#smash it with a hammer or a jug in this case

[orangefiend1]

Scene redraw from ‘The Keys of Marinus’. Barbara takes out the brains and their mind control

[pallasperilous]

Funny Bone

The other day Supernatural9917 threw out this meme as a cracky Halloween Dean/Cas prompt and I was SO MAD, because I then had to write it:

And so here it is. Goddammit.

Funny Bone

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761150 Words: 4930 Castiel/Dean Winchester Fluff and Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Skeletons, Bad Pick-Up Lines, No Angels AU, Men of Letters Bunker, Mild Gore Mature (mentions of lewd acts, canon-typical violence, and some truly horrible pickup lines)

It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland. It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.

Discovering the bunker in the first place was a helluva surprise. The whole facility is legitimately batshit; Dead Guys of Letters knew how to live (and, apparently, die. All at once.).

But after plowing through a dozen rooms worth of priceless treasures and crusty boobytraps, even Sam was looking kinda full up on shock and awe.

“We can hit the basement tomorrow,” he said. There was a big smudge of dust across his nose and some cobwebs in his hair.

“Nuh uh,” Dean answered, kicking the door shut with the toe of his boot. “If there’s shit still kicking down there, we gotta clean it out before it cleans us out. It’s that or we’re sleepin’ in the car.”

“Ugh,” Sam said, as if twenty minutes ago he hadn’t been losing his mind over a rare book about werewolf hemorrhoids.

So discovering that the basement included a no-shit actual dungeon felt more like an unanticipated bonus, and stumbling across a skeleton while exploring it barely even registered. Skeletons and dungeons! They go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong.

It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor, inside a big circle of greasy black ash.  It looked a little mildewy in in places. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland.

It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.

“Welp,” Dean had said, holstering his gun and wiping his hands on his jeans. “We’re all clear. Let’s head back upstairs, salt the shit out of everything, and then we can pick up some groceries.”

“Do I get to buy a vegetable that doesn’t fit in a bun, or are we still in the refractory period?” Sam snarked from the corridor.

“I don’t see you cookin’, “ Dean started, shuffling back towards the hall, and that’s when the skeleton butted in.

“Are those astronaut pants?” it asked. “Because your ass is outta this world!”

Dean absolutely did not scream, but it’s possible there was a yelp. 

He almost unloaded a clip into it – unclear what that would’ve possibly done, but it’s good to start with the simple, available solutions. Next he nabbed the lighter fluid off of Sam and dumped out half a pound of kosher salt as a chaser and set the fucker alight.

This does not have the intended effect.

“Baby, I’d like to put my meat on your grill,” the skeleton says, greenish flames dancing between its ribs, “because you’re hot, and I’m smokin’.” Then it sits up a little, just enough to shoot Dean some finger guns.

“What the fuck,” Dean says.

Sam makes a little evaluatory noise. “Sexually harassed by a skeleton,” he chuckles. “I think that’s a new one. Even for you. Is that a new one? I know a lot of strange shit went down in Purgatory.”

The skeleton perks up even more at that, grungy eye sockets sweeping up and down Dean’s body. “Are you a time traveler?” it asks. (Maybe he asks, because the voice is pretty deep and dude-ish, although possibly just on account of its vocal cords being leather shoelaces.)

“Wh…no, I’m not a time traveler,” Dean fibs. He’s more of a time trafficking victim, anyway. “Oh, wait, god,” he says. “Please don’t tell me you’re asking that because –“

“– I can see you in my future,” the skeleton finishes, eagerly, and Dean really wishes this thing had eyebrows so he could tell if they’re waggling.

“Yeah, okay. That’s enough for today,” Dean groans. “I need a drink.” He starts to back out of the room as a pre-emptive strike against Bones commenting on how he hates to see Dean leave, but loves to watch him go. Dean’s working on stumbling back again Sam’s left shoe when the skeleton pipes up one last time, this time with a husky, anxious edge.

“I realize that Purgatory isn’t accessible through a simple chronological shift,” it says, teeth chattering. “But it does require travel between modalities, and if you’re capable of that, I would very much like to speak with you again.”

Dean and Sam’s heads slowly swivel back towards the skeleton, like two little pizzas on the same Lazy Susan.

 An hour later, they’re still in the dungeon, working on dousing the skeleton with every possible anti-bad-stuff solution they’ve got, just in case he’s a vampire skeleton or a ghoul skeleton or a witch skeleton or maybe just a wendigo that’s incredibly bad at its job. In between progress reports, he’s still hitting on Dean.

“Dude, don’t you have an off switch somewhere?” Dean asks him.

“Well, Dean, you certainly make me feel like a light switch,–“

“– because you turn me on,” all three of them say in unison.

The skeleton looks a little embarrassed, which is kind of impressive when you think about it. “You’ve…heard that one before?” he asks.

“I spend a lot of time in bars,” Dean deadpans. “Okay, sage is a no-go.”

Sam strikes a line off on the clipboard he found upstairs. “Is this part of a curse or something?” he asks, glancing up at Bones. “Like on top of being a sentient skeleton, you can only speak in horrible pickup lines?”

The skeleton shakes his head, which produces a sound Dean recognizes from his kneecaps on cold mornings. “No, the spellwork allows me to speak freely on most subjects; except who I am, or how to free me. But it’s helpful to use language modern humans can easily understand.”

“Huh. Well, in a way, it is Dean’s native tongue,” Sam says, smirking.

“You shut your face,” Dean hisses.

“When I first saw you, I lost my tongue. Can I try yours on for size?” Bones asks Dean.

“Buddy, I don’t know where you get your information from, but nobody actually talks that way,” Dean tells him. “Nobody sober, anyway. Who isn’t a virgin.”

The skeleton slumps. “I learned from my last visitor. He tried to release me on several occasions, but he either died or abandoned the project.”

Dean arches a brow. “The project being…you?”

“I would be very valuable under the right circumstances.” The skeleton shrugs and casually holds out an arm for Dean to scrape at with the demon blade. “He gave me lessons in modern vernacular as a way to pass our time together.”

“Sounds like a peach,” Dean says, before he can catch himself. “If you have a peach-related pickup line in there, man, you’d better just sit on it.”

“That’s what-“

“I will smash you with a hammer,” Dean barks.

The skeleton relents, but with obvious reluctance.

