#problem is the lake is difficult to drain and it's more difficult to reach the bottom and the mud dries as hard as concrete

[unknown-limes]

"When you reach the bottom, we will cut the ropes. May God have mercy on your soul."

That was to be the last thing she heard. She did not respond. Instead, she watched the darkness below her come closer every time the workers above loosened the ropes, inch by inch. The bottom was still too far to see. Perhaps when she gets down there, there would be enough corpses and bones that she could survive for a few more days. After that... well, maybe if she can last a few days, she'll be able to figure a way to climb back up once all the looker-ons have gone home to their little beds.

They will die in those beds should all go well for her. Not that she dealt in vengeance. It was simply foretold that every soul in that village would die save for herself, and who was she to disobey God's will? She imagined how their screams would sound and smiled.

She felt the bottom of the well just as soon as she was enveloped by the total darkness. The ropes loosened and fell down around her, revealing a sear wherever they'd been hugging her body. She rubbed her poor wrists and looked up. The opening was like a bright moon against the hollow void of night. Altogether, not too far up, it seemed. She felt around her to try to locate the rope (maybe it could aid her escape).

Yet, grasp as she might, she couldn't feel a bit of it. Frowning, she looked into the darkness, willing herself to see where the lengths had disappeared to. The void didn't begin to reveal shapes as her eyes adjusted though. It just remained pitch black.

She felt with her hands until she found the wall, then leaned back against it. For now, she would let the ropes be. They weren't useful for any escape attempt so long as the damned people of this village were still above. Going about their lives, trading fish for bread and letting their nasty little children run around trying to catch hoops with sticks. They would all burn. If not for the great noise they make, for giving her a vegetable soup as her last meal. It was meant to be a final blessing before her condemnation was carried out, but at least they could've added a little bit of meat for her. She wasn't a vegetarian like the man who'd been lowered down the week before.

Speaking of him, she wondered where he'd gone to. She hadn't felt him under her heels when she'd touched the bottom of this well, though the ground was quite squishy. It seemed to be a very small well, too, so he probably wasn't hiding on the opposite side. She tried pushing herself off the wall to start groping around for him. Yet, it felt like something was holding her in place. Tug as she might, the back of her dress was stuck like the world's strongest glue had been painted onto the wall. She put her hands against the wall and pushed as hard as she could. Yet, she was not released.

She tried lifting her feet instead. But, they'd been entirely encased. In fact, the mud below her had swallowed up half her shin. Her hands were stuck up where she'd put them against the wall, too. No matter how much she wiggled or fought, not a bit of her could be pulled back out. In fact, she could no longer pull her back off the wall. And her fingers were engulfed just as she felt the mud squish up to her knees.

A panic blossomed in her chest as she kept fighting against it, trying desperately to free her legs, her back, a pinkie. She could no longer even wiggle her toes. She realized in horror that her head wasn't even able to turn. She looked upwards to the opening. A rounded shadow was peering over one side. She opened her mouth to scream for help, and the mud flooded in to muffle her.

Yet, as she chokde against it, she realized it didn't feel like she had any less air in her lungs. The mud filled her body through her mouth, and she could breath despite it. Any hunger she might've felt was gone.

There were legends about this well. She'd heard them all a thousands times growing up in this village. Nobody knew who'd dug it, but the water that was drawn up was the sweetest anyone had ever tasted. It was rumored that a sick woman could be made well by drinking it, too. But, this time of year was the dry season. If a bucket was lowered in during this time of year, it was impossible to draw it back up. It'd be weeks yet until the water came back.

She closed her eyes as the mud engulfed her and prayed for death to come. It was the first time she learned that not all prayers were meant to be answered.

As the ropes grew tighter, she wondered just how many intact skeletons laid at the bottom of the pit promised to be her punishment.

[crystalninjaphoenix]

MerMay 2023 Day Four Graduation

Marvin poked his head out of the water, glancing around at the surface of the lake. It was a clear, sunny day, and the water was a perfect shade of deep blue. Humans loved weather like this. But there were none out on the lake today. At least, not anymore.

He ducked back under and dived down, down, down, to the deepest part of the lake where he and Jameson made their home. Jameson was just outside the open building where they lived, lying on the ground with his tail curled up. He saw Marvin coming and immediately locked eyes with him. Is it clear? he asked.

“It’s all clear,” Marvin promised. “Nobody is out there. Just fish swimming around.

Jameson nodded. Good. Good. He looked down at the ground. In front of him were several pieces of smooth sea glass, as well as a chisel, a brush, a jar of ink thick enough to not float into the water, and some rocks of various sizes. Everything was laid out neatly.

“Are you ready to start?” Marvin asked.

Again, Jameson nodded.

“You don’t seem ready.”

I’m still thinking about boats, Jameson said.

Marvin sighed. “Okay. I’ll go check again.” He started to swim upwards again. “But there was absolutely nothing in sight.”

No no no, you don’t need to! Jameson reached up and grabbed the edge of Marvin’s cape. I’m not worried about that anymore. It’s just... He paused. I’m a bit of a fool, aren’t I? I was doing so well getting used to them again, but I’ve been more nervous than ever in the past few weeks.

Marvin sank back to the ground. “It’s not your fault. I think the thing with TridentCorp has really set us all on edge.” Though there hadn’t been any TridentCorp boats in their lake, Chase, Jackie, and Jack had reported several sightings of humans in places they shouldn’t be. A few of which had indeed bore the TridentCorp logo somewhere on their boats or clothing.

Jameson sighed, gills fluttering. His tail uncurled and flicked through the water. I just have to get over it.

“I doubt you can ‘get over it’ just like that. Through sheer force of will. If people could control their feelings like that, feelings would never cause any problems, and we all know that’s not true.”

I suppose you’re right. Jameson smiled at him. That does make me feel a bit better.

“That’s what I do,” Marvin said proudly.

Jameson turned his attention to the tools and material on the ground. He picked up the brush and jar of ink, opening it up. The ink was more like a gel than a liquid, but it still stuck to the brush easily enough. Marvin watched silently as Jameson began painting a line of symbols on one of the rocks. Once he was done, the symbols glowed blue, and the rock began to shake. Dust rose from it, causing the two merms to swim away or risk breathing in the cloud. Once it cleared, the rock was smaller, smoother. Now shaped more like a cylinder.

“What had you decided on for your talisman?” Marvin asked. “Clearly it wasn’t a mask.”

No, I thought that would be too difficult. Jameson swam forward again, inspecting the new rock cylinder. I was thinking some sort of... compact. You know, like humans have with the mirrors inside. Only, there will be sea glass inside.

Marvin raised an eyebrow. “And making something with a hinge was easier than making a mask?”

Well, I also don’t want to wear it. Not directly, at least.. I was thinking we could find some sort of chain and thread it through a loop. It would be less heavy that way.

“I feel like you’re insulting my mask,” Marvin said slowly.

Jameson grinned at him. I never said anything. It was all you. He picked up the brush and began painting again.

“You know, you don’t have to finish it in one day,” Marvin said. “You’ll drain all your magical energy.”

I want it to be done before the life friend ceremony, Jameson explained, putting down the brush again to speak with his hands. We can both wear our talismans. It’ll be... significant.

“I can see that.” Marvin nodded. “Just don’t push yourself.”

Stay here and make sure I don’t, Jameson said, half-jokingly.

“Alright, you ass, I will.” Marvin settled down onto the lake floor.

Jameson chuckled silently, then picked up the brush again and began to work. The thought of boats didn’t cross his mind again.

[shiversdownyerspine]

10. Douse

Still alive and kickin, I can’t be stopped!

18+

Expected to be set back on your feet as Axel reaches your screen door, you feel your face flush when you realize he fully intends to carry you out like this in front of his brothers.

At the sound of the handle turning with a creak, you promptly start flailing.

"Axel I can walk, you know I can walk! Let me down!"

Your cries falls on deaf ears. The relentless man releases the door handle to adjust his grip; the hand on your thigh slides higher, taking your dress with it, while his other grabs the back of your knee. Thrashing reduced to a much more controllable wiggling, he kicks the door open and steps into the sunlight.

Squirming and praying your rear is still covered, you try a different angle, "I will answer any questions you have about my Phase, I promise!"

That brings him to a stop. You brace your hands as close to his shoulders as you can and push off, shoving yourself backwards to his front.

With a gasp you slide down his chest as his hand cups your side to steady your quick descent. Your bare feet lightly pat atop the stone of the patio. The oh so cold wet stone.

Jolting at the chill, you look around the watery murder scene before turning your attention to the two culprits standing face to face like they're in some sort of showdown; Otto and Oscar, to their credit, have pristine feet. But at the cost of becoming drowned rats. 

You hold back laughter, but allow a wide smile. Their hair is an utter mess.

Otto and Oscar are ripped from their stalemate at the sound of your voice, "I'm sorry to say, but you're going to have to put your water war on pause. We should get this started before the weather takes a turn." 

Your next sentence you mutter just loud enough, "That and before a certain somebody gets impatient. And tries to carry people again."

The hand still at your side gives a soft warning squeeze that has you quickly scurrying over in the direction of your patio furniture before he can grab you up. You're not going to take any chances, you'd like to keep your feet on the ground thank you very much.

The younger brothers glance up at the sky to see rain clouds on the horizon. They wander closer to the cottage as you check and make sure the flower bushes close to ground zero haven't been completely flooded. Otto rewraps the hose as Oscar tries to squeeze out as much water as he can from his sweater. After securing the coils back on the hook, Otto slumps down in one of your wooden chairs. Sliding the messy locks of his hair out of his face, he gives Oscar the stink eye as his brother flops even more gracelessly down in the matching chair next to him.

Oscar pauses, taking a closer look at what you're wearing, and smacks Otto's elbow with the back of his hand. Otto glares at his sibling before his attention is directed to you. Admiration lightly flushes the large man's cheeks as Oscar grins at his reaction. Your usual wear is adorable, but they would kill to see you in something light and flowy like this again...and judging from the possessive hand Axel has rested at your back after he makes his way to you, he approves as well.

Trying not to focus entirely on the warmth of the eldest brother's hand, you step carefully to the wooden bench sitting adjacent to the chairs. Taking a seat, your feet lift quickly from the chilly shallow lake below as Axel follows close behind you. 

Sitting beside you, the man pulls your knife from his pocket, and begins with a simple, "Explain this."

Your eyes flash stubbornly. Did he really think you were going to make this easy for him? After his earlier stunt? Right.

As innocently as you can, you reply, "Axel that's a paring knife. You cook, you should really know this."

Oscar chokes his laugh down as Otto clears his throat. Unbeknownst to the two of you, the younger brothers had actually been locked in water combat for only a short time; earlier on Otto had gotten distracted by you and Axel, and Oscar had noticed where his tallest brother's attention had been directed. You both have had a captive audience pretty much the entire time.

At least until Axel had made his way over to the screen door with you tossed over his shoulder. Oscar had immediately grabbed the hose and did what he had to do to hide any sign of their guilty observation and eavesdropping. Otto hadn't been amused, but he begrudgingly understood that they may have needed some sort of alibi.

Axel's nostrils flare, his eyes narrowing as he thumbs along the blade.

He drawls, "What do you do with it."

Keeping a straight face is becoming a bit difficult. He is making this too much fun for you.

With slight confusion you reply, "...It's...it's in the name."

The silence from Axel nearly breaks Oscar. Otto has his poker face on and appears unaffected by your antics, but the mirth in his eyes tells a different story.

As for Axel? He betrays almost nothing, maybe a mild frustration at best. But his brothers would bet money that their older sibling is resisting some rather...lustful urges right now. Your teasing bothers the eldest in the worst way...or maybe the best.

Your eyes fall to the knife in Axel's hand. Might as well get this show on the road.

"...But yes, I do use it differently. I use it as an aid for my ability. When I want to change into my Phase, that knife provides me with a method that gives me the most control. If I vary the depth of the cut, I can adjust the time I spend in my Phase."

Oscar glances at the little unassuming tool before asking, "Change for what?"

You shift on the bench, getting a little more comfortable.

"Well. When I first started living here, my forest and lake were in pretty poor condition. Garbage and filth had been left sitting for years, which meant the soil was being smothered by water that couldn't drain the way it needed to. Because of the waterlogging, many of the trees developed root rot."

Cocking your head to the side, you recall the information provided by your environment books. You had spent countless hours reading and notetaking, determined to restore your childhood home.

"Root rot isn't the most dangerous thing, but it can be tricky to identify in its early stages. A little less than half of the pines were infected, a good amount too far gone. Their root systems had basically been turned to mush."

You worried for a moment you were boring the three who may have been expecting something more thrilling, but they appeared to be listening quite intently. They had mentioned hunting and fishing in their lives, so you'd have to remember these three weren't just assassins, they were woodsmen. Maybe this was right up their alley?

"So! The biggest problem I had at the end of the day, was identifying pines in early stages of rot. Not to mention a lack of tools to do so. But I knew that my ability affected my senses, and thought maybe I could use that."

Otto murmurs, "Better senses?"

You pause, "...Yes and no. Um...take my eyesight for example, my night vision. My eyes are better at night but are more sensitive to light, kind of like..an owl's. So in that aspect, it's situational. Better at night, weaker in the day. If there is anything I can call 'better' outright, it'd be my hearing and balance. But not by much."

Fidgeting with the hem of your dress, you fight back bashfulness at talking about a part of your ability that is particularly...bestial.

"When I was in my forest in my Phase, I..was using smell. Normally you smell root rot from the soil, it'll be bad...swampy. But with time and practice, I could smell the rot itself. I can't really describe it other than it's very...heavy."

Decay in particular stood out to you; a combination of sharp and dark, old and new and lost. You count yourself very lucky that you had no urges to consume those types of things, given the peculiar animalness of your ability.

"So, that's what I use my knife for."

You lean against the side of the bench, folding your arms over your belly as you think. There was something else...

"Oh right! You wanted to know um...why I didn't attack you three the first time? To put it simply, instinct plays a part in what I choose to perceive as a threat when I'm in my Phase. It's...decently reliable."

Otto shifts, grimacing at the wet feel of his long johns sticking to his skin, before asking, "To you, not a threat?"

A soft sigh leaves your lips, "I haven't really been in many dangerous situations in my life. But uh...when you three caught me...there was no sinking, overpowering, awful sensation. It was quiet. I was really nervous, definitely, but it felt like...I could wait? So I did."

You smile a little, "Besides, my healing gives me a little more wiggle room in terms of patience."

Oscar shuffling in his seat draws your attention; he does not appear to be happily enduring the texture of his soaked turtleneck, and his frustration is mounting. Refusing to be trapped and uncomfortable any longer, he slips his suspenders off his shoulders and drags the article of clothing up and off his body.

With flushed cheeks, you watch him drop the sweater onto the arm of his chair and relax half-naked in his seat. You try to distract yourself from the handsome man, to rip your eyes away before you're caught.

You succeed, much to your relief. Only that relief is temporary as your eyes land on Otto, whose clinging long johns have been rendered nearly see-through and what were you talking about again?

When Oscar returns his attention to you to see you tense and cheeks practically glowing with your gaze riveted to your knees, he smirks. Oh sweetheart, you can look if you want, they won't bite.

Well. Not too hard at least.

Besides, they've all been looking at you for quite some time. Not to mention having some not very polite daydreams involving you. Do you think of them too? Of their hands and mouths on you, fingers and tongues inside of you, bodies pressed tight against yours?

Curiously, he looks to Axel, whose interest is still on the knife...except its not, not at all. He's watching you, eyes half-lidded with a wicked spark glimmering in their depths. He'd seen your reactions, and if Oscar had to guess, was having some more indecent thoughts of you right now.

You're trying to convince yourself that the burning gazes you feel are simply the brothers thinking of questions...but if that's all it is, why do you feel so naked?

You squirm; it's probably just in your head, but you can't bring yourself to look up and meet their eyes just yet. You need something to keep the ball rolling, before this silence stretches on for too long.

Well...there is something that's been on your mind lately...

"...If..If you don't mind me asking you all a question?"

That seems to break the trance they were in, curiosity pushing through.

Axel encourages, "Go on."

You approach the question gingerly, "Alright..so doing the work that you do...I'd imagine one of your stronger instincts would be protecting yourselves and each other. Avoid hesitation...shoot first ask questions later? And...well?.....you all saw some..weird...woman?..animal?!?..looking thing! With glowing eyes, like something out of a nightmare. Why did you let me live?"

The silence and quiet shifting of their bodies that follows your question is enough to draw your eyes up from your knees.

The brothers had their gazes fixed on you, but after they have processed your inquiry, they falter. Oscar and Otto look to Axel, to you, and to each other. You watch them under your lashes the entire time, a little surprised to see them so...unsure. Axel had settled against the back of the seat, thinking. He seemed far away, lost in old memory. 

Otto keeps his eyes trained on his hands where they rest...were his ears a bit red? 

He mutters something and his brothers look to him in mild surprise.

He clears his throat and tries again, carefully, "Not..night hag...dream? You are...story?"

Scowling with frustration, Otto sighs, "Jävla engelska."

Oscar elaborates, "From fairytale."

Their admission brings back bittersweet memories.

Content to reminisce, yet a little forlorn, your eyes fall to the water that has submerged the stone floor of your patio.

"You know. When I first discovered what I was..or..what I wasn't?..the very first thing I did was grab any fairytale books I could find. Folklore, myths and legends, anything. We didn't have a very good collection though, and many were basically the same stories, but I had to be sure. In the end, there wasn't anything really like me in them. Of course."

It had been disheartening. You had been so naive; you had thought that maybe you could have found some kind of answer or reason for being the way you were, some kind of history or even family. Myths and tales had to come from somewhere, right? Hold some speck of truth.

Wanting to do something about the soft, sad expression on your face, Oscar lightheartedly teases, "Werewolf?"

It works.

Biting your lip, a grin slips through with a giggle, "I considered maybe something like that, but since there was no..changing under a full moon, I crossed it off the list."

You fidget, a little sheepish as you admit, "I still read any new fairytale books I can find in town. I'm not exactly looking for anything anymore, but...well, habit is habit I suppose."

Every once in a while you'd pull a book from the small collection locked away in your bedroom to read as you were winding down for the night. That or to pass the time as your condition played Keep Away with your sleep.

Axel finally drifts out of the past to join in, "We were told stories in childhood. Women with tails, or hooves. Forest spirits."

Otto hums, "Skogsrå or Huldran."

Oscar grins, "Forest maiden."

When all three had laid eyes on you, they had to fight back the initial knee-jerk reaction that they had encountered a real mythical creature. After the three had retired to their guest room to regroup, a dazed Otto just sat on the bed and stared into nothing while Oscar had jokingly asked if they could keep you. 

Half-jokingly.

Their curiosity about you had been...exceptional, but they still had manners they needed to mind. Drowning you in personal questions for hours and hours on end was too boorish, their mother had taught them better. They wouldn't subject their polite little hostess to such disrespect.

With a smile you say, "No tails or hooves here, just feathers and scales. And claws."

A ripple breaking the calm surface of water surrounding the bench has you peering up to an overcast sky. Maybe it would have been better to stay inside after all, but a light drizzle never hurt anyone. You can count yourself lucky that cold water doesn't bother your condition all that much...unless it's a cold season downpour.

The brothers look to your hands, recalling the new information you had revealed to Otto about your victim. 

Axel leans in, "Tell us about claws."

You hesitate, considering your response, "Well...they're...basically made of keratin. I think. Like fingernails but stronger. They're not that long, so they can't really be called talons, but they help me grip and climb."

Otto questions, "Not fight?"

Flexing your fingers against the material of your dress, you speculate, "That's...I mean, if I took a swipe at someone I would probably leave a bit of a cut. Although if I went for the eyes that'd be a different story..."

Confusion crosses the brothers' faces. How exactly did you kill the man, then? Was it the adrenaline?

Axel asks what's on their minds, "Can't kill?"

You figured after everything you said to Otto that this would be coming.

"...I know what you're getting at. You want to know how I did..what I did."

You lock eyes with the eldest, bold as you simply state, "I won't be answering questions about that today."

Determination sets the oldest Swede's jaw, "You made a promise to tell everything. Was this a lie?"

Unsettled, you speak before you can think, "Everything about my First Phase, yes! I haven't lied!"

You clap your hands over your traitorous mouth.

Axel blinks, and then slowly, surely, his expression slides into something sly and victorious; you've revealed something quite interesting. Only for a moment do you bear witness to the brothers' growing intrigue before you cover your eyes, head bowing to hide your face in your hands in pure frustration.

Oscar's voice drifts into your ears, "First Phase? More than one?"

You groan, "See, this is my problem. I like you three too much and it makes me slip up in such stupid ways. Fudge muffins."

The three assassins perk up at the additional reveal of your fondness for them, carefully storing that particular little nugget of information away to be closely inspected at a later time. For now, their focus is elsewhere.

Before they can push for a little more clarification from you, a flash of lightning interrupts the conversation. Worried, you turn to the men with a frown.

"We should move this inside, Pumpkin really doesn't like thunderstorms. Not to mention the kittens will probably be scared too."

Oscar is the first to react to the information; leaning far to the side in his chair to peer at the screen door, he can make out a little ball of orange fluff curled tight against the door in misery. You stand, the brothers quick to follow in your lead.

As you head towards the door peering this way and that at your arms and legs, you mention, "Don't forget to check for spiders before heading in. It's been a while."

Otto grunts and the trio do a quick once-over as you pause by the hose to rinse your feet, watching Axel out of the corner of your eye.

