner’s “You know…” while Mulder takes the opportunity to nip over and grab a surprise Christmas present. 

“I know we said we weren’t going to...“ Mulder begins sheepishly, swiping it off the tv and shyly avoiding his partner’s eyes, “exchange gifts…but, uh…” 

Scully melts, posture slumping and face shifting to touched and inept in the face of his tender-hearted little gift. 

“It’s, uh, a little somethin’,” he beams, a little less embarrassed at her reaction. 

“Mulder…” she croaks, turning up his gigawatt smile even more. 

“Merry Christmas.” 

Scully has a little surprise of her own, too-- and boy, does she love surprises-- but not before rolling her eyes, again, at her own antics. She’s hopeless. 

“I gotta a little somethin’, too,” she adds, digging his present from her coat; and Mulder’s contentment at her happiness transforms into conspiratorial delight, chuckling deeply in anticipation and of course we both did, Scully.  

Shaking the present like a teasing little boy, Mulder entices Scully to the couch-- who takes after him with the same gleeful, naughty delight she had when unwrapping presents with Melissa-- where we get a glimpse of his only decorations: a stocking hanging by the fish and what appears to be a reindeer paperweight to hold it down. Ever a hopeful man, is Mulder. 

The camera pans out as Mulder continues to rattle his gift until Scully smiles; and the two of them begin their celebration by tearing into their gifts together-- as it should be. 

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

[stump-not-found]

The family gets separated by some stupid metaphors, the kids have some normal and healthy conversations, and both Pines brothers handle the situation very, very well.

Everything's going just peachy, so long as you ignore all the problems.

[classichorrorblog]

Friday The 13th Part VII: The New Blood (1988)

[societyclub]

FRIDAY THE 13TH PART VII: THE NEW BLOOD john carl buechler, 1988