 They call it quits before Kansas rolls up the sidewalk for the night and leaves them stranded with nothing but two Clif bars and a gross of septuagenarian cans of franks ’n beans. Bones shifts nervously when Dean leaves – “Which is better, pancakes or waffles?” he asks.

“Pancakes,” Dean says, with a sense of grim duty.

“Because I’d like to know what you’re making me for breakfast,” says Bones, his voice trailing off as Dean books it down the stony corridor.

  By lunch the next day (bologna sandwiches, so sue him, he’ll make something good later) they’re pretty sure that Bones doesn’t pose any known, immediate threat – other than to Dean’s sanity – so they switch gears to springing him. Maybe he will be worth something, or maybe he’ll crumble into dust and Be Free, or maybe he’ll just stop being chained to the basement wall, in which case he can become their skeleton butler or something.

There are weird runes on the ankle cuff, so Sam snaps some quick photos and heads upstairs to feel up the library. This leaves Dean in the basement with Bones, some good old-fashioned power tools, and Bones’s ex-suitor’s gross sense of humor.

“You know I can understand you just fine when you’re talking normally,” Dean says. “You’re just reciting some prehistoric shit that idiots say to girls to get a pity-laugh, hoping it leads to a pity-fuck.”

“What’s a pity-fuck?” Bones asks, all mildewy innocence. Dean’s pretty sure the grunge in his eyeball sockets is dried eyeball.

“Pretty much what it says on the tin, my guy,” Dean answers, and reaches for the acetylene torch.

 “Enochian,” Sam says, when Dean surfaces for another sandwich and possibly a beer. He’s really disappointed about the torch.

“Gesundheit?” Dean replies, around a mouthful of bologna. Like everything else here, the kitchen is pretty schwa, although the inside of the fridge required three exorcisms and half a jug of bleach.

Sam paws around the smelly old book in a way that makes Dean feel sorry for the girls Sam dated in high school. “The symbols on the cuff. I think they’re Enochian. It’s a fake celestial language made up by some sixteenth century con artists.”

Dean coughs up a bit of Wonder Bread. “I respect the hustle, but what’s it doing on an ankle cuff in a dungeon younger than Mickey Mouse?”

Sam frowns. “Well, it could be for show. But just because some nutbars made it up doesn’t mean it’s totally powerless. Maybe it does have some kind of…heavenly mojo.”

“Liwl probbem,” Dean observes, finishing off his sandwich. “Def nuh heggen.”

“Huh?”

Dean takes a swallow of beer. “I said: there’s no heaven.”

Sam shrugs. “We didn’t think there was a Purgatory, either.”

“Okay, but if we find out angels are real,” Dean snorts, “then Bones can fuck me in the ass.”

 Sam reports his findings to Bones, who sits placidly on the back of his pelvis, carpals splayed out on his kneecaps. What’s even holding him together? Dean can see what’s left of his ligaments, but they look like petrified gas station jerky.

“Do you know what they mean?” Sam asks him, pointing at the sigils.

Bones’s jaw creaks open a little, then closes again, and then he shakes his skull (something rattles inside.) Finally he makes a little frustrated noise and replies – “Baby, are you a book? Because I’d like to check you out.”

“Hey!” says Dean. “Keep it in your pants, man, I’m right here.”

Sam squints. “I think…Dean, I think he’s trying to tell us something, but the spell on him means he can’t say it directly.”

Bones clenches his fists, releases them, clenches them again.

“Yeah. Keep him talking. Let’s see how close he can get.”

Clack clack clack.

“Uh,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Do I need to, like. Give you some kinda opening?” he asks Bones.

“Sweetheart, I’d like nothing better,” Bones answers, then clacks his knuckles on his brow with exasperation.

“Sorry, Christ. Hit me with your best shot, buddy. Dealer’s choice.”

Bones clears his…ghost throat? and tries: “Tell me, Dean…did it hurt?”

Dean blinks. “When I…fell from heaven?”

Sam claps his hands. “Fucking knew it. It is Enochian, and it does have something to do with this. I think he wants me to check the library for another book. Maybe there’s one misshelved or something that I can actually use to translate. Or I can Google around, maybe there’s a subreddit.”

Dean’s pretty sure Bones has never heard of a Google or a subreddit (for that matter, does Dean actually know what a subreddit is?), but it seems like there’s a glimmer of hope deep in those scum-holes.

 Sam gets translations for a few of the words – “obedience” and something he’s fifty percent sure means “millstone” – but the rest is still gobbledygook, and he hasn’t come down with another update in hours. The dungeon is pretty roomy, but it’s not like there’s a foosball table or a cable TV pickup down there, so Dean and Bones wind up lying on the cold-ass ground, staring up into the dark reaches of the ceiling together and, like. Chatting.

Occasionally Bones goes quiet and Dean glances over at him. He really could just be a totally normal, completely dead dungeon skeleton. A good power washing and the right mounting hardware and he’d be ready for a high school biology classroom.

“So if these runes are a celestial thing, does that mean you’re some kinda demonic...thing?” Dean asks. “Cause I gotta say, you’re a much less of a douche than the demons I’ve met.” He snorts. “I know you probably can’t say.”

Bones sighs (how? With what lungs?). “The last person who tried to free me was a demon.” He shifts a little, maybe surprised that he can say this out loud. “It had been so long since somebody had spoken to me…I’m afraid I came close to actually enjoying his company. But he was no better than his kind usually are.”

“Don’t suppose you caught his name? Maybe Sam or me killed him for you already.”

“He called himself—no, I can’t say it.” He makes a sound resembling a harumph.

Then his skull creaks over to look at Dean. “Does your name start with ‘C’?” he says, very deliberately.

Dean is momentarily puzzled, but he works it out by the time Bones wincingly adds “…because I’ve got a D that wants to come behind you.”

There aren’t too many demons under the “C” tab in Dean’s blood-stained mental rolodex, and when he says the name out loud, Bones makes a sound like an entire set of dominos being thrown down a spiral staircase.

  Crowley is pretty pissed, which is fun.

It’s nice that the dungeon floor already has a perfect trap on the floor; they don’t even have to hit up Ace Hardware for paint. A damp shop cloth and a little nail polish (Wet ’n Wild in “Red Red,” don’t leave home without it) brings it right up to working order.