Hm. He really didn't check all that carefully...you eye the hose, weighing the risk. Really though, don't you deserve a little revenge?

Yes, yes you do.

Instrument of justice in hand, you take aim and blast him with what water was left in the hose before you have the chance to talk some sense into yourself.

Surprisingly, all the man does is tense up, still like a statue. There's no grunt or bark of surprise, though maybe you heard a sharp intake of breath from him?

Hair disheveled and wide-eyed as water drips from his skin and clothes, he stares at you. His younger brothers mirror his disbelieving expression and you can't help but take pride in the thought that you've successfully surprised all three of them.

You offer him a simple explanation for the impromptu shower, backing slowly away from the hose towards the door to the cottage all the while.

"...You missed a spot."

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Jävla engelska-   Fucking English

[kindofwriter]

Can I offer you some: ‘Ep 25, The Gang Meets Wilde’

Pt. 2

I guess I swung wildly between ‘brandy’ and ‘whiskey’ when writing this and didn’t notice, oof.

Transcript under the cut:

HAMID: I don't, I, I don't think so... Um, hello?

HAMID presses his finger tips to the door, swinging it gently inwards but not fully opening it. SASHA instantly flattens herself against the wall, drawing a dagger and clutching it to her chest.

VOICE (O.S.): Oh, hello?

VOICE (O.S.): Oh, hello?

VOICE (O.S.): Oh, hello?

VOICE (O.S.): Oh, hello?

BERTIE: Oh! Hello!

SASHA and ZOLF both give BERTIE a glare. HAMID reaches out to push the door further, but stops before he does.

VOICE (LANGUISHLY): Oh, hello!

BERTIE (OVERLAPPING): Hello!

HAMID (OVERLAPPING): Hello?

VOICE (O.S.) (OVERLAPPING): Hello!

BERTIE: Hello! Hello!

ZOLF elbows BERTIE in the waist.

ZOLF: Who on Earth are ya?

VOICE (O.S.): I could ask you the same question, I suppose!

HAMID steps into the apartment, pushing the door wide open as he does so. ZOLF and BERTIE step in behind him.

OSCAR WILDE is lounging by the hearth, looking only slightly uncomfortable in a halfling-sized chair. He's human, average height and average build, with plump, youthful features. His hair falls the nape of his neck in glossy, brown waves that shimmer every time he turns his head; he's clearly wearing an illusion.

WILDE is dressed in a manner that's almost garish: peacock patterned waistcoat, scarlet, French-style suit, red shoes, and yellow socks, but between his good-looks and his charisma he completely pulls it off. In one hand he holds a glass of HAMID's whiskey, and in the other a note pad.

WILDE: So sorry I, uh, got here a little early, thought I'd just wait it out.

WILDE smiles winningly at the party. BERTIE reaches up to lift the grate of his armour. HAMID looks confused. ZOLF frowns, then grabs hold of his symbol. A low sound, part way between a hum and a growl, emits from his throat, reminiscent of wind battering across the top of a lake. For just a moment his eyes glow, then WILDE's notebook bursts into flames.

WILDE: Ooh, ah!

WILDE drops the pad, shaking his hand. It's burnt to a crisp before it hits the ground. Looking at its smoldering remains, a faint smile twitches at WILDE's lips.

WILDE: Fantastic, that'd be you... Zolf? Yes?

ZOLF (PLAYING DUMB AS A ROCK): Who, sorry?

WILDE (SMIRKING): Hmm.

CUT TO SASHASASHA is still pressed against the wall, head turned to the side so she can listen in. Her face is stony, but she looks poised for a fight.

CUT BACK TO INT.

WILDE: So, that must be Zolf.

ZOLF scowls and looks away from WILDE.

WILDE: And Hamid, and Sir Bertrand, yes.

BERTIE: Hello.

BERTIE steps forward, obscuring WILDE's view of everyone else. Between his height and his breadth he towers over WILDE, who immediately starts to look a little flushed.

WILDE (ALMOST COY): Hello.

WILDE looks BERTIE up and down in a meaningful fashion. He then glances away for a moment to meet ZOLF's eye, just to make sure he's catching what WILDE is doing. BERTIE looks a little affronted at the loss of attention.

BERTIE: Mm.

WILDE turns and begins to pour another glass of whiskey from HAMID's decanter, then offers it to BERTIE.

HAMID: Um, who might you be?

WILDE (WITHOUT BREAKING EYE CONTACT WITH BERTIE): Wilde. Good to meet you.

BERTIE: Pleasure.

BERTIE takes the drink.

ZOLF: Is there a compelling reason why, um, I shouldn't shove this trident up your bum?

Now WILDE does turn away from BERTIE, looking right at ZOLF. It's difficult to tell whether he's red with annoyance, heat, or still recovering from his intense eye contact with BERTIE.

WILDE: Oh, that's not very- You wouldn't want that getting out, would you now? Honestly!

BERTIE (CLEARLY TRYING TO WIN WILDE'S ATTENTION BACK): Well, you haven't been formally introduced, which I think is part of the reason.

ZOLF (MUTTERING): Well, also, you'd be dead, so it wouldn't be going anywhere.

BERTIE has clearly failed to hold WILDE's attention, as he watches ZOLF with a quirked eyebrow. There's no hint of the 'bedroom eyes' he'd tried on with BERTIE, but there's definitely some kind of passion in that gaze. However it seems, more than anything, like the passion to argue.

HAMID: You, you, you appear to be in my apartment uninvited.

WILDE: I do apologise.

WILDE actually looks at HAMID for the first time.

WILDE: I was just hoping to get hold of you, and, well, I thought this was the best place. I mean, you have been staying here most nights, haven't you?

HAMID: Yes.

WILDE: Well, there we go then, I, uh, I thought you might enjoy the company.

WILDE once again makes eyes at BERTIE.

HAMID: Next, next time it might be nice of you to wait for an invitation.

WILDE: I, I do apologise, I, I did knock!

HAMID sighs deeply.

HAMID: Not quite the same thing, is it?

WILDE (EVASIVELY): I suppose not. So! This is all very exciting; I'm noticing you're all looking a little worse for wear-

HAMID smooths a hand over his waistcoat.

HAMID: I, uh, I would dispute that, thank you.

WILDE: Well, let me re-phrase: not all of you. I'm, I'm noticing, um-

WILDE glances at ZOLF, who seems to be the only one in the room not trying to capture his attention.

ZOLF (GRUMPILY): No, I always look like this.

WILDE: One of, one of your party's missing?

ZOLF (PLAYING DUMBER THAN A ROCK): Who? Nope.

WILDE: Oh, I'm fairly certain that the girl-

ZOLF (INTERRUPTING): No, nope, who? What?

WILDE: The girl is. Hmm, yes. Quite. So, where have you been? How was today? I'm quite fascinated, actually.

HAMID (FIRMLY): Why don't you tell us why it is you're here?

WILDE: Well, I just thought it might be a good idea for you to sit down and, y'know, really, really share, y'know? Really explain things by yourselves, because people want to know. You know?

WILDE gives HAMID a very smug look.

HAMID: Are you a reporter of some kind?

WILDE: Mm, yeah, of a, of a kind. I, I, I sell my stories to whoever's interested, really. And a lot of people are very interested-

WILDE turns away from HAMID and begins to pour more glasses of whiskey. HAMID seems unfazed by this.

WILDE: I just, a lot of people are very interested-

BERTIE: Well, you know-

BERTIE shoves his glass between the decanter and the glass WILDE was filling, effectively giving himself a top-up.

BERTIE: I, I have been looking- I very much have an opening for a biographer.

BERTIE raises an eyebrow at WILDE, still leant across him from filling his glass. WILDE smirks.

WILDE: Well, we would have to closet ourselves away for a significant amount of time to really go over, go over the details. The nitty gritty, as it were.

Behind them, ZOLF scowls, clearly picking up on their queer-coded language, but immediately looking down on anyone who would willingly flirt with BERTIE. HAMID shuffles his feet, waiting innocently for the pair to finish talking.

BERTIE: I, I assure you, I have some extremely fine details to share with the appropriate young scholar.

WILDE turns, two new glasses of whiskey balanced in one hand.

WILDE (WITH A CHUCKLE): Presumably you mean of quality, not diminutive.

BERTIE joins in with his chuckle, but it quickly becomes mean, eventually devolving into a deep growl. Suddenly looking a little uncomfortable, WILDE moves away from BERTIE and offers a glass of whiskey to ZOLF. His face is soft; clearly he's looking for a little sympathy.

ZOLF refuses to take the whiskey, and scowls again at WILDE.

HAMID takes the glass offered to him, so WILDE drains ZOLF's.

BERTIE: My details are distinguished by their quality and their quantity.

WILDE (LESS SURE, BUT STILL PLAYING HIS PART): Indeed, I mean, that, that's a lot of the reason that I'm here. I've been hearing so much interesting- I mean, your deeds with Other London? And especially, I mean- Did you, did you manage to catch whoever it was with the antiques store?

CUT TO SASHA IN THE HALLWAY

SAHSA grimaces; tightens her grip on the dagger.

CUT BACK

WILDE: I heard that was, heard that was a bit of a problem, no?

An awkward silence hangs over the room for a moment as ZOLF and HAMID give WILDE a look that tells him that was in poor taste. BERTIE enjoys his whiskey.

HAMID: Uh, l-look, Mister Wilde, I don't-

WILDE: Sorry that was, that was, that was rude of me. Clearly I was treading on  a nerve. I'm so sorry.

BERTIE raises an eyebrow, seemingly losing some respect for WILDE as he apologises.

HAMID: I don't, I don't mind telling you about, uh, what we've been up to. As I'm sure you've seen in the press and will see again soon, we are not averse to sharing our story. But I really must insist that you tell me what it is you do, and why it is you are here specifically.

WILDE (JUMPING IN): It is so generous of you to donate so much to the natural history museum, as well-

Suddenly WILDE is knocked off his feet, backwards into HAMID's chair, dropping his glass as he does so. SASHA looms over him, the tip of a dagger pressed lightly to his throat. WILDE is surprised, but not afraid.

SASHA: What do you know about the antique store?

WILDE smiles, just slightly.

WILDE: Well, I was hoping you'd be able to tell me, all I know is that you were there.

SASHA (UPSET, BUT IN HER OWN WAY): What, what do you know?

BERTIE steps forward, placing a hand on SASHA's shoulder.

BERTIE: Now, now, Sasha. If there's any blade to be held to this young man's throat I feel it should be mine-

SASHA shrugs BERTIE off with such force he actually has to remove his hand.

SASHA (CLEARLY AGITATED): He, he knows something about what happened to Gusset. He, he knows who trashed Gusset's store!

WILDE (WRIGGLING BENEATH THE DAGGER): No, no, that's not what I said.

SASHA: Oh, really? So, you know-

WILDE: I was curious-

SASHA: So how did you know about that? Because we didn't go to the press about that.

SASHA pressed slightly with the dagger. WILDE leans further into the chair to avoid getting nicked.

WILDE: Well, y'know, some people are observant, and some people, y'know- I mean, where do the press find these things out?

SASHA: Well, but- Usually, Hamid tells them!

For just a moment SASHA alleviates some pressure from WILDE, and it seems as if she might wheel around to threaten HAMID. Then she looks down at WILDE and re-applies the pressure; she trusts HAMID.

WILDE: Well, usually doesn't always cut it-

SASHA: That's how journalism works!

WILDE takes a moment to allow his eyes to drift back to BERTIE.

WILDE: Some deeds will just speak of their own accord.

SASHA: Oi! 

SASHA begins to press the tip of the blade to WILDE's throat. Once ZOLF realises what she's doing he steps forward slightly, poised to pull her off.

SASHA: What do you know about who trashed Gusset's store?

WILDE: I don't know what to say. I know that you went in there, and you, uh, had a bit of a conversation. It looked very amicable, and then you headed on your way.

WILDE catches sight of ZOLF, stood behind SASHA with an arm outstretched. He visibly relaxes, allowing a huge grin to spread across his face.

[olivinesea]

In the Golden Dark, pt. 3

Part 1, Part 2

a/n: I believe this is called a slow burn. Sorry to keep you waiting, it wasn’t intentional. I just keep getting pulled in to all the details and the thing grows. It’ll wrap up in the part after this one. Enjoy :) ~2.5k

i thought i’d ride all the same roads and skies for mercy’s sake, would you look at your life

No matter how drawn out, how difficult a case was, there was a routine to their return flights. Everyone boarded and retreated to their favorite place. Especially if the case ended poorly, people needed time to themselves to decompress. The jet wasn’t all that large but it had enough seats for them to spread out if they needed to. Creatures of habit, they often ended up picking the same spots each time, drawing peace from the standard arrangement. This trip however Morgan managed to sprain his ankle while chasing the unsub and Reid graciously gave him the couch where he would normally curl up so Morgan could elevate and ice his ankle. As an alternative he picked a seat next to the window and jumped when Hotch appeared next to him. They exchanged a quick look, Hotch silently checking that it was okay for him to take the neighboring seat. It was a new behavior, he never would have given sitting next to Spencer a second thought before. But now, there were too many exposed edges, too much risk of rogue electric currents to simply slip down beside each other like they might have in the past.

Spencer looked at him, eyes glazed with exhaustion. Confused, he didn’t recognize that Hotch’s hesitation was due to a question of his comfort. When it clicked he nodded quickly, waving his hand in manner that was meant to be an invitation but was a little too abrupt not to appear frantic. He hated how clearly his nerves showed sometimes and made an effort not to fidget as Hotch settled beside him. He tried to study Hotch’s face from the corner of his eye, jealous of the way he was always able to remain so impassive. He knew this wasn’t just a lack of feeling but rather a controlled effort, something that he put on each day same as his suits and gun holsters. Right now he was wishing he could read the other man’s thoughts. Hotch noticed him watching and quirked up the corner of his mouth in a small smile. Perplexed, Spencer sat back into the seat, wanting to pull his long legs up to his chest but there simply wasn’t the room for it. Instead he hugged his arms around his torso, letting the soft pressure try to calm his racing heart. He’d been on edge since that afternoon. Since he’d slipped.

*

The first time he had used the name Aaron it had felt strange, like a stone rolling around in his mouth. It had started not long after their late night calls had become a regular thing. He could tell it was something consequential but he couldn’t completely comprehend the dimensions of it. He was shy to call the other man by his first name. But Aaron had encouraged it, finding he enjoyed hearing this different shading of his name.

Too often in his life he’d heard that name inflected with anger, with disgust. He’d learned to hate it, to pull his shields in tighter whenever someone used it. Haley had made a difference, infusing his name with the love he had deserved and been denied. Over many years of careful diligence she had managed to loosen the strangled way his mind had tied his name to his failures, his ever present self-loathing. Now with her gone he’d had no problem rejoining the two. He’d never blame her but their parting words, the anger she’d been too fed up to hide had poured into her voice, into that which she’d worked so hard to rehabilitate. The last time he’d heard her say his name he knew he’d lost her and that it had been his own fault.

Since then he’d been only Hotch. He liked it that way. Hotch was strong and capable and didn’t let people down. Occasionally Dave would call him Aaron and he would press his mouth together and accept whatever advice he was about to receive. He didn’t particularly enjoy it but it was a good indicator of Dave’s state of mind so he let that be the relevant information and ignored the feelings it caused to swirl around, a vortex threatening to pull him under.

But when Spencer said it, at first with hesitation but increasingly more confidence, he felt an entirely new emotion. The syllables ran along the same nerve endings that lit up his spine and constricted his lungs whenever he looked at Spencer. It was a feeling that only grew as they became closer, as more of the barriers between them dissolved. When Spencer called him Aaron it sounded like hope.

Which was all well and good at midnight, on the phone or in the too bright lights of an empty diner. In that liminal world it was only natural for them to use softer words for one another. But they had continued to confine those developments to the spaces outside the office, outside the team. Neither would consider it a secret but it remained unspoken, perhaps because they were both too afraid of breaking the spell. They were careful to keep things as they had always been when they were in front of the others. Spencer remained Reid and Aaron was never anyone but Hotch.

Until earlier that afternoon, worn down by the action of the field, the adrenaline of the take down fading away, Reid had made a mistake. It had been small, likely no one had noticed, no one had even been paying attention when, needing the other man’s opinion on which file some forms belonged to, he had called to him.

“Hey, Aaron.”

He hadn’t realized what he’d done until he saw the line of Hotch’s shoulders become rigid beneath his suit jacket. Hotch stiffly turned away from Rossi and Morgan—they’d been reviewing the plan for getting everyone packed up and on the jet headed home as soon as possible. Without a word Hotch raised an eyebrow at Reid, who, mortified, had entirely forgotten what his question had been.

“Reid?” he prompted.

Spencer blinked quickly, looking at the papers in his hands. “Nevermind,” he muttered. When he glanced up again Hotch was still looking at him, his expression unreadable. It made Spencer nervous. Hotch turned and rejoined the conversation with the other two, settling an argument about who would drive who where before it became too heated. Spencer stayed quiet the rest of the time they were at the precinct. Stuck in his mind, he repeated the moment over and over, telling himself this was probably it. This was the moment where he broke things, the moment he showed he wasn’t able to handle himself the way he should. He became convinced that Hotch was mad at him, that he had somehow betrayed his confidence. He became convinced he would never be forgiven.

By the time he sat himself next to the window on the jet, staring out into the inky darkness, he was resigned to having lost. He expected, if he was brave enough to try, that the door they had opened between them would now be locked, that any calls would go unanswered. All because he had been a little careless, had inadvertently shared something they had wordlessly agreed was private. So he was startled when Hotch moved to sit next to him. With that small smile the man had all but short circuited the wires in Spencer’s brain. He didn’t know what to make of it, though history told him not to hope for too much. Everyone reached their limit with him, it was only a matter of time.

They were quiet through take off, as people settled into whatever distraction they could. Then, so quietly it barely crossed the threshold of his awareness, Hotch heard Spencer say something. “Hmm?”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, only a little louder, afraid that even this would be unwelcome.

He leaned back and studied Spencer’s defeated expression, the way he was avoiding eye contact. He should have noticed before, should have known how an instant could get replayed by that perfect memory, morphing into something far more than it needed to be. Hoping he wasn’t too late to counteract the powerful force of self-doubt, he said, “It’s okay, Spencer.”

Spencer might have needed more reassurance; after all, he’d spent the last few hours telling himself that he’d irreparably fucked things up. But the way his name sounded coming out of Aaron’s mouth was all the assurance he needed. He sighed, relief tingling warmly through his fingertips. The tension that had kept his breaths shallow, his mind locked in a tight spiral, finally drained away and the disparaging thoughts became the words he’d been given, repeating gently like the waves on a lake shore. It’s ok, Spencer, it’s ok.

The air between them now calm, Hotch returned to his work. Spencer tried to make himself comfortable, shifting until he’d wedged himself satisfyingly into the corner of the seat and the wall. He craved the security of having the solid world pressing against him. The couch was ideal for this, the seats less so, but he made it work. Idly he watched Hotch working on paperwork. He was mesmerized by his hands; how he scratched words onto the page, sometimes signing quickly, hand moving sharply like the readout of a heart monitor. Before long Spencer’s eyelids grew heavy and he didn’t resist as he was pulled in by sleep.

Hotch wasn’t sure what time it was, not bothered enough to pull out his phone to check. He knew it was late and he was fairly confident they were somewhere over Texas. He rubbed his eyes then flipped through the remaining forms. They were all standard documentation, things he could probably do in his sleep. Which was good since he wasn’t all that focused. Like Spencer, his mind kept returning to that moment earlier. He didn’t want Spencer to feel bad, that certainly wouldn’t be fair. But it had drawn his attention to an issue he had been avoiding.

What was between them had been going on for months now. It hadn’t crossed into anything physical, anything overt. But he was an intelligent person, he knew where this was going. He’d allowed himself the briefest of thoughts, imagining what it might be like to touch another person again. He wanted to find out. But that meant they needed to decide how they wanted to handle this. He knew he didn’t want to live a secret life. Spencer didn’t belong lumped in with everything else he kept hidden. That would likely only lead somewhere disastrous. No, if they were going to do it, he wanted to go at it full measure. That thought warmed his heart a little, color rising to his cheeks. However, a pleasant feeling didn’t change the complexities. What would it mean for the team, for their families? It was so much easier not to involve anyone else.

As Hotch wrestled with his thoughts, Spencer’s hands started to twitch. He let out a small whimper as his face twisted, something in his dreams frightening him. Without thinking, Hotch reached over and grabbed his hand, squeezing softly as he made quiet calming noises. Spencer froze before relaxing, his face becoming slack as the dream passed and left him with only the white noise of deep sleep. Hotch rubbed his thumb across the back of Spencer’s hand, the skin pale and smooth. It looked so small in his own hand, delicate, fragile even. He looked up only to meet Rossi’s gaze, questioning him from an opposing corner. He felt the heat return to his face but he didn’t let go, only shrugged and returned to his paperwork. If he could do it in his sleep he could do it with one hand just as well he supposed. He’d made his choice and he intended to hold on to it.

*

Dave caught up to him as they walked through the parking garage.

“Hey,” he hissed, placing a hand on Hotch’s shoulder to slow him down.

Hotch stopped abruptly. Anyone who didn’t know him as well as Dave did wouldn’t have realized how the quick reflexes, the instant change in trajectory was only a cover. How it was all his awareness traveling quickly through his muscles to stop the revealing flinch, the instinct to draw into himself and become a smaller target. Immobility was the only way to prevent that reaction from getting out. He’d perfected it over the years, one of dozens of ways he hid in plain sight. Now it seemed more imposing than anything else, to suddenly have the full, none too pleased attention of a six foot plus giant.