“Why does it smell like a nail salon fucked a bloody wine cellar?” Crowley says, after he’s settled down a bit. He manifested right in the creepy torture chair (in the shackles, even! What service!) and he made some escape attempts followed by angry noises about rust stains. Now he’s recovered his dignity and has kicked back a bit, legs crossed, fingers steepled, oozing maximum levels of 2 cool 4 school.

“How do you know what a nail salon smells like?” Dean retorts.

“I get a monthly mani-pedi. There’s no shame in a little self-care, boys.” Crowley’s eyes trickle down to their feet. “Imagine what fungal horrors those work boots must conceal.” Then he squints, and looks up, finally taking in the whole room. “Could swear I’ve been here before. Little upscale for you, isn’t it? Did we splurge for a vacation rental?”

“Crowley, why don’t we roleplay Titanic?” Bones growls from the wall behind him, and Crowley’s face goes slack. “I’ll be the iceberg, and you can go down.”

Crowley swallows and slowly twists back, as far as the shackles let him. “Feathers, is that you? Well, as I live and breathe.”

“You do neither,” says Bones, with so much gravelly contempt that Dean suppresses a little shiver.

“Oh, I still breathe now and then, when the mood takes me. I’m a sentimentalist.” Crowley cranes his neck a little harder and squints into the dim. “Goodness, you’ve dropped some weight since we last spoke, haven’t you. Finally let go of all that pesky soft tissue?”

Bones tilts forward and kind of clatters onto hands and knees, then tipsily begins to rise up to standing. Dean’s a little concerned he’s gonna topple right over and they’re gonna spend the next two hours collecting him in a basket, but when he moves to help out, Bones waves him off. After a couple false starts he makes it up onto his feet bones and then shuffles out to the end of his chain, right under one of the overhead lights. He’s still a good couple feet off from Crowley, but Crowley looks like he wouldn’t mind a few extra acres.

Bones sways a little bit, just enough for Crowley to wince. “You didn’t come back.”

“I got busy.”

Sam shifts impatiently. “What is he?” he snaps, gesturing at Bones.

“Exceedingly dull,” Crowley says. “I should’ve guessed you were friends.”

Dean uncorks a fresh bottle of holy water.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Crowley amends, quickly. “And even if you did, you wouldn’t know what to do with him. It’d be like giving a laptop to a pair of howler monkeys.”

Dean puts his thumb over the mouth of the water bottle and holds it over Crowley’s head. “Try me.”

Crowley scoffs, rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what he is, since he’s useless as long as he’s chained up. And I wouldn’t have left him down here if I had a single clue how to smuggle him out.  I haven’t even been in here since the Bay of Pigs; I’d worked a loophole in one of the defense spells here that let me in. When it broke down, I lost my exploit. Wasn’t worth the bother after that.”

Dean slides his thumb a millimeter north of a perfect seal, and a fat drop of water busts its ass open on Crowley’s forehead and sends up a thin line of steam. “Good thing I’ve got a limitless supply of bother,” Dean notes. “Sam, we still got those syringes in the trunk?”

Crowley snarls. “Go ahead and melt me like the cartoon shoe in Roger Rabbit, it’s not going magically make me come up with a solution.”

Bones grunts and rattles his leg chain. “Do you speak Spanish, Crowley? Because you look like the Juan for me.”

“Did I teach you that one? You absolute xylophone.” Crowley glances back at Dean. “Do your worst, Squirrel, I deserve it.”

Sam frowns. “He uses the lines to get around the spell’s speech restrictions. This is something about speaking languages…were you able translate the Enochian symbols on his cuff?”

Crowley blinks. “What symbols?”

 After a whole lot of faffing around with mirrors and terrible cellphone photography, they confirm that Crowley can’t see the symbols at all.

“More demon-proofing. Clever little buggers, those Men of Letters,” Crowley sighs. “A real shame they were peeled and eaten like bananas.”

Finally Sam just hunkers down with a pencil and pad to transcribe the entire ankle cuff, and Dean awkwardly holds up Bones’s ankle, like he’s being sized for a glass slipper. When they shove the results in Crowley’s face, Dean watches his eyes dart along the words.

“Well, it’s your lucky day, boys. Along with the usual wankery, there are instructions on how to release the cuff. I can translate it,” he finally says, with an unusually low inflection of bullshit, “but I’ll thank you to release me, first.”

Dean is flummoxed. “What, you’re not gonna haggle for a cut of the profits or anything?”

“Activating the release mechanism will free him completely, and restore his…restore him. I’d rather be at a safe distance.” He glances back at Bones, looming in the shadows. “A continent or three should do the trick.”

“If it doesn’t work–“

“I’d be more worried about what happens if it does,” Crowley sighs.  “But feel free to summon me back for tea and sympathy. Here, I’ll even give you my number. But please, no personal photography. I pity you enough as it is.”

  Crowley finally smokes out, and Dean has a beer to celebrate while Sam looks over the list of what they need and Bones clatters his fingertips like castanets. The ingredients are (as always) larded with shit that’s exotic and expensive; Sam is looking crestfallen at some of the items. “I’ve heard of all of this, but I’ve only seen maybe half of it for sale anywhere.”

“Baby, are you a yard sale? Because you’ve got some serious junk in that trunk,” Bones monotones. He’s back to lying on the floor.

At least it’s getting easier to translate this shit. “They’ve got all the ingredients here somewhere,” Dean says. Sam looks skeptical. “C’mon, Sam, no way these dudes would use a lock when they didn’t have the key.”

The ensuing scavenger hunt takes a few pints of elbow grease, but at least by the end they’re both familiar with the Bunker’s floor plan, document filing system, and inventory records. They find virtually everything in-house, though they do end up driving to the nearest farm stand for some hen’s eggs and rosemary (and heirloom tomatoes, because they look bomb).

Dean christens – or maybe exorcises – the kitchen range with some red meat, and they fuel up with burgers before taking the plunge. Dean’s still licking the ketchup off his fingers when Bones pipes up one last time. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

Dean and Sam brace for impact.

Bones sighs. “That’s not the start of a pickup line. I genuinely have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you so intent on freeing me? You could have just left me down here. I’m not a threat this way. You only have Crowley’s word that you might profit - or suffer - from my release.”

Sam gives Dean a look; it’s the look that says I sure hope you have an answer, because I think this entire thing has been dumb as shit and half as necessary. It’s a look Sam uses pretty regularly.

“Uh. It’s the right thing to do? As far as I can tell, you haven’t hurt anybody or done anything else to deserve being down here. We went through all those records upstairs, and there’s no note that says ‘by the way, that skeleton downstairs eats babies for breakfast.’ This place is cool, but the dudes who built it were obviously shady as fuck.”

“I see.” Bones sounds a little disappointed.

Sam fake-coughs into his hand, and Dean sets down his paper napkin. “Also, you seem cool. Like, you’re easy to hang out with. Other than the stinky one-liners, and we’re gonna wean you off of those.”

Bones straightens himself out a little. “Thank you, Dean. You know, on a scale of one to ten, I’d rate you a nine.”

“Okay, okay. Why not a ten?”

Bones sets his chin on his knuckle bones with a tidy little clack. “Because I’m the one you’re missing.”

Dean groans, but he thinks the guy might be smiling, somewhere behind that skeletal grin.

 By hour two, Sam’s pretty tuckered out from pulverizing a billion and three mummified dove livers while reciting nonsense syllables, and Dean’s right arm is about to fall off from holding up this giant silver swizzle stick that’s either a really weird short sword or a decorative javelin, but Bones has never looked perkier. He’s lying on a nice white bedsheet and looking fresh as a recently exhumed daisy.

“Okay,” Sam rasps. “Light the candle and we should be good to go. Any last words, Bones?”

“Are either of you religious?” He crosses his arm bones over each other.

“Fuck no,” Dean answers, before Sam gets a chance to launch into it.

Bones shakes his skull fondly. “You should reconsider. Because you’re the answer to my prayers.”

Dean makes a gagging noise and lights the candle.

 What happens next (well, after the cuff pops open) is some of the freakiest shit that Dean has ever seen, and his Freaky CV is pretty fucking impressive, thanks. Bones tells them to avert their eyes, “just in case”, but he takes a peek between his fingers anyway, because he’s an idiot.

For a second Bones is just lying there, and Dean has a second of real disappointment that maybe he’s Moved On Past The Veil or something, but then he starts…foaming. It starts out kind of uniform and colorless, but then it really picks up speed and volume and starts to separate into swaths of distinct and horrible colors and textures. He closes his eyes again for a second to give his stomach a chance to reboot, and when he looks again the foam is gone, and instead there’s a whole lot of angry jelly trying to form into organs.

Just as the jelly is really getting its shit together and looking more like lungs and intestines and stuff, the heart-jelly pulses once and sends out a fistful of big squishy vines…veins? and a fat white worm of nerve scrambles down the spinal column and starts putting out franchises. This is followed by some disturbingly tasty-looking red sheets of muscle that swiftly sheathe over all the whole scene, and then the muscles start sweating out fat and cartilage and this is the point where Dean decides that looking away is actually definitely one hundred percent for the best. Even then, the sounds are tough to handle.

Kinda wild: he’s seen people taken apart, but watching one get put back together is somehow gnarlier. Well, if this guy is even a person. It’s a human skeleton, sure, but god knows even Mickey Rourke has one under there.

Finally everything seems to have quieted down.

“How you doin’ over there, Bones?” Dean asks, and dares to take a peek.

Bones is crouched down in front of them, fists balled up in the bedsheets (it’s a relief that the bedsheets didn’t get accidentally sucked into the muscle layer or something, like one of those surgeons who leaves a sponge behind). Dean sees white guy skin and some dark messy hair and gets the gist of a decent build.

The face slowly cranes upwards, and Dean is really truly ready for anything here; tusks, fangs, Klingon forehead ridges, gingivitis. Instead he gets a faceful of hot math teacher. Bones’s eyes are still closed, but he’s frowning like he’s mentally reviewing his strategy to explain the quadratic equation to a roomful of horny teens.

He slowly rises to standing (yikes! Naked! Dean is a Moderately Bad Man, so he glances, but just long enough to register “nice), uncurling slowly and carefully.

Then he’s all the way up. Bones squares his shoulders and straightens the last kink in his spine, and the frown resolves. Dean’s about to say something, when his eyes snap open, and this cold white light absolutely blasts out of them, and fuck, Crowley wasn’t kidding: this guy is definitely A Thing. The whole room flattens and distorts in the light. Shadows race up the walls like they’re looking for a way out, then snap together into the shape of enormous ragged wings, stretching thirty feet higher than the actual ceiling clearance.

Then the light dies down; the wings fade into regular-grade shadows. Instead of a terrifying unearthly avatar of Oh Shit, Dean’s looking at a buck naked thirty-something math teacher. Who happens to be an unearthly avatar of Oh Shit. And has nice eyes.

“My name is Castiel, angel of the Lord, Seraph of the First Shield,” the avatar says, in a piss-shakingly resonant version of Bones’s voice.

Then: “Do you speak English, Dean?”

“Yes?” Dean fumbles.

“So do I,” says Castiel, and smiles.

Then he makes finger-guns.

  Castiel sticks around for a grand total of five minutes before he’s suddenly gone again, because angels are (a) real and they can (b) teleport? at (c) any moment because (d) fuck you, then he reappears six hours later (clothed) standing over Dean’s bed, having apparently forgotten that humans like to sleep; this time Dean does shoot him, but luckily he doesn’t seem to take it personally.   

“I located Crowley,” Bo- Castiel says. The silver sword-javelin thing is sitting on the kitchen counter in front of him; apparently it’s an Angel Blade and it lives in Castiel’s coat sleeve and can vaporize demons. It doesn’t look like it has any Crowley on it, but maybe it’s self-cleaning.

“Did you kill him?” Dean asks, now that he’s semi-coherent and wrapped around a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“Not this time,” Cas answers. “He did help, after all.”

“Sure,” says Dean.

“You don’t need to let me fuck you in the ass, either,” Castiel says, and Dean honks some coffee up the back of his nose.

“Oh,” he gasps. “Okay. Cool. Thanks. Didn’t realize you could hear that convo all the way down there.”

“Angels have excellent hearing. Mine wasn’t impacted by the spell.”

Dean can think of at least three very private moments Castiel almost definitely could hear every instant of, and longs for death. Or maybe not, since apparently this guy lives in Heaven and could hear him there, too. “Great. Good to know. Noted.”

“But…” Castiel looks wistful.