Normally Dave wouldn’t have done that, startled him with a touch from outside his field of vision. But Dave had questions and he wasn’t entirely pleased with having to ask these questions. Hotch turned his head to watch Dave come around and block his path to the elevators.

“What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” Hotch asked icily. He was tired and he just wanted to be home, away from people, away from questions. There was so much interaction when they went into the field. Never a moment to himself to think, to reset. He always had to be on when they were working a case, and though he was able to do it, once it was over all he could think of was shutting out the world completely.

“You know what I’m talking about, Aaron.”

Hotch flinched at his name, not expecting it to be used as a weapon, not prepared to have that moment thrown in his face so soon. Dave looked at him expectantly.  

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Dave was incredulous, trying to keep his volume down it came out sounding strangled.

Hotch glared at him for several seconds before relenting. He looked down at his feet, feeling fatigue pulling him into the ground.

“I do. Please, Dave.” He looked up and he was begging Rossi to understand, to see that this was something good, something special.

Rossi was skeptical but couldn’t deny he was moved by the look in Hotch’s eyes. He hadn’t looked so alive in a long time, like there was something he wanted, something he was willing to fight for. Eventually Rossi relented. Who was he to judge anyone for their choices in a partner?

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said gruffly but it was all an act. Honestly he’d accept anything that made Aaron happy, anything that kept him with them a little longer. This wasn’t hurting anyone. If those two idiots wanted go down this road, it was none of his business. He’d done his due diligence and Hotch could make his own decisions. He hoped for everyone’s sake it was worth it.

~Part 4~

[the-river-person]

A Contact You Don’t Remember

Flowey looked back and forth between the two monarchs of the Underground. Asgore and Toriel sat in comfortable chairs with a table between them, each calmly sipping a cup of hot tea. They often met like this, to discuss the needs of the people and solutions to arising problems. Some had thought that with death and the threat of famine removed entirely by the Resets, the Kingdom of Monsters would face fewer challenges. But as the entertainment industry boomed and people fell into newly created traditions, and found ways to evolve their society that transcended the boundaries set on them by the repetition of time, new issues popped up everywhere they looked. New Home was still crowded. Many Monsters had moved to other places in the Underground, but when the Resets came they found themselves right back in their old homes. Which meant it was difficult to make a new permanent dwelling. Of course, they all tried anyway. At the beginning of each new Reset the roads were clogged with traffic from Monsters attempting to make their way to places like Old Home and the Snowdin Caverns. The guards, and even Papyrus himself, sometimes had to come and ensure that everything ran smoothly and quickly. And there was the Waterfall problem as well. For years some of the larger lakes and pools had been slowly draining. Some aquatic Monsters had moved to a massive aquarium in New Home, which now had no more room, but some Monsters were simply too big. Onionsan was the friendliest of these Monsters, though they didn’t get many visitors. While the waters were no longer in danger of drying up completely due to the Resets, they’d already gotten dangerously low and it was very uncomfortable for many of those who lived there. The problem was that there was nowhere for them to go, no other place with enough water for them, and no way to stay there past a Reset. It was one new problem after another, and so many didn’t seem to have an easy answer, or any at all. Asgore set down his cup and sighed. “I recall there was a large reservoir in Old Home that was quite deep, if it could be repaired and made to stay that way it could be a place to send these Monsters. But the repairs alone would take longer than an entire Reset, there simply isn’t enough time to make it worth the effort, especially since we’d have to start again for each repeat.” This was a conversation they’d already had several times, and Flowey was beginning to get tired of them. It wasn’t like there was a way to solve the problem that didn’t just get undone in a few weeks anyway. Who cared if the Monsters were uncomfortable? At least they weren’t dead. But he didn’t voice the opinion. Everyone’s attention was drawn by a knock on the door. DT and Monster Kid entered. By a silent and somewhat relieved agreement between Flowey, Toriel, and Asgore... the meeting was over. “Hello, my Child. How was the journey? Did you solve any interesting puzzles this ti-” began Toriel, but she was interrupted before she could finish. “Do you know a Sans?” Asked DT. Now that he got a good look at them, DT looked upset, maybe disturbed? Certainly not happy. Something must have happened. Who was this Sans? An attacker? Surely no Monster would dare... A long moment passed while Asgore thought carefully. Finally after a while he simply shrugged. “I am afraid I do not recall anyone with that name. Is this person in trouble?” DT didn’t answer him, instead turning to Toriel. “May I see your phone?” Though she looked deeply confused, Toriel willingly handed the device over. DT flipped through the contacts, searching for something. When they reached S they clicked the button and started a call. Everyone stared at the phone as it rang once, twice... then someone picked up on the other end. “Heya. What’s up, Tori? Need a package delivered? Been doing mail service for a bit now and I’m really starting to enjoy it. Pop in, pop out. Chat with people and hear all the news, find out where all the best parties are.” There was a low chuckle heard. Toriel had stood up, her eye’s wide. “Sans,” she said very carefully in a calm voice that didn’t at all match her expression. “Can you come up to the Castle in New Home? I think there’s something important to discuss.” She met Asgore’s equally stunned gaze. Flowey was reeling. The moment he’d heard that trashbag’s voice on the other end of the phone the memories had hit him like meteorites. How could Sans of all people just... be forgotten? It didn’t make sense. He could understand if everybody straight up forgot Jerry, it would probably be a blessing more than anything else. But not Sans. Sans was too noticeable, especially after publicly playing the Judge. Sounding a bit confused the voice on the phone answered. “Sure thing, Tori.” And suddenly Sans was standing in the room with them, a mail bag slung over his shoulder. As he saw everyone’s wide eyed expressions his smile dipped slightly, his own expression growing concerned. “What’s going on?” DT, who looked triumphant, lowered the phone. “I think, Sans,” said Asgore. “That you may wish to sit down. Something troubling has come to light.”

[songofclarity]

Out of sheer curiosity, what do you think of Wen Xu. Any HC?

Two Wen Xu asks came in back-to-back and I could probably have answered them both at once, but I'll use your daring moment of sheer curiosity to focus on headcanons/theories I have for him, Anon~!

Similar to Su She, who caused problems while lurking in the background, I think Wen Xu, who also caused problems while lurking in the background, is our guy who has been inciting several other rising conflicts between the Qishan Wen and the other sects over the years. He doesn't need explicit orders to do this, mind you, because he is simply doing what any self-respecting son of the Qishan Wen Sect would do. Just like the Twin Prides look to the Jiang motto of Attempt the Impossible and the Twin Jades look to the 3,000 Lan rules, Wen Xu is also guided by Clan tradition:

The Wen Clan used the sun as the motif of their clan, signifying that they could "compete with the sun for radiance, match the sun in longevity." (ch. 17, ERS)

The sun, however, is beautiful and warm and radiant all on its own, which means he doesn't have to play nice with the other sects if he doesn't want to. In fact, it goes against policy to treat the other sects as equals! Therefore, with him being the predominant Wen outside Nightless City, it seems apt to assign these events to him:

1. Monopolizing all the prime Night Hunt locations and excluding the other sects, which made the other sects resent the Qishan Wen even more

Remember Jin Ling setting up those 400 golden nets? That's expensive and entitled! I imagine Wen Xu was our first Jin Ling, except rather than using 400 golden nets it's Wen Xu and his friends and Wen favorites who are staking claims on all the best sites. They're having a fun time and everyone else can cry about it! Remember that guest cultivators love being with the Wen Sect! It likely comes with plenty of favors, and Wen Xu as Wen RuoHan's eldest son had much to offer to gain and keep their support for the Qishan Wen.

2. Pushing the Waterborne Abyss from Qishan into Gusu Lan territory, making it a Lan problem and making the other sects resent the Qishan Wen even more

I headcanon that this event is what eventually prompted Wen Chao to daringly declare that he killed the Tortoise of Slaughter. Did Wen Xu declare that he had killed the Waterborne Abyss (which would sound absurd since the only known way to defeat it is to drain the lake and keep it dried out for years)? Or did he own up to how he simply got rid of the problem? Either way, he made Qishan safe, which is what any cultivation sect is supposed to do for their region.

The Qishan Wen are good to the Qishan Wen and the common folk beneath them. It's really only the other sects that take issue with them and see them as a threat.

*Please remember that the Qishan Wen Sect isn't an empire. They aren't trying to take over the world. They are simply seeking dominance and prominence, with all the power and prestige that comes with it.*

3. It's canon that Wen Xu led the attack on Cloud Recesses, that he accused QingHeng-jun of something to validate this assault, that he ordered Lan WangJi's leg broken when he stood in their way, and that he is responsible for the death of QingHeng-jun (whom I headcanon died due to critical burns from the fire)

The big question here is what, exactly, was Wen Xu/the Wen accusing QingHeng-jun of? It could be something real: neglecting his duties or even something to do with Madam Lan, since we really don't know her backstory. Or something overblown: having two sons who wear clouds on their ribbons, and clouds block out the sun, and those two sons did better than the Wen in the archery competition, so it must be an anti-Wen conspiracy, etc etc. (Wang LingJiao had to learn that logic somewhere!) The latter appeals to me the most, and highlights how Wen Xu was a role model for his little brother. The difference being that Wen Xu had experience handling other sects without getting everyone killed.

Frankly, that Wen Xu destroyed Cloud Recesses and got their Sect Leader killed and made their second Sect Leader go missing and all the other sects let him get away with it just reinforces, to me, that he has indeed been up to no good for a long time and that he is incredibly strong in his own right. Although Wei WuXian comments that the Wen Sect has a higher proportion of weak and incompetent disciples/subordinates, I headcanon that Wen Xu is not one of the weak ones.

But also Wen Xu is not bloodthirsty. He did what he needed to do and the only one left dead was the one that the Wens had a undisclosed problem with: QingHeng-jun. Wen Xu is strong but he has restraint. He never pushed anyone into a corner which could incite a rebellion, which was Wen Chao's mistake.

Until Wen Xu finally did push too hard:

4. It's canon that he went against Wen RuoHan's speech which effectively said to leave the Qinghe Nie alone. By ignoring how Wen RuoHan said that Nie MingJue would not bend, he pushed the Nie into a corner and bit off more than he could chew and got himself beheaded

All the Wens appeared to agree that the Sunshot Campaign was just an act of arrogance on the part of the other sects. The Wens did not take it seriously during those first three months, and therefore neither sought to squash it out or defeat it.

Wen Xu is what proves them wrong when he gets himself killed.

But what was Wen Xu doing in Hejian!? I headcanon/theorize that he was trying to end the Campaign on his own terms. Wen Xu was used to winning and used to the sects capitulating to Wen power and presence. Cloud Recesses was already destroyed and Lan XiChen is no threat, Lotus Pier was conquered and the Yunmeng Jiang were annihilated, and the Wens expected the Lanling Jin to come crawling back to them when things got too rough. This left the Qinghe Nie as the last foe, and thus Wen Xu went on his own prerogative to take Nie MingJue out and claim dominance for the Qishan Wen once more.

RIP Wen Xu

I don't say all of this to somehow make Wen Xu look evil--the Wens aren't evil and I don't understand why some readers want to dumb down the whole story by shoving them into a little evil box--although I guess I headcanon him as having a big head and being something of a bully lol. He's just being the same kind of pompous rich kid like Jin ZiXuan and Jin Ling except he has actual power and authority to back it up. The Qishan Wen are the biggest, richest, most powerful sect. He is the one who will one day inherit it as he is Wen RuoHan's oldest son. So he is both simultaneously protecting the Qishan Wen name as well as reinforcing it's power. He is endearing himself to his father by "fixing problems" and "taking care of unruly sects" before the problem even reaches Wen RuoHan's ears. Considering what we see and hear from Wen RuoHan, and how Wen RuoHan fails to make decisions he's not already being ushered into by a third party, Wen Xu and others are very much pro-actively promoting the Qishan Wen on their own terms.

Wen RuoHan is thus very happy with this loyal and righteous son of his! And it leaves Wen Chao striving to follow in Wen Xu's footsteps.

I headcanon that Wen Xu is much older than Wen Chao, like at least 10 years older if not more. (Who knows how old Wen RuoHan is? However old or young I want him to be at any given time! lol) This puts their relationship in a funny/annoying range of Wen Xu being the big brother but also old enough to pull the adult/parent card. Wen Chao has poor cultivation and he's the baby, which is why he gets Wen ZhuLiu as a bodyguard while Wen Xu, who is arguably quite strong, just gets to run around with his subordinates. Wen Xu is the jock big brother who pushes Wen Chao's buttons and it looks like they hate each other--but I also headcanon that Wen Xu likes seeing Wen Chao succeed in whatever dumb thing Wen Chao decided to do today and Wen Chao wants to grow up to as respected and powerful as Wen Xu (and Wen RuoHan) one day. They are not adversaries although there is competition and conflict between them.

And, as I mentioned before, we get Waterborne Abyss vs Tortoise of Slaughter competition between them. Both of them don't believe it! Father, he is not that competent!

Wen RuoHan laughs it out and disagrees, because he appreciates that both his kids are doing amazing feats. (Are they though? Are they???)

Then there are headcanons of Wen Xu and Wen Qing! Their families were close because they are family and their parents were BFFs! I have yet to decide if I want Wen Xu or Wen Qing to be older. Da-ge or Da-jie? One idea I like for them is that they were close as children, but maybe grew up and went their separate ways a little. That Wen Qing never renounced the Wen Sect makes me hold fast that she did love her family and clan, even if she didn't agree with what they did for their sect. Wen Xu wasn't a bad guy even if he did bad things. (She disliked Wen Chao but maybe she liked Wen Xu a little more lol)

I headcanon Wen Ning's outstanding archery involved Wen Xu giving him some hands-on assistance. (Da-ge? Da-ge...!) Like everyone else in the Wen Sect, I headcanon Wen Ning would have also wanted to impress Wen RuoHan and be noticed by him, too. They didn't keep it a secret from Wen Chao on purpose, it just turned out that way especially since most of the work was done by Wen Ning. (Wen Xu was at the discussion conference but he didn't watch the archery competition, instead teasing it was for babies in order to make Wen Chao cross. Wen Xu likes Wen Chao but he needs to grow up!)

There are also headcanons about his mother, but that's a whole rabbit hole of its own lol My main headcanon is that Wen Xu and Wen Chao have the same mother, but she had difficult pregnancies that resulted in them being born years apart. Madam Wen and Wen RuoHan had wanted a large family and sadly only had two sons. Wen Xu did not grow up short on affection, which resulted in him wanting to protect the Qishan Wen name even more.

I headcanon that Wen RuoHan is a good father and his relationship with Wen Xu was very good, although of course it does not come without it's own difficulties and conflicts at times. (Considering how terrible all the other fathers are, statistically there should be one good one, right?)

There are other random headcanons I could throw in here but I will finish this off by saying I don't have a solid headcanon on who is Wen Yuan's father, although I can see the poetic appeal of it being Wen Xu. Wen Xu burned down Cloud Recesses and said the Wen would help the Lan grow from the ashes. Wen Yuan grows up there as if reborn from the ashes by help of the Lan, given a new name and family, too.

(That Wen Chao is explicitly given a wife in canon makes me headcanon him as Wen Yuan's father though, as I also like Wei WuXian protecting Wen Chao's son for my own dark delight~)

I also tend to think of Wen Xu as someone running around and playing around and not quite ready to settle down. But Wen Xu with a wife and a family of his own? I would love to see it!

[cecilspeaks]

173 - The Hundred Year Play

Quoth the raven: [bird noises] Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, some exciting news from the world of theatre! The 100 year play is about to reach its final scene. Yes, this is the play that has been running continuously since 1920. Written by a brilliant playwright Hannah Hershman, designed to take exactly 100 years to perform. And the tireless volunteer of the Night Vale Players Playhouse have been going through those scenes, one after another, for decade upon decade. There’s little time to rehearse, for each hour brings new scenes and each scene will only be performed once the play moves on, in order to keep up with the tight schedule needed to execute the entire script before a century elapses.

It is a monumental work of theatre, but like all work, it must some day cease. Today, specifically. I will be in attendance at that historic moment, when the final scene is performed and the curtain closes on the 100 year play.   More soon, but first the news.

We bring you the latest on the lawsuit “The estate of Franklin Chen vs. the city of Night Vale”. As you know, this case has grown so large and complicated that I’ve not had the time to discuss it in my usual community radio broadcasts. But instead, have started a true crime podcast called “Bloody Laws, Bloody Claws: The Murder of Frank Chen”, in which I strive to get to the truth of just what happened on that fateful night when five-headed dragon Hiram McDaniels met Frank Chen, and then later Frank Chen’s body was found covered in burns and claw marks. It’s a confounding mystery. The Sheriff’s Secret Police announce that it seems really complicated and they’re not even gonna try to solve that sucker. “Oh, what?” a Secret Police spokesman muttered at an earthworm he found in his garden. “You want us to fail? You wanna see us fail? That’s why you want us to investigate this case, to see us fail at it?” The family of Frank Chen say they merely want the appropriate parties, in this case the city of Night Vale, Hiram McDaniels and an omniscient conception of God, to take responsibility for their part in this tragedy. The trial is now in its 10th month, and has included spirited re-enactments of the supposed murder by helpful Players Playhouse performers in between their work on the 100 year play. 3 changes of judge and venue due to “some dragon attacks and constant interruptions from a local audio journalist, who hosts a widely respected true crime podcast”. Still, with all this, we near a verdict. Judge Chaplin has indicated she will issue her ruling soon. “Like in the next year or so?” she said. “Certainly within 5 years. Listen, I don’t owe you a verdict, just because you’re paying me to do a job, you can’t rush me to do it. The verdict will be done when. It’s. Done.” Chaplin then huffed out of the courtroom followed by journalists shouting recommendations for episodes of their podcast to listen to.

I was present, you know, on opening night of the 100 year play. Ah, how the theatre buzzed! Of course this was partly the audience, thrilled to be at the start of such an unprecedented work, but mostly – it was the insects. The Night Vale Players Playhouse had quite a pest problem at the time, and still does. It’s difficult to do pest control when there is a 100 year long play being performed on stage at every hour of every day. The curtain opened those many years ago on a simple set of a studio apartment,  a kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come in, it’s open,” the man says. A woman enters, flustered. She is holding a newborn. “There’s been a murder!” she says. “The victim was alone in a room, and all the doors and windows were locked. “My god!” the man says and springs up. “Who could have done this, and how?!” the woman tells him: “It turns out to be the gardener, Mr. Spreckle. He served with the victim in the war and never could forgive him for what happened there. He threw a venomous snake through an air vent.” The man sits back down, nodding. “Aah! So the mystery is solved.” As a playwright, Hannah Hershman did not believe in stringing up mysteries a second longer than was necessary. The baby in the woman’s arm stirs. “Shush, shush little one!” the woman says. The man looks out the window where he cannot see the sky. “It might look like rain,” he says. “Who knows?” Thus began a journey of 100 years.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s episode is sponsored by the Night Vale Medical Board, which would like to remind you that it is important to drink enough water throughout the day. Drink more water! Your body cannot function without water. Without water, you are just dust made animate. Water forms the squelching mud of sentience. Try to have at least ten big glasses of water. Not over the entire day, right now. See if you can get all ten of them down. Explore the capacity of your stomach. See if you can make it burst. You will either feel so much better, or an organ will explode and you will day painfully. And either one is more interesting than the mundane now. You should drink even more water than that. Wander out of your door, search the Earth for liquids. Find a lake and drain the entire thing, until the bottom feeders flop helplessly on the flatlands. Laugh slushingly as you look upon the destruction you have wrought. The power that you possess now that you are well hydrated. Move on from the lake and come to the shore of an ocean. All oceans are one ocean that we have arbitrarily categorized by language. The sea knows no separation, and neither will you when you lay belly down on the sand, put your lips against the waves and guzzle the ocean. The ocean is salty. It will not be very hydrating, so you’ll need to drink a lot of it. Keep going until the tower tops of Atlantis see sky again for the first time in centuries, until the strange glowing creatures of the deep-deep are exposed, splayed out from their bodies now that they no longer have the immense pressure of the ocean depths to keep their structure intact. And once you have drunk the oceans, turn your eyes to the stars. For there is water out there too, and you must suck dry the universe. This has been a message from the Night Vale Medical Board.

20 years passed without me thinking about the 100 year play. You know how it is. One day you’re an intern at the local radio station doing all the normal errands like getting coffee and painting pentacles upon Station Management doors as part of the ritual of the slumbering ancients. Then 20 years passes and everything is different for you. Your boss is gone and now you are a host of the community radio station, and there are so many new responsibilities and worries and lucid nightmares in which you explore a broken landscape of colossal ruins. So with all of that, I just kind of forgot the 100 year play was happening. But they were toiling away in there, doing scenes around the clock, building and tearing down sets at a frantic pace, trying to keep up with the script that relentlessly went on, page after page. And sometimes one of the people working on the play would wonder: how does this all end? But before they could flip ahead and look, there would be another scene that had to be performed and they wouldn’t have a chance. So no one knew how it ended. No one except Hannah Hershman, the mysterious author of this centennial play.

Soon after becoming radio host, during the reading of a Community Calendar, I was reminded that the play was still going on, and so decided to check in. I put on my best tux, you know it’s the one with the scales and the confetti canon. And then took myself to a night at the theatre. I can’t say what happened in the plot since that first scene, but certainly much had transpired. We were now in a space colony thousands of years from now, and the set was simple, just some sleek chairs and a black backdrop dotted with white stars of paint. A woman was giving a monologue about the distance she felt between the planet she was born on, which I believe was supposed to be Earth, and the planet she now stood on. I understood from what she was saying that the trip she had taken to this planet was one way, and that she would never return to the place she was born. “We… are… all of us… moved… by time,” she whispered in a cracked, hoarse voice. “Not… one of us dies… in the world… we were born into.” Sitting in my seat in that darkened theatre, I knew two facts with certainty. The first was that this woman had been giving a monologue for several days now. She wavered on her feet, speaking the entire four hours that I was there. And I don’t know how much longer she spoke after I left, but it could have been weeks. She was pale and her voice was barely audible, but there was something transfixing about it, and the audience sat in perfect silence, leaning forward to hear her words. The other fact I understood was that this woman was the newborn from the very first scene. Not just the same character, but the same actor. 20 years later, she was still on that stage, still portraying the life to the child we had been introduced to in the opening lines. She was an extraordinary performer, presumably, having had a literal lifetime of practice. And that was the last time I saw the play, until tonight, when I will go to watch the final scene.

But first, let’s have a look at that Community Calendar. Tonight the school board is meeting to discuss the issues of school lunches. It seems that some in power argue that it isn’t enough that for some reason we charge the kids actual money for these lunches. They argue that the students should also be required to give devotion and worship to a great glowing cloud, whose benevolent power will fill their lives with purpose. Due to new privacy rules, we cannot say which member of the school board made this suggestion. The board will be taking public comment in a small flimsy wooden booth out by the highway. Just enter the damp, dark interior and whisper your comment, and it will be heard. Perhaps not by the school board, but certainly by something.

Tuesday morning, Lee Marvin will be offering free acting classes at the rec center. The class is entitled “Acting is just lying. We’ll teach you how acting is just saying things that aren’t true, with emotions you don’t feel, so that you may fool those watching with these mistruths.” Fortunately, Marvin commented: “Most people don’t want to be told the truth and prefer the quiet comfort of a lie well told.” Classes are pay what you want, starting at 10,000 dollars.

Thursday Josh Crayton will be taking the form of a waterfall in Grove Park, so that neighborhood kids may swim in him. There is not a lot of swimming opportunities in a town as dry as Night Vale, and so this is a generous move on Josh’s part. He has promised that he has been working on the form and has added a water slide and a sunbathing deck. He asks that everyone swim safely and please not leave any trash on him.

Friday, the corn field will appear in the middle of town, right where it does each September, as the air turns cooler and the sky in the west takes on a certain shade of green. The corn field emanates a power electric and awful. Please, do not go into the corn field, as we don’t know what lives in there or what it wants. The City Council would like to remind you that the corn field is perfectly safe. It is perfect and it is safe. 

Finally, Saturday never happened. Not if you know what’s good for you. Got it? This has been the Community Calendar.

Oh! Look at the time. Here I am blathering on and the play is about to end. OK, let me grab my new mini recorder that Carlos got me for my birthday. It’s only 35 pounds and the antenna is a highly reasonable 7 feet. And I’ll see you all there.

Ah. What’s the weather like for my commute?

[Shallow Eyes” by Brad Bensko. https://www.bradbenskomusic.com/]

Carlos and I are at the theatre! The audience is a buzz, with excitement yes, but also many of them are the insects that infest this theatre. The bugs became entranced by the story over the years, passing down through brief generation after brief generation, the history of all that happened before. The story of the play became something of a religion to this creepy crawly civilization. And so now the bugs are jittering on the walls, thrilled to be the generation that gets to see the end of this great tale.

The curtain rises on a scene I recognize well. It is the simple set of a studio apartment. A kitchen, a cot, a window overlooking a brick wall. A man sits in the corner deep in thought. A doorbell rings. “Come on, it’s open,” the man calls. A woman enters. She is very old, tottering unsteadily on legs that have carried for her many many years. “Please take my seat,” the man says with genuine concern. “Thank you,” she says, collapsing with relief onto the cushions and then looking out, as if for the first time, noticing the audience. I know this woman. I first saw her as a baby and later as a 20-year-old. It seems she has lived her whole life on this stage, taking part in this play. “My name,” the woman says, “is Hannah Hershman. I was born in this theatre, clutching a script in my arms that was bigger than I was. My twin, in a way. I started acting in that script of mine before I was even aware of the world. I grew up in that script, lived my entire life in the play I had written from infancy to now.” And she rises, and the man reaches out to help, but she waves him away. She speaks, her- her voice is strong, ringing out through the theatre. “The play ends with my death, because the play is my life. It is bounded by the same hours and minutes that I am.” the audience is rapt, many have tears in their eyes. Even the insects weep. “Thank you for these hundred years,” Hannah Hershman says. “This script is complete.” She walks to the window. “It might look like rain,” she says. “Who knows?” The lights dim.

Thunderous applause, cries of acclaim, and Hannah Hershman dies to the best possible sound a person can hear: concrete evidence of the good they have done in the lives of other humans.

Stay tuned next for the second ever Night Vale Players Playhouse production, now that they finally finished this one. They’re going to do “Godspell”. And from the script of a life I have not yet finished performing, Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Many are called, but few are chosen. And fewer still pick up. Because most calls are spam these days.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Spill

A Dean/Cas 2.7k stay-at-home pwp E-rated fic

Dean always thought it would take more to force him into retirement. Yet here he is, locked in the Bunker until the world figures out a cure for a deadly virus. It could be worse - at least they have a home. He cannot imagine how worse it would be if this happened years earlier, where he and Sam were trapped in a tiny motel room together. Here they have options, and miles of outdoor space they can stroll through if their options become stale.

And they were beginning to. Dean could only do so much indoors. Dean knew he needed to shake things up, but couldn't begin thinking how. Luckily Castiel has an idea, and gives him a new way of looking at their kitchen.

           Dean hears the faucet first. Slows his hurried steps into the kitchen once he realizes someone is already inside. Instead of the frantic jog, Dean enters at a normal pace. Although that turns into a stumbled stop when Dean sees who stands by the running water.

           Castiel glances up, brow raised. Dirt streaked across his face, up his arms, and all over his clothes. The gray fabric of his snug tee darkened by both that and sweat highlighting the curves of his muscles. Jeans hanging from his hips, a peek of orange underwear catching Dean’s eye. Dean cannot linger there so he forces himself down and notices how the fraying hems overhang on his bare feet. He spots muddied boots not far from where the other man stands, socks bunched up in one. “Hello, Dean,” he says, “are you looking for something?”

           Talking is difficult. His already dry throat worsens. He licks at the sand sticking to the corners of his lips. “Need a beer.”

           “Then by all means,” Castiel nods his head at the refrigerator, “I’m not stopping you.”

           Dean waits. Signals cross in their haste, his arms making an aborted reach. When they settle at his side Dean finds his legs moving. He walks two steps and pauses again at the fork.

           If he goes the shorter way, risks entering Castiel’s orbit, he will undoubtedly find himself trapped. But curving around the island would garner unwanted suspicioun. Why make the extra effort if the first route was quicker?

           Castiel watches him now, Dean taking too long in his thoughts. He chooses the former option and steels his will.

           All hope evaporates when Dean’s hand brushes against Castiel’s ass in an unavoidable collision. “Sorry,” he says, beaming, “I thought you were past me already.”

           “No, ah – not there yet,” Dean coughs, scratches his cheek, “but I’m close!” He chuckles lamely. Tapers off when Castiel stays silent. Dean turns and finishes the mission. Grabs his beer and shuts the refrigerator door with a sigh. But he doesn’t leave. Not yet. “What, ah,” he points at Castiel with the neck of the bottle, “what were you doing?”

           Castiel glances at his state and shrugs. “If I told you I was mud wrestling, would you believe me?” The image nearly causes a trip to the infirmary, his grip on the bottle tighter than necessary. Recommended if he wanted glass shards in his hands. “No,” Castiel continues, “I saw that today’s weather called for clear skies and sun. What with the whole stay-at-home orders forcing us into semi-retirement I figured now would be the perfect time to clear off that patch of space. You know, the one we talked about.”

           Dean remembers. Castiel’s eyes glowed without aid from his grace, picturing the different kinds of plants he could grow. Planning where they would go and how it would all look. From conception to helping him buy supplies at Home Depot, Dean helplessly followed Castiel. Lost in his excitement, the tides of it washing him further out into the bottomless seas of Dean’s affection.

           “What I managed to get done, however, was make a mess all over myself.” Castiel held up his one arm as proof, tan skin hidden by patches of filth. “I think planting will be better served for another day.” Castiel frowns, then, skewing his head. Eyes staring through each and every wall Dean built. “What are you doing?”

           “Oh, you know…” he waves his beer, “getting a drink.” Dean finally notices the scant amount of space left between them, Castiel drifting closer at some point. “That I’m… I’m going to drink. So…” He holds the bottle up higher in mock cheers, then opens it. Except his eyes stay with Castiel’s, locked together.

           Castiel has no problem breaking their contest. He glances down, frown deepening with a sigh. Dean trails after and sees what happened.

           His beer. Unknowingly, when he opened it, some of the drink bubbled up and spilled out of its mouth. With Castiel close, some of it splashed on his feet. “Shit,” Dean pulls the bottle closer, wincing, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

           “You really should be more careful Dean,” Castiel says. He gestures at the small puddle, “who’s going to clean that up now?”

          ��“I… I -uh…” Dean had an answer. He did. Then Castiel met his gaze again, this time with furrowed brows and piercing intensity, and the words joined the puddle on the floor. Dean grinned, expression dopey, and blew on the remaining fizz to ease the tension. “Ha?”

           Castiel rolls his eyes. “Idiot…” muttered fondly under breath. He folds his arms over his chest, shifting. Stares at the bottle. “Well?” he asks, “Are you going to drink what’s left? If you were feeling left out in being dirty, I’m sure there were other methods you could have used that didn’t waste beer.” Something glints under Castiel’s eyes after his comment, that startled him.

           A nervous giggle eases free from Dean’s lips before slamming shut into a half-smirk. He brings the bottle up to his mouth and drinks. Although only Castiel’s raven tufts stay in his line of sight, Dean feels the ever-warm gaze of his friend on him. Studying him, thinking.

           There’s more warmth, as Dean feels Castiel’s calloused fingers slide up his neck and squeeze under his jaw. Dean chokes slightly, beer swishing inside his mouth. Blocked, dammed by outside pressure. “Cas?” he asks, gargling his name.

           “Keep drinking Dean,” Castiel tells him. Whispers, his free hand stroking Dean’s hair, “Go on. Keep drinking.”

           Dean tries lowering the bottle. Where Castiel’s arm sat, he cannot bring it fully down. Concerned he switches course, searching for an answer in his friend’s face. Nothing he understands waits for him in the calm smile or unwrinkled skin. When he sees his eyes, Castiel’s normal blue a thin ring around large, black pupils, Dean gets it.

           He nods, wrapping his lips more firmly around the bottle. Beer flows from the glass and into his mouth, cheeks puffing up with drink that circles the drain without going down. His eyes water from the stretch. Dean feels his Adam’s apple bobbing, swallowing more on instinct than by choice. Darkness swirls at his vision as the need for air rears its head.

           With a single cough, it’s over. Dean splutters, bottle pulled away while beer waterfalls out his mouth and onto the floor again. Hacking, gasping, Dean wipes at his chin. Where he feels what little he caught there drying and leaving his skin tacky. Castiel hums, the hand on his neck featherlight while the other continues stroking Dean’s hair. “You happy?”

           “Are you?”

           “What?” Dean clears his throat, glaring at Castiel. Holding onto the island otherwise he would fall into the lake of El Sol.

           “Are you happy with your drink, Dean?” Castiel asks.

           He scoffs, coughing again. “Maybe if I had a chance to actually drink it instead of spitting it back up like some virgin…” Dean blushes, squeezing the empty bottle.

           Castiel shrugs. “How unfortunate…” The gentle scratching at his head turns painful when he grabs a handful of Dean’s hair, an edge of pleasure hovering behind the bite. “I guess the next mess we make… it should be enjoyable for both of us.” He winks, and then uses the hand that once held Dean’s neck to instead squeeze at his junk.

           There was no mistaking the message.

           Still, Dean glanced up at Castiel with wide eyes. He runs his tongue over already sticky lips, “You mean…?” Castiel tilts his head again, smiling wide enough his gums showed.

           Dean dropped with enough speed he made a splash. On autopilot, Dean works Castiel’s cock free with professional carelessness. A man with ten-thousand hours of experience, memories imprinted on the muscles over the years. A master.

           He pushes the jeans low at his knees, and then pushes Castiel up against the island. Castiel groans, tugging on Dean’s hair and coaxing a whine from him. “Good, Dean,” he slurs, one foot sliding forward because of the messy puddle they chose to do this in, “Please…” Dean guides his free hand, the one seizing at his side, up onto the island for support. Finally, he slides fingers around the other man’s cock.

           It’s difficult. Dried beer is not a good substitute for lube. So, after three unsuccessful jerks with his yeasty hand, Dean lets go and swallows Castiel whole. Castiel seizes under him, a leg jumping up and splashing more of the puddle everywhere. There’s another round of hair pulling, enough Dean closes his eyes and sees constellations forming in the shadows.

           “You’re such a good little cocksucker, Dean,” Castiel hisses, “know exactly what to do…” Dean pops off Castiel’s cock, licks a stripe up the underside – from base to swollen head – and then takes it. His length stretches Dean’s mouth, not wide enough that it hurts. Enough, though, Dean can feel the beginning aches in his jaw.

           His hands come into play again, now that the possibility of chaffing Castiel’s cock lessened considerably. One joins his mouth on the shaft, following when he slides up and letting Dean’s mouth push it back towards the base. The other first rests at Castiel’s hip. Thumb kneading the skin with enough force to bruise. When Dean finds the sounds coming from Castiel unsatisfying, it slides a path down. Dean holds his friend’s balls and when his lips are fully stretched, he squeezes.

           Castiel pulls Dean’s head by his hair with a grunt, sliding him away. Although his hips canted forward chasing the loving heat from his mouth. Dean unsheathes the cock from his lips. Instead he drops a chaste kiss on the head, followed by a quick lick at the slit. He hums as the taste of precum sits on his tongue. “You’re a sweet boy, Cas,” Dean says. Drunk with beer on his lips, his skin, and his pants. Everywhere except inside of him. “Love it… love how it’s all for me…”

           “It is. Only you Dean,” Castiel says, twitching under him. “Please, I feel it… please…”

           Dean chuckles, playing with his friend’s balls and eliciting another moan. “Might as well,” he tells him, “what’s one more mess…” Dean slobbers a few more kisses on Castiel’s cock, heart beating furiously at what pleasure it brings both of them. He feels his own length hardening in his pants, fabric tenting, while Castile grinds curses into dust between his teeth.

           Letting go of Castiel’s balls, he scrapples upwards and latches onto the sweaty, dirt-strewn shirt. Bunches it in his fist while he almost tears it. A few stiches ripping open reaches his hears in the midst of pleasure. Dean forgets them immediately with Castiel forcing his cock back into Dean’s mouth.

           “Almost… Dean, take me there. Please…!” Castiel gasps, slamming his hand on the island surface. Dean scoots closer into the open space of his legs, sucking on Castiel’s cock with increased fervor. Desperate for his come.

           Midway over Castiel’s cock, a new sensation joins the orgy. Someone screams, neither Castiel nor Dean. He opens his eyes and sees Sam standing at the entrance. “Sam –“ he says, choking on the hard cock. With teeth scraping the throbbing length, Castiel loses all control. Come shoots down his throat, Dean totally unprepared. He hauls off the other man’s cock, spitting seed onto the floor while more coats his hair and face.

           Sam keeps screaming. “Why are you doing this out here!” he says, back facing them. Frozen outside the kitchen like a guard. “We eat here – we make food here! You two… why? Why?”

           Dean remembers. He and Sam were in the middle of watching a movie in the Dean Cave. Nearing the end, Dean’s bladder could barely wait, and he paused the movie. Left Sam while he scurried off to the bathroom. When finished, Dean figured he had enough time for another beer.

           Except Castiel was an unexpected obstacle.

           “Sam,” Castiel says, curled over, pulling jeans and underwear over his soft dick again, “Sam, what are – I’m so sorry. We’re sorry –“

           “No.” Sam points, as best he can, at them. “No, I… I need space. I need time. I need… a drink.”

           Castiel shrugs. “There are some in the fridge –“

           “Not those.” He sighs, turning partly towards them. Enough for his forehead to rest against the doorway. Eyes screwed shut, he continues. “I think I’ll be seeing that for the rest of my life… I’m – I am going to get drunk. Very drunk. And, if I still remember this in the morning, I will be looking up spells. In the meantime… clean yourselves up.” Sam speeds off, the sound of his steps trailing after him.

           Dean wrings his hands, the burning fire in his gut smothered by Sam’s interruption. It’s a low-burning ember. He intends to keep it like that, along with what’s left of his dignity. “That was… that sure was something,” he says, “really… something.”

           “Dean…”

           “We probably should start cleaning up…” He still sits on his knees. Dean tries standing, except a slight pressure on his chest stops him.

           Castiel lays a foot over his heart, smirking. The layer of blue in his eyes thinned further, barely a speck of color left. Dean is shocked into silence. “I enjoyed what we did very much, Dean,” Castiel says, head skewed to the side, “Did you?”

           Taking longer than Castiel liked, Dean feels the weight on his chest increase. Knocks him back on his knees. “I – I did,” he tells Castiel, “I really did.”

           “I can see.” Castiel’s gaze draws Dean down where his own cock rests, surprisingly half-hard.

           His foot pushes on Dean again, and suddenly his ass soaks in the beer-cum puddle. “What are you doing?”

           “Sam said he’s going to get drunk,” Castiel says, not letting up with the pressure until Dean’s back is on the floor and he stands over him. “And will, most likely, avoid this place until tomorrow morning. Meaning we have as long as we want before we need to worry about cleaning.” He pulls his foot away, a stain of his arch and toes drying on Dean’s shirt. Castiel lowers himself over Dean, lips an inch away from his. “Since we’ve already made this much of a mess… what’s a few more?”

           Dean huffs. His smile blossoming without choice. “That makes perfect sense.” Then he leans forward and kisses Castiel, tongue slipping past and meeting his. Somehow the flavors there mix with the taste of him already in Dean’s mouth, a firework of Castiel exploding and causing every nerve in his brain to melt into goo.

           When Castiel pulls away, Dean whines. His hands lazily tug him back, Castiel chuckling while he swats at them. “Relax Dean,” he says, brushing a thumb at the exposed skin above his hip. Castiel kneels between Dean’s legs, grinning. “I’m still here. Just thinking it’s only fair that I have as much a taste of you as you had of me.”

           Dean whines further, “Blowjob can wait… Wanna kiss –“

           “Dean. Who said anything about a blow job?” Castiel fiddles with the zipper on Dean’s pants, hiking one leg up over his shoulder.

           Dean hauls the other one over Castiel’s adjoining shoulder, kicking at his tightly laced boots. “Kissing can wait.”

           Castiel pulls at a lace, helping Dean with his right boot. After it hits the floor, Castiel presses a light kiss on the sock-covered ankle. While he works on the left boot, Dean hauls him closer and digs his heel into Castiel’s back. He chuckles, “Pushy…”

           “Less being an ass and more ass kissing…”

           “As you wish.” Castiel undoes his jeans. Dean watches him through hooded eyes, at peace on the kitchen floor. Even when he feels the remnants of the beer not soaked up by his clothes touch his exposed ass, Dean barely squirms. The mess doesn’t matter. What does is pressing butterfly kisses at his fluttering hole while a finger circles it. Dean sighs, and what was left of his mind fades into the comforting static of bliss.

           They absolutely fail to meet Sam’s deadline next morning.