“What?” Dean nudges him. Dean Winchester: angel nudger.

Castiel frowns. “If I said…” he stops himself. “This is…what I want to say is very irregular, at least between angels and humans.”

“Jesus christ on a goddamn pogo stick, man. It’s three in the morning, some of us have a circadian rhythm and a limited lifespan. Say whatever it is you gotta say.”

Castiel looks up and drowns Dean in his swimming pool eyes, which Dean has learned belong to a radio ad salesman in Illinois, who Castiel possessed a few years back before jumping several decades into the past to run some errands and getting rope-a-doped by the Men of Letters and then warehoused in their basement; after they all spontaneously bought the farm, he just slowly ran out of the power reserves needed to keep his vessel from turning to mush and hey presto, talking skeleton.

Classic story, really.

“If I said you had a beautiful body, Dean,” Castiel says, solemnly, “Would you hold it against m-“

Dean doesn’t let him finish. {AO3 version}

[veinsandknuckles]

It's a bad life if you don't weaken, pt 5 (Tallahassee/Reader)

You had found a house. You’d found plenty of houses along the way, but this one looked especially promising with its two stories, a tall foundation that left the front door as the only entrance you’d need to guard, wide fields spreading out in every direction to lay bare anyone, dead or alive, who might try to sneak up on you. There were old tire marks in the soil running towards and away from the building, the latest set belonging to a car parked awkwardly against a wall with leaves and debris scattered on the roof - no one living was staying here.

Tallahassee tried to kick in the door and made a wonderful scene when it swung open without any effort, leaving him to land face first on the hallway carpet.

He looked so baffled and crestfallen when he got back to his feet that the three of you laughed at him even harder and he turned tail and ran on into the house until he found a door that hadn’t already been kicked in by some other survivor. You heard a crash, boots running across wooden floors, then another crash. Columbus and Little Rock entered after him and fanned out like a well practiced SWAT team to make sure Tallahassee’s display hadn’t awakened anything.

You carried in the bags, pushed the door back into its frame and secured it with the hallway cabinet and, gun at the ready, went to explore the next floor up. Those fools were making a lot of noise down there but you were sure by now that the house was empty. Thanks to their eager bad-ass antics, you had first choice of bedrooms.

Tallahassee came up the stairs once he’d gotten some of the smashing out of his system and he froze in the doorway to the master bedroom, his grin twisting into a mask of utter grief.

“No,” he breathed.

You were sprawled on the king-size bed, arms crossed behind your head, legs stretched out and luxuriating on the soft sheets. With a smile, you made the bed bounce and there wasn’t so much as a squeak of complaint from the springs. Three of you could have fit on the bed without brushing up against each other. “Oh yeah,” you purred. “This house was a great pick, Tallahassee - I can really see us making ourselves at home here.”

The other two finally caught on to what was happening and followed close behind. Little Rock elbowed Tallahassee aside and cursed at you. “Come on! I’m not sleeping on the floor again - Tallahassee, tell her.”

“Oh, wow,” came Columbus’ voice from somewhere down the hall, “this room is so nice! Hm, doilies.”

Little Rock bolted immediately and through the walls you could hear her flinging herself onto the bed in there and shouting “dibs!”

Tallahassee’s face was dark, and he glanced towards where your hand rested on your gun. “I could have you over my shoulder and out of here quicker’n you could get the safety off of that thing, missy.” He drew himself up with injured dignity and pressed a hand to his chest. “But I... am a gentleman. A gentleman with a sore neck and aching muscles and very long limbs.”

You raised your eyebrows and wondered if you could bring him back to the idea of lifting you up bodily. “Yes, that’s what we all call you behind your back. Gentleman.”

He shook his head. “You know, I give you kids everything I have and I get nothin’ but lip in return. I despair of your generation.”

Tallahassee did that a lot, drew attention to his own age and the gap between his and yours. He was welcome to fish for reassurance about his own all he wanted and you usually obliged, but lumping you in with the other two?  “Watch who you call a kid. Columbus makes me feel ancient by comparison.”

He looked at you oddly before he smiled. “Figure of speech, sweetheart.” Something made him pause, as if he was weighing up his options. Then he sighed with exaggerated melancholy. “Well... if you won’t take pity on me, I’d better find somewhere else to bunk up.” Tallahassee touched the brim of his hat to you and walked off with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder before you could gather up the nerve to point out the bed was wide enough to fit both of you. ----

In the end, there were enough bedrooms to go around and then some - this house had obviously belonged to a real old fashioned country family. No one wanted to speculate further than this in any real way, but Little Rock made fun of all the framed photographs she found and amused herself by throwing them out the window, trying to hit the roof of the old abandoned car. Maybe she was working through something.

The other survivor(s) hadn’t stayed here long enough to ruin much. Their footprints had stained some carpets and there were broken egg shells and empty packets of food clogging the kitchen sink, but all of that would have expired by now in any case and in the cabinets there were cans, spices and nonperishables galore. There was also a corpse in the sitting room, but it was the still sort, so you pulled on some long rubber gloves, grabbed the edges of the rug it was lying on and dragged it, half wrapped up like a perversely over-stuffed burrito, slowly out and down the front stairs.

There were a few offers of help, but you wanted to stay busy so you declined, found a bucket and some soap, opened all the windows wide and eventually with a lot of elbow grease and retching, got the worst of the stink and the goo out. Tallahassee kept himself busy and alone in the rest of the house doing something mysterious, Columbus and Little Rock split up to rest a while and came together in the kitchen to cook and after a good few hours of quiet, hard work you felt your stomach rumble as the smell of death was replaced by the (honestly speaking, only barely) preferable smell of food.

It was amazing how quickly the unacceptable became commonplace - if you couldn’t learn to build an appetite with maggots crawling on your hands, you would have starved a long time ago.

When it was all done, the four of you sat down exhausted on the porch to the first hot meal you’d had in ages. The table was covered by an old sheet, there were wild flowers in a jug of water, there were beers to drink and the already empty bottles held flickering candles that picked up some of the slack from the setting sun. Someone, perhaps all three of them, had obviously had a hankering for the domestic and right now it didn’t seem like the sort of thing that any of you wanted to mock.