[aanotheruniverse]

Something close to my heart I wrote a few years ago

THE SUICIDE CLINIC 

CIARAN HARDIE 

 The Waiting Room Nobody made eye contact at the Suicide Clinic. Everybody knew why you were there. If you are about to kill yourself, small talk is not really a high priority. As George craned his neck to take in the high ceiling, he was reminded of the similarly high ceilings in airports, and the Suicide Clinic is a sort of an airport - a temporary drop-off point between life and death. The Clinics all looked the same inside: spacious, fashionably modern, with wide white corridors, littered with suicide prevention signs and pretentiously artistic glass panels. They were the type of place where the floor squeaks as you drag your feet across it. To George's left side was a black man, in his fifties, whose short hair had started to turn white. Chancing a glance at him, George couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him, and how his life had brought him to this moment. On his left, was an elderly woman clutching a kitsch pink handbag. A man sat in the corner of the room, dressed like a rocker, had his head firmly in his hands. Amidst the waiting room, George felt his individuality and personality slip away; he was just another face in the crowd. He felt, and not just in this moment alone, merely an observant to the world, and not a participant. He was simply being. Nothing happens after death, it’s all just biology and chemistry. Life, George thought, my life, maybe life itself is wholly insignificant objectively, so he had stopped bothering to try to add any subjective meaning to his life either. Although everything is, eventually it will not be, so why bother? Before Emma had taken her own life, George had never really given suicide and the means of suicide much thought, which can be cited as a good thing. Carbon monoxide poisoning is pretty painless, and you could even sleep through it, but there’s a bit of a tedious wait. Best to get it over with as quick as possible with something like hanging, but that’s a tad dark and unpleasant. Suicide bombing would be quick, but George didn’t know the first thing about improvising an explosive. Lethal injection lacks the sex appeal of exploding, or setting yourself on fire, or whatever, and a pill overdose would be too painful. At the Clinics, they provide you with the most sought-after method of suicide - although a difficult commodity to come by in England - a handgun. You would think the handgun would be the ultimate solution to a quick and easy suicide, but all sorts can go wrong. People attempt to shoot themselves from funny angles and often, they shoot only their ears off, or their nose, or part of their chin, and some even miss entirely. If a non-fatal shot were to be fired, there are medics waiting on site at the Clinic, but there would only be one bullet per gun at a time, so you only had one chance to get it right. If you were to miss, you would have to get a new ticket and wait all over again. Once you were dead, the Body Disposers would come and take care of your remains. Afterwards, the room is tidied spotless for the next person. As the unattractive glare from the overly-polished floor caught George’s eye, he was stuck by the institution’s obsession with cleanliness; would people really care if the room they were coming to die in were a little dirty? When George had collected his ticket (Number #227) from the annoyingly pretty receptionist, she had explained the procedure and he had to fill out a form, savouring the Clinic from any responsibility over your imminent death. They also let you choose what you hear before you die. George had known this in advance and had brought with him a CD of himself and Emma talking. One night, a couple of years ago now, Emma had interrupted one of his recording sessions, and he had accidentally left the tape running for hours, and recorded their conversation. They laughed about it and listened to the tape back after realising. Now that she was dead, and things had changed so severely, it felt like a tape from another universe, a relic of a time that now it is over, felt like it had never really existed in the first place. You also got to choose what image was projected in front of you as you die too, and he had brought a photograph of Emma from when he first met her. First there were designer handbags, then designer babies, and now, you could even design your own death. They didn’t want people to kill themselves, but local authorities couldn’t deal with the amount of blood and carcass painting their streets. Washing out the high street every morning, before the foggy-eyed, grey-faced consumers came to... consume, became somewhat of a chore. First there was the Super Hose, which lived up to its name only in its size, and not in efficiency. A team of Body Disposers would hose down the streets and it would all be drained down the newly introduced sewer system - the Bloodstream. The larger pieces, too big to be collanderised, would be put in the back of a lorry and driven off to an infirmary. Naturally, people revolted. They didn’t like the Super Hose, they didn’t like the strewn organs down their high street, and they especially didn’t like the Body Disposers, with their threatening red jumpsuits. George, who was fairly up to date with current affairs, remembered how it all had started: a research team in Europe had been controversially investigating if suicide-prone individuals would be more likely to commit suicide if the process was facilitated for them. George could no longer recall the results of the experiment, and it had become irrelevant now anyway, as the English government had leapt onto the idea, and implemented Suicide Clinics in every major town to cope with the epidemic. A place you could go to kill yourself, and not make so much of a mess for everybody left here still existing once you were gone. 24/7, 365, a place to die. Everywhere had a McDonald’s and a Suicide Clinic. It was supply and demand. People still threw themselves off buildings, however. Some people just refuse to conform to committing in the way they are “supposed” to commit. Drowning maintained a popular alternative too, and it handily came without the dreaded stigma of pavement bombing. There was one case, George remembered, in the news, where one lake was deemed such a spot of idyllic beauty that it had to be dredged due to the sheer number of bodies in it. Of course, the biggest concern to the authorities was simply why were so many people suddenly killing themselves? What had happened in order to make suicide rates increase tenfold? Even now, nobody really knows. As George’s mind wandered the history of the Clinics, he ran in to the question that had driven him in to one of them. Why, like all the other hundreds of thousands of people, had Emma killed herself? She was the one who had handled the break-up; she was the one who’d carried on with her life and her degree and seemed unchanged by things. George was the one who had been made redundant; the one who begged for her back; the one whose life had shrivelled up to being no more than an exercise of misery. Yet two weeks ago to the day, George had received the news: Emma, like all the others, had walked in to a Suicide Clinic, collected her ticket, waited her turn, and ended her life. 14 days of looking for answers had driven George to do the same. Still, in this waiting room, as he anticipated his death, George couldn’t help but wonder why? TPs (Technological People) - “Robots” had been deemed a derogatory term - had certainly had something to do with the other suicides. If there was a TP that could do your job, within a few weeks, you would be out of work. That’s what had happened to George, who was once a recruitment consultant for the IT industry, but now there was a computer that could do his job better, and for free. Conglomerates totally replaced the working human race with TPs. As you would conduct your life; shopping, eating, working, living, you were no longer greeted by human faces, but by metallic, dead-eyed, machines. Technology had sucked all the life out of the world, and days and weeks could go by without seeing another human face. Human social interaction all but died out, and friendship can no longer exist in these conditions, unless it is virtual. George wondered all the time, what is everybody doing? The human race has never been so unproductive. After millennia of rapid evolution in the right direction, we have just ceased. We slowed down, and then we stopped altogether. Nobody is doing anything, they are just existing. Observants, and not participants. That’s the fundamental problem, George thought, people’s lives aren’t worth living anymore, and the people are realising it. Shit, he was realising it after all, and now had come to do the same as all the others. A collective air of nihilism is present at every turning. We are opting out of the game; we just don’t want to play any more. Every day, another lieu of faces at the Clinic, another batch of people who won’t play, if they don’t see the point in playing. The cliches about finding yourself, determining your own happiness, and bringing meaning in to your own life don’t stick anymore, and the futility overwhelms. What’s the fucking point? They want an objective answer to that question. George became aware that he had started breathing heavily, and tried to decelerate his thinking, and calm himself down. He realised he had been clutching his right thigh very hard, and let go. He looked around the room once more; everybody shared the same expression of utter resignation. In the 54th minute since George had collected his ticket (#227), the silence in the room reached a no longer bearable decibel, and his fidgeting could no longer oppress his discomfort. Desperately, George wanted to engage the rest of the room in conversation. He had no idea what he wanted to say to all of these strangers, but the urge was definitely there. Feeling an excruciating sensation rise up in to his chest, George found himself on his feet and then over at the annoyingly pretty ticket- giver’s desk. “Hi”, George spoke, with no idea what he was doing. “Hi”, the ticket-giver looked up at him with an ill-disguised look of animosity. “Er, do you reckon I could, like, wait somewhere else? Is there like a private waiting room?” “Does there seem to be a problem with this waiting room?” “No, it’s not that, it’s just, I feel, uncomfortable waiting around with all these strangers”. “Sir, I can assure you that everybody feels the same. Please take your seat”. “Okay, well that doesn’t make anybody feel any better”. “Sir, please take your seat and wait for your number to be called”. George opened his mouth to respond, but found himself heading back to his seat. Across the room, sitting with her legs crossed, was Emma. George blinked in incredulity, but she was still there. She gave him a flirtatious wave. George got to his feet and tentatively walked across the room. “Yes?”, said the girl, and after a beat, “Can I help you?” “No. Sorry. I just thought you were someone else.” Back in his seat, George mentally kicked himself for being so stupid. She’s dead, he told himself, she’s dead. “Seeing me everywhere are you, George?”, Emma’s voice hit his ears, “Can’t get me out of your head?” The black man was no longer sitting to the left of George. Instead, Emma was there, with her perfect legs and tangled brown mane of hair. Laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, George replied, “Can’t get you out of my head? Well that’s why I’m here isn’t it?” “What if it doesn’t work though?”, said Emma, as if the idea gave her great pleasure, “What if after you kill yourself there’s some sort of afterlife based on your living psychology? What if your eternity is me?” “Then I’ll have to find a a way to kill myself again”. “You can only kill yourself once, silly”. “Oh I know, it’s a grand shame, I would have done it loads by now, if I could. I’d wake up every morning any kill myself” “So dramatic”. Even a hallucinatory image of Emma could still get right under George’s skin. “You always call me dramatic, when you’re the one that’s dramatic” “You’re the one who’s speaking to a dead girl”. Anger swelled in George but before he could release a venomous retort, Emma was gone, and the black man was back in her place. “Okay, number 227, you’re up next”, the ticket-giver’s announcement brought George back to reality. “If you’d like to follow me”. Checking his ticket, George got to his feet yet again and followed her out of the waiting room and down a narrow, white corridor. The gravity of the situation hit George at once, and he felt the need to gag. When they reached the menacing black door, George stifled his queasiness. George resented himself for not wanting to embarrass himself in front of the ticket-giver. “Everything in the room will be exactly as you’ve been told”, she said, “The sound will already be playing, and when you enter the room, the image you’ve chosen will be projected in front of you. The gun is on a platform right in the centre of the room, you can’t miss it”. She held the black door open for him, and George entered the last room he would ever enter. The door closed behind him, and he was left alone. The CD of George and Emma was already playing over the sound system, and his stomach continued to churn unpleasantly. But, there was no image being projected. Rather, Emma herself was standing in front of George, looking as she had in the photo George had chosen. Her school uniform brought out her immaturity, and George felt a twinge as this is how she had looked when he had first fallen in love with her. “Of course you chose to have an image of me where I’m in my school uniform. You’re such a perv”, she said, purposefully emphasising her disdain. “This is how you looked when I first met you”. “Yeah, before you knew me. Before you knew you couldn’t control me, and I wasn’t really just a little girl. You put me in this uniform because you want to keep up the charade of me loving you and you controlling me”. How could she still be torturing me, George thought. Even now, after she’s gone, she’s still hellbent on torturing me. “It wasn’t a charade”, George replied, flatly. “I didn’t love you, George. I never did. I was young, I didn’t know”. “That doesn’t mean anything. You still loved me”. He was yelling already; George was always quick to yell at her, as she had liked to point out when she was still alive. “No I didn’t, George”. At times like these, George didn’t know if he loved her or hated her. Clearly, the more obvious feeling was hate, and every single word she said was like a personal calculated insult to him. And yet, he was so willing to get her to submit to him and admit that she loved him. “I wish I could still kill you. I wish you weren’t dead, purely for that reason. I want to bring you back to life just to choke you with my bare fucking hands”. “Well, I’m here. And hey, you don’t even need to use your hands. There’s a gun”. George was totally disoriented, and things had stopped making sense altogether... maybe he was already dead. He didn’t know, but with immense satisfaction, he picked up with gun and pulled the trigger. It was a perfect shot, hitting her square in the temple, and blood that was so dark it was more black than red, began to gush from the wound. She stayed standing. “What the fuck?” George looked around and hit himself in the face, trying to put a stop to the insanity, “Why aren’t you dead?” “George, silly, you think that’s going to kill me. This isn’t what it looks like; you’re still in the waiting room”. The walls around George warped and blurred until he realised he was in fact, still sitting in his chair in the waiting room. Emma was now sitting in the ticket-giver’s chair behind the desk, and she teased George from across the room, “Think you’re going crazy, George? Think you’re losing it yet?” “I have nothing to lose”, he muttered. “Seriously! All the fucking drama all the fucking time!” She seemed to be completely unaware of the fact that she was provoking him. “Shut the fuck up”. He had to end it, and a force comparable to nothing he had felt before flung him to his feet and he made his way over to the desk. He was going to hit her... he was going to hit her so fucking hard... And she vanished again, out of thin air, leaving George trembling on his feet in the middle of the waiting room. Knowing her next move, he turned around and as he expected, saw her sitting in his chair, looking very casual, and very, very happy. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. “You can’t smoke in here”. Now, standing outside of the Clinic, each puffing on a cigarette, George racked his brain once more for answers. “You didn’t get this done, I don’t believe you. I know there’s something else going on here; this type of shit wouldn’t make sense to you”. “Because you know me so well?” God, why can’t she just turn it off for one second, George thought to himself. “Okay, maybe you’re right, maybe I don’t know you at all. I think that sometimes, that I just had it wrong the whole time. That we were so close and yet at the same time, we really didn’t know each other at all. But we spent 4 years together, Emma, I know for a fact that you did not kill yourself. You wouldn’t go to once of these places”. He was certain of it. “But you would, I know that. You have, after all”. “Only because you did”. “But you just said I didn’t do it!” “Okay, only because you allegedly did it!” “That’s not fun. You’re just gunna give up? You’re not gunna figure it out?” “I can’t figure you out”. “Draaaaaaamaaaaa”. A sigh escaped George. “Come on, George, if I killed myself, I wouldn’t have used this place. I would have just done it, you know, jumped off a bridge or slit my fucking wrists or something. I wouldn’t have come and sat in a queue and all this shit. Come on, you know I wouldn’t have done that”. “I don’t know why I’m here”. This was the truest thing George had said in recent memory. “You would’ve ended up at this place, whether you thought I had or not. This is so George; it’s got your name written all over it. You were always gonna kill yourself.” “I dunno. I guess, although everything is, eventually it will not be... So why bother?” “Come on, George, think. What happened to me?” George furrowed his brow, and concentrated. He visualised Emma, and his memories of Emma, trying to remember every moment they had shared together, in the hope of something somewhere igniting an epiphany. He remembered walking down his old suburban street with her, hand in hand. She would always instinctively take his hand, and not taking her hand would always cue an argument. He remembered how when she had so suddenly fallen out of love with him, how she had flinched when he had tried to touch her. He longed for the days when she would take his hand, without him having to take hers. Deeper memories... he remembered hugging her late one night down the high street after a comment from a tramp had made her cry. How something so stupid like a comment from a tramp could have shattered her, and made her need him. How truly fragile she had been underneath her tough demeanour. He remembered the smell of her hair, the smooth of her legs, and then, he remembered the sensation of her legs pressed against his head, and his tongue inside her vagina. He remembered how she would wither and moan, and clutch at the bedsheets. Was any of it real? Everything is so brief. Everything feels like it wasn’t true, like it was just a delusion, George thought. To him, everything just felt like some fucked up chemical imbalance in his brain. Too many drugs. Too much TV. But her, such a pretty, perfect thing. She had to have been real, the only real thing in a sea of distortion. Although everything is, eventually it will not be... George jolted in his chair in the waiting room. Emma was gone. The elderly woman sitting to George’s right turned to him, and said, “Were you thinking about eating out my pussy?” “What?!” George said, flabbergasted. It took a moment for Emma to take the place of the elderly woman. “I said were you thinking about eating my pussy? You were, weren’t you? Your lip quivers when you think about cunnilingus, George. I’m dead, you know, isn’t that a bit necrophilic?” “You’re not fucking dead!”, George yelled at the top of his lungs, and as he did, all the lights in the Clinic abruptly turned off, and all the people around George and Emma became immobile. Emma erupted in to tears and teared towards the door to the corridor. He couldn’t let her get away, she had to answer for this, so he pelted after her down the long, white corridor, calling after her. “Emma, wait! Emma! Emma! Come back!” She was impossibly quick, quicker than Emma had really been, quicker than anyone had ever been. George reached another door which had no handle, and began banging on it. “Emma, let me in! Emma, let me in, let me in now!” Emma called back from the other side of the door, her voice thick with authentic terror, “Leave me alone! I’m scared.” “I’m nothing to be fucking scared of Emma!” She had always said she was scared. Knowing she wouldn’t submit to persuasion alone at the time being, George kicked down the door which came off with surprising ease. George found himself in his flat kitchen, just as he had left it this morning before heading out. Emma was darting across the flat towards the front door, but he managed to catch up and grab her arm as she tried to negotiate her way around the furniture. “LET GO OF ME!” she squealed, still crying. “Emma, wait!”, there was tremendous force in George’s voice, “Listen to me”. “You’re fucking hurting me, George”. “How could you do that to me?!”, he screamed square in to her face, “How could you fuck those other guys! You’re fucking evil!” “Then let me go! Let me go, George, now!” Without thinking, he punched her and she fell to the floor. She was still fighting back, and with all his strength, he restrained her and, still without thinking, began to strangle her. She gasped and clawed at his face with her nails, but he wasn’t to be stopped. She pressed her thumbs in to his eye sockets, momentarily blinding him, and when he regained his vision, he was back in the waiting room. The lights were still off, the people around were still all in a dead sleep, and Emma was still in the place of the elderly woman. “Oooh, maybe that’s what happened!”, she said with tantalising excitement, “Maybe you killed me! What if you’re crazy? Like, like actually crazy. What if you killed me and you don’t even remember killing me?” “Emma, shut up. This is serious”. “What? Is it not dramatic enough for you?” The anger George had felt had climaxed with the sensation of asphyxiating her, and now he felt nothing but sad. “Were you scared of me, Emma?”, he asked. “Yes”. “Why?” “You’re obsessive, George. It’s too much. It’s scary”. The words instantly drew tears out of George’s eyes, and he wept. “Don’t you care that you hurt me?” Emma exhaled, and sounded more serious than she was normally capable of being. “You stole my childhood, George. You scandalised me”. “What fucking good is a childhood anyway! Hey! Who wants one!”, the notion of a spoilt childhood brought back George’s anger as if it hadn’t gone anywhere. She looked back at him with the same repulse that he recalled vividly from their last ever encounter. She spoke the same words, “I’m gonna go now”. George clutched her shoulder and searched her eyes for the person he once knew. “No, please, please don’t go Emma, not again. Don’t make me do this, please, please don’t leave me”. “See you on the other side, George” “NOOOO!” She had evaporated. The lights to the Clinic turned back on, and the people around came back to life. But George was really screaming this time, and the people around him jumped back in their seats. He wasn’t able to get out any words, he was just wailing at the top of his lungs. The ticket-giver instantly dashed out of her seat and over to George. “Sir, please, calm down, sir, sir, please, if you’d like to come with me”. “Fuck off!”, George mustered and threw his shoulder away from her as she tried to touch it. Two especially muscly Body Disposers with vacant faces barged in to the waiting area and each grabbed one of George’s arms. George was taken aback by their strength, and started flailing his legs around. The people in the waiting room looked in horror as George shouted, “No! This is wrong! This is all wrong!” The Body Disposers dragged George out of the waiting room, down the white corridor, and through yet another door. This time they had entered a much smaller room than any of the others, and the walls all matched the red of the Disposer’s ghastly jumpsuits. Before George could react, one of the Body Disposers was injecting him with a foul-smelling blue liquid. “What the fuck is that?!” George exclaimed. Nobody responded. After he had been injected, the Body Disposers softened their grip on him and he was able to break free, push the ticketgiver out of the way, and he flung open the door and began sprinting for the waiting room. The Disposers and the ticket-giver gave chase, and his feet slipped on the squeaky corridor floor. George felt as though his legs were filling up with concrete, and movement became an increasing struggle. His back hunched and he felt as though something invisible was pulling him down to the floor. Still, he pushed on and reached the waiting room door, and without a second of conscious-decision making, flung himself at the black man’s feet. “Don’t kill yourself. Please. Please, don’t kill yourself”. A few people jumped to their feet, and even the rocker with his head in his hands looked up at the commotion. The man looked back at him as if George had just asked for his hand in marriage. The concrete sensation as now filling his entire body, and he felt like an anchor was forcing him through the ground. “DON’T KILL YOURSELVES”, George screamed at the rest of the waiting room, and before the Body Disposers grabbed him again, he fell to the floor, unconscious.

[mentalhealthsblog]

Psychological Wellness Maintenance Is Produced Basic

Your mental health is typically substantially enhanced when you use the methods Dr. Kuhn teaches in this report. When you are capable to expertise this improvement, your associations blossom, career paths open, and folks find you eye-catching and obtainable. You deserve to have enjoyable and pleasure in your daily life - and Cliff Kuhn, M.D. will aid you do that. In the traditional Frank Capra film, It really is a Wonderful Life, George Bailey's mental overall health is confused by the problems of his existence and he needs he'd never ever been born. Mental Health George's guardian angel grants his desire and normally takes him to a grim fact as it would've been with out him. George feels nothing when he reaches into his coat pocket to retrieve the flower his daughter, Zuzu, put there - and that is when George understands that his want has appear accurate...he is never been born. 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As we transfer into adulthood, we regrettably acquire into the idea that accountable and productive folks must be "critical." As we make the largest mistake of our lives and relegate our humor character and enjoyable to recreational activities (if we encounter entertaining at all), we doom ourselves to all the indicators of the corresponding seriousness that fills the void - declining overall health, climbing tension, increased discomfort, lessened power, impaired creativeness, and a lot more. The good news for your mental health, nonetheless, is that we know how to shrink your fatal seriousness to virtually nothing at all and lessen nearly entirely the sway it holds more than your health, vitality, wellness, and zest. The natural medication of humor is an incredibly potent source that you previously have you've got only forgotten how to use it to greatest effectiveness. 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Step Two: Act and Interact Smiling qualified prospects us correct into the second Fun Commandment you will uncover instrumental in keeping your psychological well being: Act and Interact. Humor's all-natural medication functions best when we are sharing ourselves and this Commandment will instruct you how to capitalize on the manage you've got taken above your physiology and mood by smiling. Performing and interacting is now less difficult for you to do since you're smiling more. Not only is your mood improved, but your smile is also a nice invitation to other individuals. My recommendation is that you solidify the energy of this Commandment by location a affordable goal with regards to the variety of men and women you will interact with each working day. These social interactions are fantastic for your mental health, forcing you to trade details and suggestions with yet another person. Blended with your commitment to smiling, your interactions need to be enjoyable, simply because your heightened vitality, lessened ache, and decreased stress stages are really desirable to others. Over and above maintaining you out of isolation, there is another reason why acting and interacting with the people you encounter fosters improved psychological well being. It makes it possible for you to steer clear of spiritual "flat tires." Religious flat tires occur when you sidestep, or avoid, an interaction that is about to happen by natural means - you duck into an place of work to avoid encountering a person in a hallway or you never answer the mobile phone because you don't want to discuss to the person calling. This kind of avoidance drains and deletes your reservoir of effective normal energy and siphons your psychological health reserves. Business Name: O'Brien & Associates Inc Address: 1467 Siskiyou Blvd Ste 2027 Ashland, OR 97520 7052 Santa Teresa Blvd Ste 1044 San Jose, CA 95139 3157 Gentilly Blvd #2198 New Orleans, LA 70122 10673 W Lake Hazel Rd Ste 1009 Boise, ID 83709 1500 Chestnut St Ste 1784 Philadelphia, PA 19102 11816 Inwood Rd Ste 3147 Dallas, TX 75244 Email: intake@obrienassociatesinc.com Working Hours: 7 days a week 8 AM to 8 PM

[route22ny]

Once it reaches the Great Lakes Water Authority's (GLWA) treatment plants, water is pulled from the mix, sanitized, and discharged into the Detroit River. What's left behind at the treatment plants is sewage sludge — a highly toxic, semi-solid blend of human feces and every pollutant that was discharged into the sewers.          