Tallahassee had gone to work with hammer, nails and whatever wood he could find and had already boarded up most of the windows that could be reached on the first floor. Everything that could and should be done today had been done and there was as much stillness and safety now that there would ever be again. In short, this was exactly the time when at least one person would be gearing up for a breakdown. The silence around the table could be excused while everyone was still ravenous and busy shoving the weird combinations of pickles, spam, noodles and preserves into their mouths but it worried you when things slowed down and there was still no talking. Something had to be done.

“Anyone feel like they’re going nuts?”

Well, that made them sit up. Columbus coughed and Tallahassee froze, fork half way to his open mouth.

Little Rock sighed. “I mean, yeah. Obviously.”

“You ever gone proper camping, like strapped into a heavy rucksack?” You addressed the question to her since she’d made the mistake of replying first.

“Ew, no. I had better things to do than subject myself to ‘nature’.”

Tallahassee kicked her chair under the table and she jolted and gave him the finger.

“Well,” you pressed on. “My point is, when you take the pack off and sit down, that’s when you feel how tired you are. And it’s almost impossible to lift the thing back up again after.”

Silence descended again. No one looked like they disagreed with you or were in doubt of what you were getting at. After a moment, Tallahassee opened another bottle with his teeth, took a drink, belched and said, “that’s a fair point, princess, a good analogy.” There was no knowing whether he meant it or if he was being sarcastic.

“You’re saying we shouldn’t get comfortable here,” said Columbus. He hadn’t looked away from you since you started talking, which was rare for him.

“No... we’ve got plenty of supplies, this place looks safe enough and the propane tank is almost full. I think we need to rest. I’m just worried, if we’re not focusing on moving and surviving...”

“Well, my plan,” Tallahassee said and leaned back in his chair, “and you’re more’n welcome to join me, is to get absolutely, incoherently, pants-shittingly hammered. Ain’t nothing in this world can’t be solved by drinking.”

“Drinking what? Did you find liquor and just... hide it from the rest of us?”

He smiled and trailed his fingers lazily up and down the neck of his beer bottle, and you’d gotten completely off the subject but everyone was talking and ready to strangle Tallahassee, so for the moment at least the crisis was averted.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he drawled. “Bet you wish you’d given me the master bedroom now...”

“That’s such a great plan, Tallahassee,” said Little Rock, each word dripping with insincerity and with only lemonade in her glass. “And are you finally going to let me have some? I mean, I can find other ways to let off steam, if you think that’s better. I still say your hat could use some glitter... who knows what I’ll get up to while you’re passed out in a pool of your own vomit.”

Tallahassee drew himself up, puffed out his chest and held on tight to his hat. “I swear to God, you so much as touch this hat and I’ll show you what your own kidneys look like.”

“I’m practically 13! Give me a goddamn beer!”

“Actually, you’ve got almost another three months.” Columbus looked thoughtful. “Wow, I’d better start looking out for some toy stores...”

“Toy stores? Are you deaf? I’m a teenager.”

“Hah!” Tallahassee cackled. “Give me a break - you’re barely out of your diapers. Oughta get you some velcro shoes, I’m sick to death of watching you struggle with your laces.”

Little Rock turned her indignation back on Tallahassee and he welcomed it with open arms.

You’d never articulated this thought to yourself before, but he really did rile people up on purpose and you were beginning to see why. It might very well have started as a way to keep them at arm’s length, but he had another reason now - better they were angry at him than sad. Or numb. As the saying went: don’t mourn, organise against the idiot who hogs the booze and farts on your pillow ‘to remind you of home’. It wasn’t a very nice favour he was doing them but you couldn’t help feeling cheated that he never needled you the same way. It’d at least meant he was giving you some attention.

...Christ, you must be getting desperate indeed if that’s was the sort of attention you were willing to settle for.

“Tallahassee.” Columbus’ voice was soft but firm, and he glanced over at you. “Bring us your stash and pour Little Rock a very small drink.”

“Make me.”

“I don’t have to make you. You’re outnumbered. I favor a nice merlot, myself, but I will settle for whatever you’ve got.”

[crossbowking]

The Road Ahead : Chapter 5

Chapter Index HERE

Summary : (Set in the beginning of season 1) Anna Brooks lost everything after the world ended — the last remaining part of herself being her older brother, who she lost contact with after communications dropped. While en route towards Atlanta to find him, Anna’s truck breaks down, leaving her at the mercy of the cruel new world. Now, Anna must face her fears head on as she struggles to deal with devastating loss, constant danger, and finding her way in a land that now belongs to the dead. But sometimes, a glimmer of hope can be found disguised as a short-tempered, hard-headed redneck who may just save her life in more ways than one.

Pairings : Daryl x Original Female Character

Warnings : Slow-Burn, Language/Violence/typical Walking Dead themes

Author’s Note : This chapter is a bit short - sorry to disappoint! But I promise that the next chapter is nearly twice as long! Thank you for all the wonderful feedback! I couldn’t stop smiling reading everyone’s comments! I love when you babes share your thoughts and opinions with me! It makes this process so much more enjoyable! So thank you!!!

Happy reading!!!

xx crossbowking

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Previously...

She held the flashlight to her chest, curling inward as a hunger pain rocked through her body, her lips cracked and dry with thirst, unease coursing through her veins.

Then, with nothing more left to do, Anna cried herself into a restless sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now...

Anna woke up the next morning feeling more exhausted than ever.

She’d tossed and turned all night, afraid the moment she closed her eyes, something would go horribly wrong. Every time she felt herself begin to doze off, flashes of blood and death would invade her mind, making sleep a futile thing. She could feel the ever-present dark circles under her eyes growing and wondered if she’d ever sleep well again.

Anna scoffed aloud at the concept of sleeping through the night ‘nightmare free’. She hadn’t had a good nights sleep since the world went to shit…and even before that, her dreams had been plagued with the horrors from her everyday life...

Anna scrubbed at her face, hoping a little blood flow would get her up and moving, but she found her limbs heavy as lead. She stared up at the decaying ceiling, feeling the Georgian heat beginning to press against her bones, the day already suffocatingly humid. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of her face, settling at the nape of her neck.

She needed to find water and soon — otherwise, she’d most likely die from dehydration before she even set foot in Atlanta.

Anna groaned softly as she pulled herself into a sitting position, absently rubbing her empty stomach, her fingers tracing the faint outlines of her ribcage — she hadn’t been able to feel her ribs last week. Things were not looking too good for her right now.