Despite the fact that it teems with potentially dangerous chemicals, the sludge is then spread on farmland.        

Nutrients in human excrement, like phosphorus and nitrogen, help plants grow, so sewerage departments across the country lightly treat sludge and repackage it as a fertilizer called "biosolids" that are given away or sold for cheap to farmers.        

Biosolids are a "valuable resource" that has been "shown to produce significant improvements in crop growth and yield," according to the Environmental Protection Agency, which approved the practice in the mid-1990s. By 2018, more than 50% of the approximately 130 million wet tons of sludge the nation produced annually was applied to farmland.          

But the practice is increasingly controversial. Public health advocates say any amount of the approximately 90,000 synthetic chemicals in existence, from VOCs to BPAs to PCBs, can be represented in sludge. It can also be packed with superbugs, parasites, worms, hormones, viruses, and bacteria that aren't killed in the treatment process.          

Studies show the pollutants are carried to farmland, taken up by crops, and can end up on dinner plates. That's fueling a growing number of biosolid-linked public-health crises that are making people sick, polluting drinking water, and pitting farmer against farmer.          

In Michigan, officials are discovering sludge packed with toxic PFAS, and a growing alliance of farmers, public health advocates, and environmentalists are calling for a ban on spreading the substance on cropland.          

"The best solution is to get this stuff off the market," says Christy McGillivray, legislative director of the Sierra Club of Michigan. "Anything that was flushed down the toilet — any hazardous chemical that we use in our everyday systems — winds up in a wastewater treatment plant, so there are a lot of questions about biosolids' safety."          

Municipalities in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Florida, among others, have prohibited biosolids, while Maine has restricted their use. In 2003, Switzerland became the first country to outlaw them, and businesses like Whole Foods and Del Monte tell Metro Times they won't buy crops grown in sludge.          

But the powerful waste-management industry and regulators are resistant to prohibition. Sludge is an expensive byproduct that's difficult to dispose of, and selling it to farmers is a cheap solution to the problem. In a statement to Metro Times, the GLWA — which churns out more biosolids than any of the nation's other sewerage authorities — insisted its sludge is safe.          

Though state regulators "expect" PFAS to be present in sludge, Scott Dean, a spokesman with the Michigan Department of Environment, Great Lakes, and Energy (EGLE), downplayed the threat to human health.          

"Due to the fact that biosolids themselves are applied in low amounts in relation to the soil mass in a farm field, they would not be expected to accumulate to the extent to cause adverse effects to public health or the environment," he said.         

He noted that EGLE is forcing many PFAS polluters to stop discharging the chemical into sewers, but the state doesn't plan to test for most of the other 90,000 chemicals that exist.        

                           'You're going to drop dead'                                                         

In a scathing 2018 report, the EPA's Office Of Inspector General wrote that it found 352 contaminants, including 61 it classified as "acutely hazardous, hazardous, or priority pollutants" in biosolids it tested. Among other substances, it detected PFAS, pharmaceuticals, steroids, and flame retardants.          

Despite the potential for high toxicity, federal law only requires wastewater treatment plants to consistently monitor for nine heavy metals, intermittently test for other contaminants and kill most pathogens and living organisms by using heat or dolomitic lime. The latter lowers the ph to make it more acidic and inhospitable to organisms.          

The EPA's OIG found the agency can't properly regulate sludge because it doesn't have the tools to assess the safety of all the other pollutants found in biosolids.          

"Biosolids [have] everything that goes down the drain from funeral homes to slaughterhouses to everyone's toilet that's hooked up to the sewer system," says David Lewis, a former EPA microbiologist opposed to the use of biosolids. "All of these things are unsafe, according to scientific literature, so how does adding lime and putting it on land make it safe?"          

Moreover, individual chemicals that aren't dangerous on their own can become toxic when mixed. Lewis likens the situation to going into a pharmacy, grabbing different bottles off the shelf, and swallowing pills.          

"You're going to drop dead, and that's what we're doing with sludge," Lewis says.          

A growing body of evidence highlights the risks. A 2013 University of North Carolina study found 75% of people living near farms that spread biosolids experienced health issues like burning eyes, nausea, vomiting, boils, and rashes. A University of Georgia study found similar issues, while others living near sludge fields have contracted MRSA, a penicillin-resistant "superbug."        

Lewis investigated two deaths near fields where sludge was spread and found that the substance triggered reactions that killed the two people. More recently, he's linked the substance to autism.          

In Georgia, sludge killed an entire herd of cows. In Maine and New Mexico, farmers last year had to put down herds of cows found to be filled with PFAS and producing toxic milk. Last week, officials in Maine discovered cows teeming with the highest levels of PFAS ever found in the animals. Meanwhile, biosolid treatment centers are sources of air and water pollution — the substance is thought to be partly responsible for toxic algae blooms in the Great Lakes and Florida.          

                              A brief history of sewage sludge                                                          

Before the 1973 Clean Water Act (CWA), industry discharged its waste directly into the nation's waterways. Rivers became so polluted that those in industrial regions like Michigan and Ohio regularly caught fire.          

The CWA mandated a proliferation of wastewater treatment plants that would take in human and industrial waste via the nation's expanding sewer system, then spit out clean water into its rivers.          

America's waters quit burning, but the solution presented a new problem — sewage sludge. At first, it was dropped in the ocean, but that created large dead zones. Then industry tried burning it, but that often violated the Clean Air Act.          

Despite the fact that sludge was too toxic for the ocean or air, the EPA in 1993 approved a rule change that would allow it to be spread on farmland. Lewis says scientists at the agency uniformly opposed the idea, but leadership pressed forward with approval.          

"Not a single study demonstrated that this practice was safe," he adds.          

These days, when sludge isn't spread on farmland, it's either landfilled or, in some cases, incinerated with pollution controls.          

                                 Raising a stink in rural Michigan                                                           

Several years ago, Yankee Springs resident Willard Case made an alarming discovery — nitrate levels in his property's wells had spiked.          

While nitrates are found naturally in groundwater, and at low levels aren't a problem, high levels can cause health problems, especially for children and pregnant women. Case contacted local health authorities, but says they only instructed him to dig more wells to find clean water.          

However, his attempts to do so only yielded contaminated water, and Case says the source of the contamination is obvious: A neighboring business had applied one million gallons of sludge to its property, while two other farmers in the small farm town 35 minutes south of Grand Rapids filled their fields with biosolids.          

Case says he contacted EGLE and the agency found PFAS in the sludge, but it isn't initiating a cleanup. It tested for PFAS, but Case says he's worried about other chemicals that could be in the biosolids or in his well. He calls the situation "disturbing."          

"They're only checking for PFAS because that's the loudest bell ringing, but I think there are other chemicals in there," Case says. "They're injecting the ground with this stuff and impregnating it with chemicals that we can't control. We're going to lose these beautiful farm fields."          

Case's problems with his neighbors' sludge is emblematic of the types of disputes playing out in rural areas across Michigan. Neighbors of farmers who spread sludge say they fear well contamination and pollution of local waterways that serve entire farm communities. Several farmers told Metro Times that the smell is terrible. Don Dickerson, a farmer with land in Michigan and Ohio, said he found his home and property coated in sludge dust after his neighbor applied it.                                  

While Michigan municipalities can't specifically prohibit farmers from spreading sludge, Summerfield Township, which sits about 20 miles west of Monroe, passed a broad waste disposal ordinance that covers potential contamination and is applicable to all industries.          

Summerfield Township Supervisor John Chandler says the township's leaders are responding to a public health need and demand from residents who don't want it spread near their homes.          

"Maybe sludge is safe and maybe it's not so safe," Chandler says. "But it's too risky. We stand on that as a township, and say 'Go spread it somewhere else' because we don't want it here. Nobody I know is for sludge, and I would say anybody who would be for it is likely a farmer who wants free fertilizer."          

The earth in the region around Summerfield is cracked and filled with sinkholes, Chandler adds, and that makes sludge especially risky in terms of contaminating groundwater and wells.          

"My worry is what the heck is in it?" Chandler asks. "And how would you ever remediate that?"          

Is free fertilizer worth the cost and risk?         

Case says there's too much at stake.                                  

"It's crazy — they're playing Russian roulette with our health," he says.          

                                    PFAS: A farm-to-table toxin                                                            

For years, Michigan regulators told residents that biosolids were safe as farmers unknowingly spread PFAS-laden sludge on cropland. Then it became clear that PFAS presents a threat to human health.          

Over the last two years, EGLE discovered PFAS in sludge at 41 wastewater treatment plants, but the agency has only tested about a quarter of the state's 400 facilities. It ultimately ordered five plants to stop sending sludge to farmers.          

Public health advocates say the PFAS issue highlights biosolids' fundamental problem — no one knows what other dangerous chemicals are lurking in it.          

"Regulators completely miss emerging contaminants — like PFAS — as well as pharmaceuticals and a whole host of other chemicals used widely today that find their way into crops," says Colin O'Neil, legislative director at Environmental Working Group, which tracks PFAS contamination.          

PFAS, or per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances, are toxic chemicals used to make a wide range of products water- and stain-resistant. About 7,500 varieties exist, and those that have been studied are linked to cancer, thyroid disorders, autoimmune disorders, deformities in newborns, liver disease, and a range of other serious health issues.          

Current surface water recommendations are set at 70 parts per trillion for PFOS and PFOA — two types of PFAS — in drinking water. In sludge, the state has found an alarming median of nearly 70,000 ppt in sludge, though there are no environmental quality standards for biosolids.          

State records pulled from the MIWaters website show how the dangerous chemicals can make their way from industry to Michiganders' food.          

In November 2018, a US Ecology-owned toxic-waste landfill in Van Buren Township discharged water with PFOS levels as high as 60 ppt. Records show neighboring landfills sent out water with levels as high as 420 ppt.          

En route to a wastewater treatment plant, that mixed with PFAS-laden discharge from the region's other industries. The plant treated the sludge and produced biosolids with 25 different types of PFAS totaling over 32,000 ppt.          

The biosolids were then shipped out to farmers and spread onto cropland or sent to landfills. Though there are no limits on PFAS in biosolids, the 32,000 ppt should raise alarm, O'Neil says.          

"Where they're finding PFAS, [farmers] need to be alerted to that fact, as that might inform whether or not they choose to spread biosolids on the farm in the first place," he says.          

In a written statement to Metro Times, Dean says EGLE doesn't directly alert farmers when high levels of the chemicals are found in sludge.          

                          'We can all surmise that it's not good'                                                             

So how much PFAS and other dangerous contaminants ultimately make it to our food? That's unclear, but there's evidence that it does, and that's especially true for PFAS, which easily move through the environment.          

Still, regulators haven't acted quickly, and there's no clear picture of the health impact, says Denise Trabbic-Pointer, a former DuPont chemist who now tracks PFAS contamination for the Sierra Club.          

"We can all surmise that it's not good, but nobody knows what the number is," she says. "I wish that [regulators] would put a little more effort into looking at it, worrying about it, and following through on it."          

A recent veterinary study found that sludge caused reproductive problems in sheep grazing in fields on which farmers spread sludge. The findings "highlight potential risks" for humans and animals, said Dr. Richard Lea, the study's author.        

"There are quite worrying implications for female fertility in the human," he wrote, adding that "there's a very high chance" that the chemicals would end up in humans who eat the meat.          

Researchers found the sheep had absorbed high levels of phthalates and PCBs, which each cause a range of serious health problems like cancer and early puberty in children.          

Multiple other studies found pharmaceuticals and other chemicals in plants grown in sludge.          

In Maine, farmers who spread biosolids on a cattle farm have blood with the highest PFAS levels on record in a Maine resident.          

Even though Michigan agriculture officials have acknowledged that PFAS are in the state's cows, an official said last year that regulators won't test milk, for fear of the damage it could do to the dairy industry.          

                                          Safe sludge?                                                             

EGLE's Dean, however, notes that the state is taking some serious steps to reduce PFAS levels in sludge. In some cases, PFOA and PFOS levels dropped by about 90% after EGLE identified industries discharging the chemicals into sewers and required them to stop doing so.          

EGLE is also testing fields on which contaminated biosolids have been spread to determine how much PFAS is in soil and crops. That will give regulators a clearer picture of how much of the chemical moves from the sewer to Michiganders' dinner plates. PFAS have already been found in corn in a Lapeer field.          

"EGLE is a leader in studying PFAS in biosolids through our work to protect public drinking water from these contaminants," Dean says.          

In a written statement sent to Metro Times, the Great Lakes Water Authority stressed that it follows the law in testing for contaminants and said it monitors for new pollutants of concern, like PFAS.          

"As regulatory agencies identify emerging pollutants, GLWA works with the agencies to develop and implement plans to minimize or eliminate the pollutant from our wastewater discharge," a spokesperson wrote.          

But critics say there are flaws in EGLE's approach. It's only regulating two of the 7,500 types of PFAS, though it will soon start testing for five more. It also doesn't consider the cumulative total of each type of PFAS. In a hypothetical scenario, water could have dozens of different types of PFAS that collectively present a dangerous level of the chemicals. But if each is below its individual recommended limit, then it's considered safe.          

Despite the uncertainty, Dean says EGLE won't act until it can be proven that the PFAS levels in biosolids are unsafe. He also claimed that there isn't evidence to show that all varieties of PFAS found in water are toxic. However, there's a growing body of data that shows all PFAS present a danger — including the chemical companies' own science and reports from the EPA.         

The state's approach puts residents' health and safety second to industry, says McGillivray. She argued that the state should gather data to prove that sludge is safe before allowing it to be spread on the state's food supply.          

Moreover, even if all the PFAS are removed from sludge, "every toxic organic chemical that exists on the planet, and everything in municipal and industrial waste remains," says former EPA scientist Lewis.          

"When you potentially mix every chemical that exists, you get a mixture that has everything in the universe of pollutants, neurotoxins, carcinogens — you can't get away from that," Lewis adds. "So pulling one chemical out of the universe isn't going to make a difference."

***

    https://www.metrotimes.com/detroit/toilet-to-table-michigan-farmers-feed-crops-with-toxic-brew-of-human-and-industrial-waste/Content?oid=25017830     

[seizethecarpe]

Seal Vibes || Skylar and Dave

Timing: Current Parties: @theskyeandsea @seizethecarpe Summary: After Skylar ghosts him when Dave confirms he’s a selkie, the pair run into each other 

Skylar had never replied to his message about being a selkie, which had made Dave all kinds of nervous, but he wasn’t about to go chasing her like some goose. There were a whole number’a reasons why people didn’t want to talk about themselves, not all of them that nefarious. Not to mention, he couldn’t help but think of her as a nervous lost pup, from how she’d flailed in the waters, and looked all kinds of young when soaked wet. So he didn’t think too much about it, until he spotted her one day, walking in the shopping area. “Hey, SKylar,” he called, waving to catch her attention, considering how little she’d been able to hear before. 

After her encounter with Jared at the lake a week ago, Skylar was feeling… better. Not about the situation-- she was decidedly not okay with someone else finding out about her selkie nature, much less seeing her like that. But, at least her symptoms had disappeared for the time being. The vials of Bliss remained hidden in her desk and after what she’d seen in the mirror at the carnival, she was hesitant to reach for them again. But, for the time being, she didn’t need them. The days immediately after shifting, she always felt better. Which is why she was out and about, enjoying the warm summer breeze as she walked around the downtown shopping area. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just window shopping, really. As she looked at one of the stranger knicknack shops, she heard her name called out and glanced up. The color drained from her face as she saw that it was the man who’d rescued her from the sudden flood-- Dave. The selkie. Letting out a squeak of shock, Skylar froze in panic. Oh no. Mmmmmmmm, Nope, no, no, no. This wasn’t good.

Dave didn’t realise until he got up close why she wasn’t moving, Instead of waiting for him to meet up with her, her eyes were wide with shock, and he didn’t need to be able to see well to know that she was trembling. He slowed his gait and came to a stop a few feet away from her. Maybe she thought he was some kinda threat to her. Maybe she’d had a bad run in with a selkie in the past, maybe she didn’t know as much as it’d seemed. All bad options, and he didn’t want to frighten her further. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, looking all friendly like, as much as a six foot guy with deep scars all over him could.  “You alright?” He signed. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Skylar’s hands twitched at her sides, nervously fingerspelling letters too quickly for anyone to catch. As he walked up, she was able to get a better look at the man-- she had been too startled and shaken by nearly drowning to notice just how… scarred he looked. His face was a spider web of scars and it only made her wonder just what had happened to him. Had some monster gotten a hold of him? Reminded of the scar that stretched across the back of her calf, she wondered if a hunter had done that. Barely catching his sign, Skylar shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “I’m okay, I didn’t expect to see you here.” She signed back at him, unsure of what else to say. She’d left him on read weeks ago, too stunned and shaken by his revelation to say anything more. “You-- Are-- Is everything--” Her fingers stutter started through the words, her mind too taken off guard to form a solid sentence. There was so much she wanted to ask. But on the other hand, did she really want to hear the answers? Did she really want to open up that particular can of worms? Swallowing, she nodded. “Thank you, for saving me the other week. I know I said that already, but really. Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Dave signed back, stepping to the side so they weren’t clogging the middle of the street quite so badly. He couldn’t stand when people did that. All the while, he watched the pallor of her face, as she stopped and started mid signs, unable to pick a thought to go with. Like a damn deer in the headlights. “Like I said, it wasn’t no thing. You don’t gotta keep thanking me.” With a deep sigh, Dave looked around, spotting a small cafe with a cute icecream mascot standing by the window. “Can I get ya a coffee, or something?” Dave signed eventually. He wanted to talk, and understand what she was. Not to mention, he wanted to know why she was so damn frightened of him.

Noticing the way he shifted out of the way, Skylar did the same, moving so that they weren’t just standing in the path of others. Again, Dave brushed off her thanks and she couldn’t help but compare him to Nic. Wasn’t that how they’d met? With Nic saving her life, pulling her out of the way of danger? And a wonderful friendship had formed from that initial encounter. But… Dave was different. He was a selkie, like Ricky, like her. And as reassuring as it was to know that there were others, she couldn’t help the fear that came with it. If he found out what she was, what would he do? Glancing over at the cafe he pointed at, Skylar blinked. Coffee. Mmmmm. She really didn’t want anything to do with him, but she couldn’t really see a way out of this. “I-- sure. Coffee would be great. But, please, I’ll buy.” She signed with a nod.

Dave had no idea she didn’t want to sit down with him, wary as she looked. He wouldn’t have pressed had she said no. He nodded at her offer to buy, and walked with her to the cafe, hands in his pockets until the moment they sat down. “I’ll actually do a green tea. Not a caffeine kinda guy.” He told her with his hands, setting them on the table and clasping them as the waiter came to take their order. He bit down on his teeth covers in the meantime, trying to put them more properly into place. It was a losing battle, but he did it all the time. “Why’re you nervous around me?” He asked, after a long moment.

“Um, black coffee for me, thanks.” Skylar said to the waiter, with a polite smile before waiting for him to walk away. Unlike other places in White Crest, the small cafe wasn’t too busy right now. A few other people were seated in the booths and tables around them, but most were too busy listening to music or working on their laptops to pay them any attention. For a while, they sat in silence, with Skylar squirming slightly in her seat, fingers anxiously drumming against her leg. But then, Dave broke the silence. At his words, Skylar winced. It was that obvious? Swallowing, Skylar offered an off-hand shrug. “I just… I don’t--” She tried to bluster, but the lies wouldn’t come. She wasn’t very good at this sort of thing, of outrightly lying and hiding the truth. “I haven’t met many other people like me before. Only one other and that didn’t really work out.” She said, staring down at her hands as she spoke. 

She was a squirmer. Just like Dave’s youngest. Never comfortable in the absence of conversation, whether it was spoken or signed. So nervous it could spread through the room like a virus, making others uncomfortable too. Not him, though, Dave had lived enough decades that not much rattled him. Finally, she answered, and he raised his eyes. “Sorry to heart it. What do you mean, like you. How do you-” Dave spat out his tea, coughing so hard he needed to his his own chest to get all the tea that had gone down the wrong way out. She was yanking his chain, she had to be. “You gotta be kidding me. You’re a seal that can’t swim?” 