With a sigh, Anna clambered to her feet, dragging her backpack and flannel off the ground with her. She straightened out her dirty, torn jeans that hung off her hips, fastening her belt as tight as possible, hating how much room she still had between the fabric and her skin.

Ignoring the nagging in her head that told her she was slowly starving to death, she stretched out the kinks in her neck as she glanced out the front store window. If she had to guess, she’d say it was late morning — the sun wasn’t at its peak, but the morning dew had already settled — which gave her more than enough time to trek into the city and find her brother’s apartment — and hopefully her brother — before nightfall.

Anna started pulling everything out from her backpack, laying it on the counter to take inventory — two cans of string beans, one can of peaches, two protein bars, an open can of Red Bull, half a bottle of Advil, a toothbrush and travel size bottle of toothpaste, half a roll of toilet paper, a flashlight, a can opener, one change of clothes, an empty canteen for water, and her gun with five bullets in the chamber. Her supplies were dwindling faster than she was able to restock and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could survive off one can of string beans a day.

Anna took a generous swig from the opened Red Bull, knowing that the beverage would only result in further thirst but choosing to quench her parched lips instead. She unwrapped one of the protein bars, nibbling on the end as she toyed with the chain of her necklace.

She’d inspected the mini-mart top to bottom for water, but there was nothing — no bottles, no jugs, no cases, no hidden stashes in the storage room, no water in the pipes, not even a god damn vending machine. Scavenging a surrounding neighborhood was an option, but that would delay her getting to Atlanta. Plus, she only had five bullets left and no other weapon on her, leaving her defenseless against more than a couple walkers. But no matter how badly she wanted to get to Atlanta, no matter how badly she wanted to find Ben…she needed to find water first.

Anna finished up her protein bar, ignoring her stomach’s protest for more, and downed the rest of her Red Bull. She would just have to take half the day to scavenge — it was her only option at this point.

With a sigh, Anna shoved everything back into her pack, tied her flannel around her waist, and slipped her backpack over her shoulders. She scanned outside the front building, looking for any signs of the dead as she picked up her gun. Just a few lone walkers limped about the street, heading in the direction of the city. It was nothing to worry about — she would just sneak out the back, hop in her truck, and leave those biters in the dust.

Anna made her way out of the main room and into the storage area. She rolled away the shelving unit she’d propped up in front of the exit, pushing it to the side. But right before she moved the plywood she’d used to block off the open doorway, she paused, spotting something to her left.

A cooking pot.

Not the most convenient weapon of choice, but it was better than firing off her gun and risking the chance of attracting a bigger crowd of biters. Anna picked it up, testing the weight in her hand before tucking her gun into the waistband of her jeans. It would have to do.

Gripping the pot in her left hand, she used her right to pull away the piece of plywood, shielding her eyes for a moment against the glare of the sun bouncing off the pavement.

And then, after her eyes adjusted, she looked around — and what she saw made her stomach drop.

A herd. Right outside the mini-mart. Wandering across the back parking lot. Her appearance having drawn their attention solely on her.

“Oh shit,” Anna whispered in horror, quickly scrambling back inside the store as the first walker made its swipe at her. “Shit, shit, shit,” she hissed, gnashing her teeth together as she swung the pot towards the walker, slamming the bottom against the side of its head. Her heart hammered against her chest as more of the dead began to filter into the store, hungrily reaching for her as she stumbled backward, further into the storage room.

Anna’s stomach plummeted as she smashed the pot against another walker that had gotten too close. There were too many to fight off. She frantically scanned the room, searching for a way out, when she suddenly spotted a rusted ladder attached to the back wall. She had no idea where it led, but if she couldn’t go left, right, forward or backward…she would just have to go up.

Anna landed a powerful kick into the gut of the closest walker, watching as it fell backward into the crowd, knocking a couple others down like bowling pins. She took the opportunity to scramble over to the ladder and began climbing as fast as her body would allow her. She felt a hand wrap around her ankle but quickly kicked it off, climbing until her head touched the ceiling. Wrapping her shaking limbs around the ladders top rung, Anna looked down.

A mass of the dead crowded below her, the group so vast she could no longer see the floor. Outstretched hands reached up towards her, some soaked in blood, others rotting to the bone — but all vying for her flesh, fueled by nothing but innate hunger. Their collective groans grew into one deafening growl, sending Anna’s heart into overdrive as her grip began to quiver around the rung.

Anna took a deep breath and forced herself to think rationally. Someone wouldn’t attach a ladder to the wall if the ladder didn’t lead somewhere…she turned her gaze away from the dead and scanned the ceiling above her, using her fingertips to feel for some sort of door or latch.

Within seconds, she felt a groove in the ceiling. Using her finger, she followed the crack until she felt a handle. A burst of hope shot through her as she twisted the handle, using her shoulder to push the hatch up. Sunlight surged through the opening as Anna climbed through the hole and onto the flat top roof of the mini-mart, slamming the flap closed behind her.

Stumbling backward, Anna ran a shaky hand through her matted hair, sliding her backpack off her shoulders as she frantically looked around. She inched towards the edge of one side of the square building and peeked over, feeling as though someone punched her in the gut at the sight of how many walkers had swarmed there. She scrambled to look over the other three sides of the building, seeing nothing but an endless crowd of biters — even more ambling out of the woods, drawn in by all the commotion.

Backing away from the edge, Anna fell to her knees, splaying her hands out in front of her, her fingernails digging into the concrete.

What the hell kind of ending was this? After everything she had been through, she was either going to climb off the roof and get massacred by walkers…or she was going to stay put and die a slow, miserable death due to starvation and dehydration. Feeling every ounce of fight drain out of her, Anna curled up on the roof, too tired and too discouraged to do anything else.

The roar of the dead below eventually dulled as Anna closed her eyes and thought of her family. She pictured her father’s eyes — warm, like honey — so similar to hers. She remembered her mother’s smile — weary, but bright — even on the days she couldn’t muster the strength to get out of bed. She imagined her brother’s hands — strong and calloused from spending hours working on car engines — guiding her away from their mother’s hospital room…

Anna squeezed her eyes shut even tighter, curling her knees closer to her chest.

Things had gone from bad to worse to downright shit.

And now, the undeniable truth was this — for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Anna Brooks was completely screwed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N : Oh shit...what’s going to happen next?! 