Playing with the mug in front of her, Skylar forced herself to raise her eyes, to watch him speak. She knew that it was a pet peeve of hers when people didn’t look at her when they spoke, it wasn’t fair for her to do the same to him. But, when she saw him sputter and cough in shock, she immediately wished she hadn’t. Shrinking slightly in her seat, Skylar felt her cheeks burn a bright red. “I-- I can kind of swim. Just not well.” She said, defensively. Shiloh had taught her a lot, had helped her get better at it. But, the flood had come out of nowhere and her waterlogged clothes had made keeping her head above water difficult. “I never learned how to when I was younger.” She admitted.

Dave stared at her for a long second, disbelievingly. His hands were on the table so he could feel through the wood the nervous race to her pulse. She was frightened. If she was lyin, she was better at it than he was. “Sorry. I just-” She should have been strong and fast enough that the waterlogged clothes weren’t a problem, that the current wasn’t too  tiring. They were made for the riptides and the rough storms. “Never seen anything like it. Guessing you weren’t raised by other selkies then.”

“It’s okay, you don’t need to apologize.” Skylar said with a shrug before taking a sip from her coffee mug. The bitter taste was a nice distraction from the conversation, even if she knew that it had to continue. There wasn’t any real way that she could get out of this now, not when she’d told him what she was. Setting down the mug, she shook her head. “No, I wasn’t.” She fidgeted with the ceramic handle for a moment, not wanting to say anything about her family. He didn’t need to know about her parents, what they’d done to her… how they’d raised her. “I only figured out what I was earlier this year.”

Dave nodded, watching her intently to show he was listening. He’d already shown his surprise, and it had only made her shrivel up. As concerned as he was, and he was concerned as hell, he didn’t want to make her feel worse. Even though, hell, he couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around it. Land stranded seal. How the hell wasn’t she dead? Someone must’a known something, or she’d have to be dead. Which made him think of the kinda shit he didn’t want to. Dave set his tea down, pushing away those particular grieving thoughts, to focus on her. “Sounds rough, kid.”

“It’s okay.” Skylar said quickly, even though there wasn’t anything okay about her situation. She’d grown up in the dark about what she was, had learned that her parents had… had kept the truth from her for her entire life, and had been completely cut off from her family as a result of it all. None of this was okay. But, Dave really didn’t need to know about that. Clearing her throat, she looked at the man carefully, “Do you-- Um… I’m guessing you’ve lived around other selkies?” She asked. Did he have a clan like Ricky did? A family who’d moved here with him?

“Is it?” Dave asked simply, cocking his head back slightly, looking back at her with hooded eyes. His shoulder were slack, his hands clasped in front of him. It didn’t sound too alright for him, and all he wanted was to ask where her pelt was in all this. It just wasn’t his business, same as his wasn’t her business. But god, did his heart fucking ache in a familiar way when he looked at her there. “Yeah. Been alone for a while, though.” 

“I...” Skylar faltered, caught off guard by his blunt words and level gaze. “Maybe it wasn’t okay. But-- but there’s not really anything that can be done now.” She swallowed, shaking her head. What her parents had done to her, it hadn’t been good. But she didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to think about what it meant. “Oh? Um, I’m sorry.” She couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. She didn’t know the circumstances of why he was alone, but a part of her wondered if it had anything to do with the scars that stretched across his face. She wondered if he felt lonely in the same way she did, kept apart from anyone who could understand what she was going through. “Well, I’m not exactly… good at being a selkie. But, you don’t need to be alone-- if you don’t want to be.” Skylar said offering a timid smile. 

“No, guess not,” Dave agreed, humming to himself. “Don’t be sorry. Not your problem.” The corner of his lip turned up at her offer, and he turned his gaze to the table for a moment, his calloused fingers tracing over the rough grain. Divet, rise, divet, swirl. A dent where someone had dropped a fork or something. She wasn’t the first one to have made the offer, not in the last twenty years. Selkies were like that - family was important as hell, and everyone had space in their pod. Especially for someone like him. Thing was, as Dave had learned over and over, every time someone had made that offer, was that he didn’t have space in him for a new pod. He didn’t have space in him for any kinda family. There were nights he was still angry in went into the water just to slaughter whatever creatures he could find. Not to sound like a goddamn cliche, but there was a darkness in him, and it weren’t fair to let anyone near it. “You’re sweet, kid. Skylar. You don’t gotta worry about some old codger like me.” He huffed around his smile, finishing his tea. 

“Mm, maybe not. But… being alone is awful. It’s not easy.” Skylar said quietly as she looked down at her mug of coffee, staring into the dark liquid. She’d been alone her entire life, she’d only realized it recently, but, maybe she’d always known that. On some level, she’d always felt as though she was on the outside looking in. Even if she didn’t know the specifics behind it. But, even among her family, she’d still never been quite the same. Her mother, her brother, neither one of them treated her quite the same as they did her sister. Taking a long sip from her coffee, Skylar matched his smile. “I know, but still. I don’t think being alone is something that gets easier with age.” She shrugged.

“Hey, I ain’t that alone. Did just move here, but I ain’t hard of company,” Dave replied, leaning back and crossing his arms. Despite all that, his grouchiness carried a smile, playing at the corner of his lips. Without his tooth glamorous, he’d be snagging his lips on his canines. Maybe she was looking for some sorta family of her own, or something to hold on to. Dave didn’t know he had that to offer her. But then maybe she wasn’t looking for that at all. Just someone to talk with. “Sides, sometimes the better company by far are the local harbour seals, you know.”

“That’s good, at least. It took me awhile before I started to actually meet people, but the people here, they’re really kind.” Skylar nodded, thinking back to all the people she’d met. Remmy, Morgan, Winston, Nic… And even the new people she’d met, who’d stumbled upon her secret, they were still good people, who understood why she needed to keep what she was underwraps. Looking up at him, she saw his lip catch on his teeth, saw the flash of sharpness. Skylar averted her eyes immediately, knowing how much she hated when people stared at her own teeth. Not for the first time, she was grateful for her veneers and the security they provided her. “The local seals? I’ve never actually met any.” She said, not wanting to admit that she’d never willingly swam in the ocean. Just the one night when she’d been forced to flee down the river, leaving a trail of blood behind her. 

“I’ve been seeing that. Strong sense o’ community here, which isn’t true for all small towns, however much they try. Guessin’ it’s to do with all the-” Dave signed the rest of his sentence. “Supernatural folks around town.” He cocked his head with an easy smile, keeping up signing if only because it was habit, and it was real nice to talk to someone with the signing. “Harbour seals are not conversational types, but they make good company in a haul out. Besides, at the moment they got lotsa young ones. You should try it some time. Only problem is the stink.” He guffawed amicably, finishing off his tea. “So, Skylar, what do you do for a living?”

As the man switched over to sign, Skylar nodded contemplatively. She hadn’t really thought of that, but… he had a point. Maybe it was because of all the different people who lived here. She’d met witches, someone who could see ghosts, a werewolf, zombies, a girl covered in scales who lived in the lake and a boy with horns who spoke for the wild creatures of the woods. Maybe they were all drawn to each other because of their differences, because they were all trying to figure things out. “Wait… Can you talk to seals?” She signed, confused. Ricky hadn’t mentioned that they could do that. The idea of little seal pups was interesting, though. She wondered how she had looked as a child, if she had looked anything like them in her seal form. “Oh-- I’m a sign language interpreter with the school. I work kids who are Deaf and Hard of Hearing.” She replied, “What about you?” 

“Oh, nah!” Dave signed back with a laugh, “Well, yeah, but it ain’t like they understand me, and I don’t understand them. It’s more like a sorta kinship. Jus’ seals vibing. Besides, my sort of seal doesn’t normally live in these parts and so they don’t know to be afraid of me.” Naturally, normal leopard seals would eat seal pups, but that just didn’t sit right with Dave. He had plenty to eat in the waters here, so why would he need to? “Neat! Bet that’s real fulfilling work. Me? I take up contracts for monsters in the local waters, find people’s treasure or lost iphone’s, that sorta thing.”

Seals vibing. That was a sentence Skylar had never expected to hear in her life, but she supposed that was just White Crest for you. Nothing ever went as she expected, nothing was ever easy or normal. So, vibing with seals? Sure. That might as well be a thing that happened. “Your kind of seal? I didn’t realize people could be different kinds.” She said, not sure how to voice her confusion. She’d never really done much research into what kind of seal she turned into-- she hated looking at herself in her form. Seeing her soul in the body of an animal, it made her incredibly uncomfortable. She wasn’t like that. She couldn’t be like that. Tilting her head at him in surprise, Skylar’s eyebrows raised. “That’s cool.” He really couldn’t be more different from her, could he? He was so imbedded in life as a selkie and she just… wasn’t. 

“Yeah. There’s many sorts you can be,” Dave replied, pulling out his phone to google leopard seals, and showed her the first page of search results. “Ain’t too sure how fate decides what you’ll be, but I’m a leopard seal, even though no one in my family’s been to the Antarctic. Fast and muscled, see?” Did she really not know? He pursed his lips in displeasure, although it wasn’t at her. “Yeah, it’s pretty neat. Truth be told, I’m getting kinda old for it.”

Blinking at the image he showed her, Skylar stared at his phone. He looked nothing like how she did in her seal form. She was rounder, less sleek, more squish to her. And more spots. Almost like freckles, her pelt was dotted with dark spots. Was that why she was so freckly? Because of her pelt? Or was her skin spotted because of her freckles? Either way, the concept bothered her. “That’s cool.” She said before nodding. “That makes sense. It sounds like it would be a hard job. If, um, if you’re ever interested in interpreting work, you should let me know. It’s just me and another woman with the school district and I know Eileen is hoping to retire in the next few years.” Skylar offered. 

“I got a criminal record. ‘Sides, I ain’t all that great with kids, they find me scary,” Dave smiled in a mild-mannered way, gesturing to his face. “Thanks all the same,” No school’d look at him once they knew all that. Assault, theft, burglary. Evidence of a violent disposition, and when he was younger (but still not all that young) a propensity for taking what he wanted when he thought he needed it. As for working with kids… well, he hadn’t done much’a that since he’d lost his own. No thanks.

Skylar did her best to hide her shock at his easy admission to his criminal record. She didn’t want to make any kind of assumption, not based off how he looked. Maybe he’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Found himself on the wrong side of the law? She nodded instead of speaking, lifting her mug to her lips to sip from her now lukewarm coffee. Just as she was about to ask Dave another question, one of the many swirling around in her mind, her phone buzzed in her pocket. “Sorry--” She glanced down at the screen and blanched. Oh no, she’d completely forgotten she had a tutoring appointment scheduled-- she had to get all the way over to the library. “I’m so sorry, I have a tutoring lesson I need to get to. But, um… I’ll be in touch?” She asked tentatively as she rose from the table.

Skylar did not succeed in hiding her shock. Dave huffed out a small laugh, letting her sip at her tea until she regained her composure. She looked like she was about to say something when she glanced down to her pocket. He didn’t see her phone, but he recognised that panicked look when someone’d forgotten something. “No worries. Kinda caught you by surprise. You got my number, so looking forward to hearin’ from you.” He dipped his head in goodbye, ad watched her leave. Jesus. A selkie that could barely swim. That was a new one.

[thinkingagain]

The Demesne was awakened early that same morning by a buzzing roar. In a space of a few seconds, all the grounds were covered by grasshoppers. Millions. They began decimating every piece of vegetation available.

Sir Sleepy of the Bunny Nest (A Novel of the Revolution) Book Two: Empire Chapter 34

The next morning, the Commandant’s submarine fleet moved into action. The plan of the three subs was to further erode several large coral reefs in a way that damaged the fragile life along the reefs. Damage would be blamed on the U.S. Navy in an attempt to goad a Magic Animal response.

All information about the plan was rigorously scrambled, but Basil had cracked multiple codes and Lucky had pierced through many layers of muffling surrounding the communications technology. Together they deciphered all the relevant details.

The submarines hadn’t gone far from their base when the crew discovered a host of small problems in their operating abilities, none detected during checks prior to launch: clogged drains and ventilation systems, malfunctions in the weapons and honing devices, loose wires, seaweed stuffed into the engines. The mission had to be postponed.

Meanwhile, some armed whaling boats that set out to kill whales from a port in Iceland found themselves harassed, bumped, led off course and in one case scuttled by a series of a quick strikes from a never identified force.

Oddly, a group of mixed species whales was reported as floating nearby; whales seldom traveled in mixed species groups. Still, the strange grouping could only have been coincidental. Official blame was soon placed on the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, although several men from the boats involved admitted publicly that never at any time did they see another vessel engaged in an attack.

The Demesne was awakened early that same morning by a buzzing roar. In a space of a few seconds, all the grounds were covered by grasshoppers. Millions. They began decimating every piece of vegetation available.

The Frog Teams responded quickly. For them, grasshoppers were a delicacy, and they scooped them up by the tongue-full. Many other Demesne animals did the same, whether or not grasshoppers were occasional features of their diet.

Yet while the animals found themselves eating bunches of grasshoppers, they soon discovered that most of the grasshoppers disappeared the moment one tried to touch them. Ling Ling communicated between everyone rapidly. She and Leo and Sy quickly realized that while some thousands of grasshoppers had indeed descended on the Demesne, the millions that everyone saw were only holographic projections. The Demesne grounds hadn’t been decimated.

The complaining animals who had arrived on the Demesne the day before had been given a nice grassy or muddy spot to sleep, depending on their preferences. They had been watched closely through the night, in two hour shifts, in case they tried any anti-Demesne espionage.

Through much discussion with the complainers the previous day, Leo had become sure that they were indeed Magic Animals. They had all found themselves isolated from other Magic Animal companionship, often through ruses, and had encountered holographic animals with whom they’d had long, misinformed conversations. The Demesne cause was portrayed as full of illusion, arrogance, and hopelessness. The Commandant’s cause was described as trying to find healthy compromises between Beast and Magic Animal excess.

Leo had talked with the complainers for hours. Indoctrination was difficult to overcome. “The issue speaks to the dangers of isolation in the Magic Animal world,” Leo told the complaining animals, making sure that anyone else nearby in the Demesne heard as well. “Those of you who visited yesterday, barraged by lies and insinuations meant to damage your self-worth and sense of purpose, have been attacked by a Beasts principle called ‘The Big Lie.’

“The concept was first developed by that infamously murderous Beast Adolf Hitler. If you tell a lie long enough, making sure that animals hear no information to the contrary, you can persuade any animal to think what you want.

“This fact brings up a problem which needs more attention: keeping channels of information open to more isolated Magic Animals. We need to listen for news about Magic Animals who have been heard of by other animals but not often seen.”

By late morning at the Demesne, the grasshoppers, holographic or real, had disappeared or formed a fine meal. Many at the Demesne had settled in for a bit of post-feast rest while maintaining necessary patrols. The complaining visitors were allowed to stay or go as they pleased. Some, still confused or alarmed, dashed away as quickly as possible.

The complaining hippo stayed, enthralled that other animals actually thought he was handsome. He asked Leo many questions about the concept of the Big Lie. Sy and others lolled in the grass near them.

Leo was explaining some of the ways in which Beasts denied themselves and others important information when Maximilian hurried up from the spot he had maintained beside the Demesne Lake. “You should see this. Significantly unpleasant.”

Sy and Frank and Matilda followed him to the Demesne Lake. It had turned dark red and smelled of hot blood. Into its cooling waters, many gallons of blood were flowing from somewhere invisible.

The lake was connected to underground caverns and waterways beyond the Demesne wall, Sy reminded everyone. It was likely that the blood had come from them. How that had been managed wasn’t clear.

As the animals stood beside the side of the lake, Beast paper appeared in the sky and fluttered to the ground. Sy picked up one page that landed right in front of him. “The Blood of all the animals who died today fighting stupidly against their ally the Commandant has been returned to you,” he read. “Stop now before many more die.”

Sy looked at his three animal friends. “The cheapest effect yet. I wish Jack were here. I’m sure he could explain why exactly Beasts find this ludicrous stuff intimidating.”

Just then, communication from Ling Ling came into Sy’s mind. “Head down to the Beast Media Room. More information coming in.”

Maximilian stayed behind to keep an eye on further developments in the lake and to assess the likely laborious cleanup. The others hurried underground.

Sy and Frank and Matilda found Lucky in the Beast Media room. Basil and Green Bear waved at them from a small room where the frog and bear were working with complex equipment. “I wouldn’t recommend watching any more than you have to,” Lucky said the moment Sy and the others reached him.

Over the Beast Media screen, a montage of images was spewing an appalling story. The pictures were film after film of animals being shot or poisoned by Beasts.

The murders were graphic, sickening, with Beasts looking up gleefully from mangled animal bodies. Sometimes it was just a single animal being killed; more often it was groups. Elephants were slaughtered, rhinos and hippos, tigers and lion, large animals and small. Streams were contaminated and fish rose dead to the surface of the water. Rabbits were poisoned or gunned down.

After watching a few moments, all the animals averted their eyes. “Unthinkably disgusting,” Sy nearly spit.

Lucky said, “Some of the footage is old and has just been spliced in, I can tell. I hate to say it though. Some of it is new, within the last two or three days.”

Basil came in from the next room and held out his heart to everyone. Its edges appeared to be bleeding. “We’ve been tracking multiple atrocities, real or faked, many probably instigated by the Commandant. The Aquatic Teams have stopped quite a few, but there’s only so much we can do at once.”

“And while all this has been going on,” Sy said, “the Commandant has been distracting us with carnival house Beast games.” He looked at Lucky. “The Sir needs to know, now.”

“I’m alerting him through Ling Ling,” Lucky said.

“Basil?” Sy looked at that gracious, generous frog. “We need everything you and Green Bear have. Do you think you can do it?”

“We have located the essential resources.” Basil’s expression was still haggard from the atrocities he had witnessed, but he smiled his benevolent frog smile. “We’ve located the Commandant too.”

[dhj8735]

pollution in New Zealand

News Hub 27/02/2017 Tony Wright.

: “The health of New Zealand's rivers and lakes is undeniably a controversial and divisive subject. Kiwis feel passionate about the health of their waterways, and rightly so, but sometimes the real facts behind what is polluting them can be buried behind hyperbole and over-zealous views. This was on display in abundance when Environment Minister Nick Smith announced his '90 per cent Swimmable Rivers by 2040' decree last week. Dr Smith laughed off criticism of the plan, which is essential to fence off all Kiwi waterways from livestock by 2030 and change the criteria of what swimmable water actually is, as 'junk science'.In a special report into the state of NZ's waterways, Newshub has interviewed and gathered resources from several independent freshwater scientists, the dairy farming industry, (including farmers and scientists) and NIWA, to give you the full picture on the health of New Zealand's rivers.

Part one of Newshub's special investigation will focus on what exactly is the pollution being put into our rivers and the effects.

Part two will analyse the efforts being undertaken to protect Kiwi waterways from further pollution, and what is being done to reinvigorate those rivers that are failing.

Part three will examine the effects of climate change, and whether or not we've reached a tipping point for overall river health decline in New Zealand.

Part four will look at the battle over the blame of our failing river health, and conclude just who is responsible for the overall decline in freshwater quality.

Part One - What is polluting our rivers? It's hard to argue that many of our low-lying rivers are being polluted and that the agriculture industry, and in particular beef and dairy farming must take a fair share of the blame. To their credit, Kiwi dairy farmers have spent over a billion dollars in combating river pollution, while DairyNZ has implemented science-based regulations that leading water experts say have helped turn the tide in improving the health of many our waterways. And while it's easy to simply point the finger at dairy farming, all agricultural industries, and indeed all New Zealanders, even city dwellers, must carry some of the blame for our water pollution.

What is the main cause of this pollution?

That question at least has an easy answer: Agriculture - but it's not been a recent occurrence, it's been happening since the first pastoral farms were created in New Zealand in the 1800s.

But with the agriculture industry being a big player in the New Zealand economy, examining the link between pollution and agriculture can be tough to evenly gauge.

What are the main contaminants?

Sediment: Fine material from deforestation

Nutrients: Nitrogen and phosphorus from livestock urine and fertilizer

Bacteria: E. Coli from livestock excrement

Sediment from deforestation

It's easy to forget New Zealand is one of the most deforested nations on Earth, with only 25 percent of our native forests left untouched, and they're mostly on the west coast of the South Island.

So while New Zealand does have pockets of beautiful and unspoiled native forests, the majority of our land has been cleared and is used in the agriculture, and in particular, the farming industries.

We've also cleared 95 percent of our native wetlands, which if they were still in existence, would play a major part in protecting waterways from pollution.

New Zealand's native forests have been burnt off and cleared ever since human settlement began 800 years ago, and our waterways are now paying the price.

Dr John Quinn is NIWA's chief scientist of freshwater and estuaries, and told Newshub this initial clearing of New Zealand's forests has a continuing impact on our waterways.

"There would have been a huge dollop of sediment happen when land was first cleared, and often that was just done with burning and pretty unfriendly sorts of approaches and there are legacy effects of all that deforestation that are still around our river channels today.

"Some input of sediment in rivers is part of a natural process, it creates sandy beaches. You have to have a level of erosion that is part of the natural system; it's just how much has it been accelerated."

Dr Mike Joy teaches environmental sustainability at Massey University. He's studied the declining health of New Zealand rivers for decades and has long been a vocal figure in raising awareness.

"When we get heavy rainfall events we get huge amounts of fine material from deforested areas.

"This sediment comes off the land and clogs up the rivers making them brown and dirty, but the biggest impact is that the sediment then forms a mat over the bed of the stream, and cuts off all the habitat for the life in it."

Dr Tom Stephens works as a water scientist for DairyNZ and his chief job is to help farmers try and improve their water quality. He says one of the industry's biggest battles is to protect our rivers from further sediment gain.

"Once it starts to move on the land it takes a long time to slow down. If it gets in our waterways it takes a long time to get out, so we're talking decades to century's worth of sediment loss. It's what we're currently trying to address through our water quality levels."

Dairy farming is only part of the sediment problem

Dr Quinn says high intensive dairy farming is 'a' cause, but drystock farming (farming animals for meat and wool) is much more widespread - and has been since the 1800s.

"If you look at the amounts of sediment that comes off that drystock farming, and partly because it's on the steeper hill country, it's more erodible as well.

"So dairy's part of the problem  but is certainly isn't all of the problem."

Nutrients from farm animals

This is where the booming dairy and beef industries must take a fair share of the blame for the high levels of nitrogen being put into New Zealand's waterways - the direct effect of high volumes of cow urine.

Dr Joy says nitrogen produced by cow urine is having a major detrimental effect on New Zealand's waterways.

"If anyone's seen a cow peeing it's a huge volume in a small area, and the land and the plants can't possibly cope with most of it and it makes its way through the soil.

"Depending on soil moisture, levels of rainfall and a whole lot of other factors, most of it makes its way through the ground to lakes to rivers.

"It's not so much the nitrogen itself that's the problem, but that it's a nutrient, and it grows in the plants and the lakes, and there's algae and then algal bloom; either toxic algae, or algae that grows to such an extent that it takes the oxygen out of the river, out of the water itself and the animals die."

The dairy industry is of course incredibly aware of the nitrogen problem from cow urine, and is trying to use the latest science to combat it.

"The biggest challenge for us is actually catching, and interrupting that urine patch," says DairyNZ water scientist Dr Tom Stephens.

"When it's deposited it's in a very dense, sudden pool, and it can escape the surface layers of the sediment where the root systems are and where the growth is occurring and where that nitrogen would otherwise be captured, and once it escapes that then it's going to travel.

"It will either go into the ground water, and it will take years and decades to then emerge or, and a lot of the nitrogen on a dairy farm will do this."

Human health issues from bacteria and in particular: E. Coli

E. Coli comes from the faeces of animal livestock, and has become a major factor in stopping Kiwis from swimming in their rivers. E. Coli is a major health hazard - it can make you sick, especially if you drink water contaminated with it such as what occurred in Hawke's Bay in 2016.

DairyNZ regulations mean its farmers must fence off all waterways on their land and 96 percent have done so - but no such regulations exist for beef, sheep or deer farming.

Environment Minister Nick Smith wants this compulsory across all farming industries by 2030. One wonders why it has taken the Government so long to implement such a measure.

It's not just agriculture and farming polluting New Zealand's rivers

The Tasman Pulp and Paper Mill is continuously polluting the Tarawera River in the Bay of Plenty, and is being allowed to do so because the mill hires local people. The Tarawera River now has an unenviable nickname, the 'Black Drain'.

This perhaps sums up the great dichotomy of employment versus the environment: Our Kiwi communities want jobs, but they also don't want to pollute our rivers.

In 2009 the Government granted permission to the mill's owners, Norwegian company Norske Skog, to keep polluting the Tarawera River for another 25 years, despite official protests from local iwi.

In essence, the Tarawera river is being destroyed to keep a few hundred local people employed. The profits made by the mill go back to 'clean, green' Norway.

Invading species is also a massive problem

Remember those "have you seen didymo" TV ads a decade or so ago?

Invasive plants and animals in our waterways are still a major problem in 2017, with foreign species of fish like toy carp wreaking havoc on the natural vegetation in our Kiwi lakes, exacerbating the decline in water quality.

Dr Quinn says noxious plants like didymo are still common in New Zealand but have been overshadowed by the pollution saga from agriculture.

"We see a whole lot of nuisance plants getting into our lakes which eventually results in quite major deterioration.

"It's quite difficult at times to get simple messages across to the public because it really is quite complicated and often people want to reduce it down to one or two things and what we're dealing with is a syndrome of impacts that humans are having and we really need to understand is how to manipulate a number of things at once if we're to restore these water bodies to what we want them to be."

On Wednesday, in part two of our special Newshub investigation into river health, we'll examine what exactly is being done to help protect New Zealand waterways and hear extensively from dairy industry scientists and perhaps the most important people in all of this - the farmers.

Newshub.

[swanqueeneverafter]

56. III-Boding Patterns, Pt.5

Mills House. (It's the middle of the day and neither the Sheriff or the Mayor are at their desks.) Regina: (Reclined on the couch beside Emma, breathing heavily:) "Why, Sheriff Swan, what has gotten into you?" Emma: "Life! I've finally got my life back, and I'm no longer worrying about that damn vision." Regina: (Chuckles:) "Well I understand that but... why the nooner?" Emma: "Because, when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." Regina: (Shaking her head, laughing:) "You idiot. That's from 'When Harry Met Sally'." Emma: (Defensively:) "Well it's true! And it's exactly how I feel. Gina, come on! We've managed to defeat everyone that's gone up against us. Pan, Hades, even the Darkness. You just rescued me from a fate worse than death, and then we walked on the same beach my parents got engaged on. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is." Regina: (Beaming at Emma's excitement:) "It's a sign you're delirious." Emma: "No, it's a sign that what we have is serious." Regina: (Sits up a little higher on the couch:) "So what are you saying?" Emma: "I'm saying... that I love you. And... (Taking Regina's hands in her own, she slides from the couch onto one knee:) Regina Mills, will you marry me? (Staring down at Emma in disbelief, Regina has tears in her eyes as she takes a deep breath before giving her answer. Suddenly, the doorbell rings, followed by a loud banging on the front door:) Seriously?" Regina: (Blinking several times and shaking herself out of her daze:) "I'll get rid of them. (Cups Emma’s face in her hands and kisses her:) Don't go anywhere." (Straightening her dress, she rushes to the door.) Mills House. Exterior. (Regina opens the door to find a frantic Zelena standing outside.) Zelena: “We have a massive problem on our hands. Where’s the Sheriff? (Tries to push past her sister:) Is she in there?” Regina: “Zelena! (Pushing her back outside and closing the door:) She’s indisposed right now.” Zelena: “Indisposed? (Raising her voice so Emma can hear:) We’ve got bigger problems than you enjoying your afterglow, Emma!” (Upon hearing this, Emma’s eyes widen, before she starts looking for her clothes.) Regina: (Folding her arms:) “Go home, Zelena and wait for us there.” Zelena: “Oh, don’t bloody bother yourselves. (Raising her voice again:) You know, it would be nice if, sometimes, the Sheriff and the Mayor chose to do their jobs rather than each other!” (Zelena leaves in a cloud of green smoke.)

Enchanted Forest. Past. (Hearing roaring in distance, Baelfire and Rumplestiltskin head towards it.) Baelfire: “This way, Papa.” Rumplestiltskin: “Grendel must be in the caves beyond the lake. We'll never find the entrance.” Baelfire: “Yes, we can. The water's not deep. We can wade through it. (Rumplestiltskin reaches for something then thinks better of it. Baelfire sees:) What is it? (Rumplestiltskin shows him the dagger:) You brought the dagger?” Rumplestiltskin: “I couldn't leave it behind. We could be in those caves in the blink of an eye.” Baelfire: “But, Papa, that's not gonna prove anything to anyone.” Rumplestiltskin: “I want to do this the right way, Bae, but I can't explain it.” Baelfire: “I can. It's just like when you needed the crutch to walk.” Rumplestiltskin: “Yeah. Only worse. When I felt the power this gave me, I couldn't imagine living without it.” Baelfire: “Remember when an ember jumped from the stove and caught your store of wool on fire? You rushed across the hovel to put it out without your crutch.” Rumplestiltskin: “Well, that was a short distance.” Baelfire: “So is this. Think of it like walking across the hovel, one step at a time.” Rumplestiltskin: “There's only one way I'm gonna be able to do this.” (Rumplestiltskin hands the dagger to Baelfire.) Baelfire: “But, Papa, this can control you.” Rumplestiltskin: “Exactly, Bae. If you see me go to use its dark power, you stop me.” Storybrooke. Present. Clock Tower. (Gideon hands Mr. Gold a book.) Gideon: “Her Handsome Hero.” Mr. Gold: (Taking it:) “Your mother's favorite.” Gideon: “She sent me away with that copy. Years after the Black Fairy kidnapped me, I found it amongst her things. I kept it beneath the mattress in my cell. That tale got me through the endless nights. But then one night, the Black Fairy caught me reading it. She asked me if I wanted to be like the character I was named after, a hero. I said I did. She just laughed, and she said, ‘We'll see about that.’ That night, she took the boy in the cell across from mine. She dragged him to her tower, where she whipped him. I could hear his cries echo through the halls, begging for someone to stop her. I reached out to the door of my cell, and it was open. I had a chance to save him, but I didn't. I just sat there, listening to his cries.” Mr. Gold: “She left the door unlocked on purpose.” Gideon: (Inhales sharply:) “To show me I didn't have what it takes. I was a coward, Father, just like you. But we can show your mother that she was wrong about both of us. Will you help me?” Mr. Gold: “Yes. (Stands:) But first you must settle your nerves.” (Mr. Gold hands his son a cup.) Gideon: (Sips:) “What kind of tea is this?” Mr. Gold: “One laced with memory potion. In a few moments you won't remember what the Black Fairy did. Your pain will be gone.” (They embrace.) Gideon: “I’m sorry, father. A memory potion won’t work on me. (They part:) I was raised by the Black Fairy. No matter how hard I try to forget, I can’t.” Mr. Gold: “Gideon, this isn’t the way.” Gideon: “If you truly care about what she did to me, you're going to keep your promise, and you are going to help me to fulfill my destiny.” Enchanted Forest. Past. Caves. (Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire have waded through the water and into the cave.) Rumplestiltskin: (Hearing the roaring in the distance:) “Grendel. (Moving further into the cave, they see a pile of bodies on the floor:) We're too late. (Spotting something on the ground, he picks it up:) An ogre's call?” Baelfire: “Papa, what is it? Are you all right? (Suddently, Baelfire is grabbed from behind by Beowulf and the dagger taken from him:) Papa!” Rumplestiltskin: (Rushing to his son’s aid:) “Stay away from my son!” Beowulf: “Or what?” Baelfire: “Don't. We should be fighting Grendel together.”

Rumplestiltskin: “There is no Grendel, Bae. There never has been.” (Rumplestiltskin hands Baelfire the Ogre’s call.) Beowulf: “Your father's right. The only monster down here is the Dark One.” Rumplestiltskin: “You killed those villagers.” Beowulf: “I didn't. You did.” Baelfire: “Why are you doing this?” Rumplestiltskin: “So he can be the hero he thinks he was meant to be.” Beowulf: “We would have won that war without your dark magic!” Rumplestiltskin: “You would have died. Everyone would have died! And doing this now won't make you a hero.” Beowulf: “That's not what the villagers are gonna say when they see you standing over these bodies. (Raising the dagger:) Dark One, I command you stay exactly where you are.” Baelfire: “No. Papa!” Rumplestiltskin: “Bae, run. Get help.” (Baelfire runs from the cave.) Beowulf: “Think your boy can stop me? You may have ended The Ogres War, but I'll be remembered as the hero who defeated the Dark One.” Storybrooke. Present. Mr. Gold’s Shop. (This time, Mr. Gold hands Gideon a book.) Mr. Gold: “This book contains the spell to repair the sword. Restoring its power is gonna be more difficult than you think. It requires the blood of the person who forged it.” Gideon: “If that's what it takes, Father.” Mr. Gold: “Gideon, look, you were willing to kill the Savior. Now you're willing to spill innocent blood.” Gideon: “I don't have a choice. I need to fix this sword to fulfill my destiny.” Mr. Gold: “And what happens then? How does it end?” Gideon: “With the destruction of the Black Fairy and all she stands for.” Mr. Gold: “That's not how it ends. That's not how it ever ends. The Black Fairy destroyed your childhood. Don't let her destroy the rest of your life.” Gideon: “No, I’ve come too far now. Tell me who forged this blade? Whose blood do I need? Please, father.” Mr. Gold: (Hesitates, then relents:) “The Blue Fairy's.” Gideon: “My Fairy Godmother?” Mr. Gold: “There's good in you, Gideon. Don't snuff out the light in your heart. If you do this, you might not be able to get back.” Gideon: “That's a risk I have to take.” Mr. Gold: “Gideon, please.” Gideon: “And I can't have you getting in my way. If you care for me at all, don't try to stop me.” (Gideon leaves in a cloud of smoke.) The Town Line. (Zelena stands with her luggage and the Evil Queen’s cage beside her, carrying baby Robin in her arms.) Zelena: (To the Evil Queen:) “With so many dank sewers out there, I could hardly leave you behind, sis.” Regina: (Appearing in a cloud of smoke:) “I thought you might be here. What’s this about?” Zelena: “I know you're gonna miss me, sis, but I can't stay here. And Baby Robin needs her mummy very much alive.” Regina: “So what’s your plan, exactly?” Zelena: (Holds up a green vial:) “Mixed to order. It'll drain the magic out of any spell, including the town line. And then it's hello, New York City.” Regina: (Unimpressed:) “It won't work.” Zelena: “No harm in trying. (Uncorking the vial, she tips a drop onto the town line. A flash of light pushes her backwards:) What the hell?!” Regina: “If I had all the ingredients to break the protection spell, do you really think I wouldn't have done it already?” Zelena: “So, we're trapped here?” Regina: (Sighs:) “If you really want to leave, I'll dig through every book I have to figure out how to break the protection spell.” Zelena: “You will?” Regina: “Yes. I care about your happiness even if you don’t believe me. And if that means helping you walk out of here, so be it. But, I would prefer you stayed and helped us deal with whatever or whomever has driven you to this decision.” Zelena: (Sighs:) “Well I don’t suppose I really have much choice at the moment, do I?” Regina: (Smiles:) “Not really. Come on, let’s start at my vault.”

Storybrooke. Any Given Sundae. (Hidden away in the back room of the now abandoned ice cream parlour, Eloise conjures an image in a crystal ball.) Black Fairy: "Ah, my dear Gothel. How go our plans?" Eloise/Gothel: "Coming along nicely. I've made my presence known to Zelena. The poor dear has gone and had herself a child." Black Fairy: "Excellent. That means she's vulnerable. And Gideon, is he any closer to defeating the Savior?" Gothel: "His father is keeping a close eye on him, but I believe Gideon is still with us." Black Fairy: "Wonderful. The time is close at hand. Soon, we shall all have what we most desire, and there will be no more Savior to stop us." Enchanted Forest. Past. (Beowulf strides through the forest when he hears a noise. Drawing his sword, he turns towards it. Quickly grabbing the Dark One dagger from Beowulf’s belt, Baelfire stands before the warrior.) Beowulf: “You're just like your father. You don't have it in you.” Baelfire: (As Beowulf swings at him, holding the dagger aloft:) “Dark One, I summon thee!” (Rumplestiltskin appears between them and sends Beowulf flying backwards against a tree.) Rumplestiltskin: (Stalking towards Beowulf:) “I told you to stay away from my son.” Beowulf: (Gasping:) “Go ahead. Kill me. Then your boy will see that you are a monster.” Rumplestiltskin: “I'm taking you back to the village, and I'm telling them the truth.” Beowulf: “You think they'll believe you? They're afraid of you, Rumple. They watched you bring an army of Ogres to their knees. They know it's only a matter of time before you turn that dagger on them.” Baelfire: “He's right, Papa. They'll never believe us.” Rumplestiltskin: “Then we'll find a new village, Bae. We'll start over, you and me.” Baelfire: “No. I won't let him do this to us. He's the monster. He's the one who should pay.” Beowulf: (Stands:) “Step aside, boy.” Rumplestiltskin: “Bae. Don't.” Baelfire: (Raising the dagger:) “Dark One, stop him!” Rumplestiltskin: “Bae, please.” Baelfire: “Do it! Kill him!” (Rumplestiltskin clicks his fingers and snaps Beowulf’s neck.) Rumplestiltskin: (Looking to his son:) “Oh, Bae.”

Storybrooke Heritage Park. Present. (Mother Superior checks a map of the area as Gideon appears behind her.) Gideon: “You were my Fairy Godmother.” Mother Superior: (Turning to face him:) “Gideon. I have been looking for you everywhere.” Gideon: “You were supposed to protect me when I was just a baby.” Mother Superior: “I know. I tried. But the Black Fairy she was too strong. I'm sorry.” Gideon: “Don't be. You may not have been able to help me back then, but maybe you can now.” Mother Superior: (As Gideon holds up the hilt:) “No. Killing Emma with that blade... it will not make you the Savior the way that you think.” Gideon: “Save the lecture. There's only one thing I need from you. Your magic. All of it.” Mother Superior: “Please don't do this.” Gideon: “Don't make this any harder than it has to be.” Mother Superior: “Gideon.” (Gideon freezes her in place.) Mr. Gold: (Arriving:) “Gideon, stop.” Gideon: “Father, what are you doing here?” Mr. Gold: “I watched one son darken his heart long ago. I can't watch another do the same.” Gideon: “You can't stop me.” Mr. Gold: “I'm not here to stop you. I'm here to do it for you.” Mother Superior: (As Gold takes the hilt from Gideon. Exhales sharply:) “Gold, please don't.” Mr. Gold: “I'm sorry. (Mr. Gold cuts her palm with the hilt of the sword. A single drop of blood is enough to begin the process of draining the fairy of her powers. With the sword restored, Mother Superior slumps to the ground. To Gideon:) We will defeat the Black Fairy. You will become a hero. But I won't let you touch the darkness to do so.”  (Holds out the sword.) Gideon: (Taking it:) “Thank you, Father.” Enchanted Forest. Past. (Baelfire stands examining the Dark One dagger as Rumplestiltskin watches him.) Rumplestiltskin: “Bae what are you going to do with the dagger now?” Baelfire: “I don't know. But the baker's son will think twice about pushing me in the mud when he sees me carrying this.” Rumplestiltskin: “Oh, Bae, listen to yourself.” Baelfire: “Papa, I'm sorry I asked you to give up your power. I understand now why it's so hard. But we need it. It's the only way to protect ourselves.” Rumplestiltskin: “You're right, Bae. You're right. Now, here. Drink your tea.” Baelfire: (Drinks:) “What's in this, Papa? It tastes strange.” Rumplestiltskin: “Memory potion. I won't let you follow me into the darkness, Bae. One of us has to be strong.” Baelfire: (As the potion takes affect:) “Wha? Papa, Papa, where are we? How How did we get out of the cave?” Rumplestiltskin: “You bumped your head. It must have been harder than I thought. Don't worry, son. Beowulf won't be bothering us anymore.” Baelfire: “What? What happened to him?” Rumplestiltskin: “It's not important.” Baelfire: (Finds Beowulf’s sword:) “You killed him. Papa, how could you?” Rumplestiltskin: “I'm sorry, Bae. I did what I had to do.” Baelfire: “Beowulf was right. That dagger is turning you into a monster.” (Baelfire runs out of the hovel as Rumplestiltskin sits, heartbroken.)

Storybrooke. Present. Mr. Gold’s Shop. Back Room. (Mr. Gold lays the Mother Superior on a cot in the back room.) Belle: “What happened?” Mr. Gold: “Belle, I can explain.” Belle: “No. Rumple, you promised me. You said you would find Gideon before he did something he couldn't come back from.” Mr. Gold: “Gideon didn't do this to her. I did.” Belle: “Why?” Mr. Gold: “Because it was the only way to stop him from doing it himself. If he had, I fear he would already be lost to us. Once we stop him, I can return her magic. No one needs to be hurt. Gideon has the sword now. It's more powerful than ever. He'll go after the Savior once again. I just hope there's enough time that we can stop him before he does.” Belle: “We will. (Mr. Gold looks to her:) For once, you put our son first. You darkened your soul so he wouldn't have to. If you can make the right choice after all the wrong you've done, then that means that there's hope our son will, too.” (Belle embraces her husband and, with tears in his eyes, Mr. Gold holds her close to him.) Regina’s Vault. (Zelena and Regina stand beside a cauldron as Regina adds ingredients.) Zelena: “I’m sorry. It was a mistake to leave without saying anything. But this Gothel, she’s bad news.” Regina: “First things first. We have to make sure, at the very least, that the Evil Queen’s transformation is permanent. She’s much more manageable in this form. (Sighs:) This mistake is my fault.” Zelena: “You’re not wrong there.” Regina: “How did I ever think that removing my evil half would change anything? (Looking down at the cage:) Well, I thought I was rid of you for good, Queenie, but I guess I'll always be paying the price for what you did. (Corrects herself:) What I did.” (Lifting the cloth, it’s revealed that the Evil Queen has escaped her confinement.) Zelena: “What?!” Regina: “Where the hell is she?” Storybrooke. Dr. Facilier's Lair. (Back in his hidden hideaway, Dr. Facilier sits alone at a small circular table, shuffling tarot cards and humming a tune to himself.) Dr. Facilier: "Don't you disrespect me, don't you derogate or deride. You're in my world now, not your world. And I’ve got friends on the other side. (Raising his glass aloft, we several amber lights begin to glow in the darkness. As the room fills with more and more light, we see that the amber lights are in fact pairs of eyes. Eyes that belong to the departed souls of the former Dark Ones. Facilier takes a drink and then chuckles:) Oh yes, I’ve got friends on the other side."

The End.