QUESTION OF THE WEEK: What would YOU do in this situation? Try to fight your way out or stay on the roof and hope the herd eventually loses interest?! Share your thoughts!

CHAPTER 6 WILL BE POSTED SUNDAY, OCTOBER 7TH! (AKA THE WALKING DEAD SEASON 9 PREMIER!!! I’M SO PUMPED.)

Feedback is INCREDIBLY important. I write for my own happiness, but I also write for YOU. So don’t be afraid to shoot me an ask or message or leave a comment with your thoughts! It truly motivates me and helps move along the writing process. Let’s discuss and be friends!

If you want to be notified when I post again, let me know and I’ll add you to my tag list!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FOREVER TAG LIST

@jodiereedus22 @momc95 @distressed-honking @puppiesnclickers @lillyrosegirl @messiahofdystopia @reddhead95 @coffeebooksandfandom @xabigail-miwx @kazzieglove @art-flirt @side-effectss @selenedixon @auntiebyn @rubysglowingeyes @dreamingofonceuponatime @iminlovewithasuperboy @wtfcas @charity1080 @cbarter @mtngirlforever @hanaissupergirl @a-dlv @kickin-with-dixon @sugakookiexx @heyitscam99 @alwaysananglophile @vodkasindream @the-bleeding-rose @the-obsessive-fangirl @daryldixionfan1universe @munchkinfox @hp-hogwartsexpress @alilarkin99 @maddybeck01 @mrsdaamneron @randomtwistedlife @anything-for-the-archer @kittieswritingspot @sesshomaru-lover @x-everrosekillings-x @hopplessdreamer @teaxerz @s7g @daddys-little-princess67 @cltex84 @the-lady-corvidae @fakesoniapayne @cutiepiemimi13 @qhbr2013 @hotdigggittydogg @frienah @mummy-woves-you @azanoni-blog @oh-hey-i-m-gay @rirylgrimeson1 @seninjakitey @cole-winchester @andiejones @missscarletawesome @countrygal17a @theclaustrophobicpenguin @katsandwriting @mildnoobs @vampromancy @always-hopeful- @kilyra @sourwolf-sterek32 @wilhelmjfink @antiformidable @sapphire1727 @mel-2a @pumpkinqueenb @bruised13peach @tatertot1097 @sassi-luna @vox-noctis @youkilloryoudiie @winchester-angel @thatmentallyunstablefangirl @zzeacat @queenlouisa2001 @captain-shannon-becker @my-current-fandom-is @drina365 @risingphoenix761 @twdeadfanfic @jll72-blog @feartheendlesssummer @wanna-see-my-lease @bestillmystuckyheart @lonelyangelseekingdemon @negans-wife @judymosali @thatsoragan @monetfatalia @kayninejayne @burningrupture @firehoopinmama @nicknack2814 @kaleeandspn @senecat17 @iheartmusiclove @oh-balls-you-idjits @dawsonfyre @xxstylestrashxx @hyphymanatee @rasax45v @serfyan18 @a-radiant-sun @whatthefrickcrowley @thehybridsqueen @xmistressmistrustx @elizabethserrato @bleakmidwintr @embracing-illusions @twisted-tasty14 @blankmoniker @angel79sworld @apossiblegentleman @lokilover2000 @keybangs

Let me know if you’d like to be added/removed from the forever tag list.

[imagine-loki]

Unofferable, Part II

TITLE: Unofferable, Part II

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 1, Partners in Crime AUTHOR: unofferable-fic ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine courting Loki in secret for a number of years. While you’re both more than happy with the arrangement and are genuinely in love, you can never make your relationship public because of your status as a mortal servant.

RATING: M

NOTES/WARNINGS: Angst. Playlist: “Clean Up Woman” — Betty Wright, “Direction” — Mark Kerekes, “Yes!” — Dario Marianelli

For Ellie, life had settled into a delightfully relaxed routine in the last few years. Now at the age of twenty four, she had been Loki’s lover for five secretive but rewarding years. Frigga had withheld their secret and only ever spoke of it to either of them in private, so as far as Asgard was concerned, Ellie and her employer were nothing more than friends. This lifted a heavy weight off both her shoulders and their relationship, and her life on Asgard settled into the happiness she had been waiting for.

Waking up at dawn as per usual, she stretched and forced herself to her feet. She opened up her chamber curtains and gazed through the small window at the gardens below, people beginning to come to life as they got to their duties. With a smile, she got to work. Washing and dressing quickly in her usual working attire, she had a small breakfast consisting of a scone and a piece of fruit. Right on time, she left her chambers and walked to Loki’s door nearby. The Einherjar nodded to her as she knocked on its hard surface.

“Come in,” came Loki’s voice from within, and the sound of his early-morning grogginess had her smirking.

The sight of him sprawled out on his stomach in bed made her laugh. “Good mornin’, Prince Loki.”

“Is it really?” he grumbled, voice muffled in his pillows.

“What’s the matter?” she asked as she pulled open his curtains. “Is it about the meetin’ with your father?” Loki made a sort of grunting noise resembling a ‘yes’ and she went on. “Do you want me to run you a bath?”

Another positive grunt.

As Ellie disappeared into the bathroom, she heard him finally pull himself out of bed. As she was filling the bath with hot water, he appeared in the doorway stark naked and anxiously picking at the palm of his hand. She knew this side of Loki all too well. It only really seemed to appear when he was under Odin’s scrutiny. His mood swings were nothing new to her — they happened on occasion whenever he was blatantly overlooked or not acknowledged by the one whose affection he so desperately wanted. She couldn’t blame him for feeling that way even though he usually hid it quite well. Only she and Frigga ever saw him at his worst, but Ellie did what she could to cheer him up and insist that he was one in a million. It wasn’t entirely surprising that the God of Mischief was more anxious than usual with the announcement of Odin’s next in line so imminent.

“Hey,” she called softly as she got to her feet and approached him. “You okay?”

He shrugged. “I am not exactly looking forward to this gathering.”

“It’ll be okay, I promise. Odin would be mad to overlook you.”

“It is not as though he has been doing that for centuries,” he said bitterly. “It would seem that I can do nothing right, even when Thor is the one who blunders around insisting that the only way to solve his problems is to smash them with his damn hammer.”

While she knew Loki’s bitterness came from intense feelings of envy that had been harboured for most of his life, Ellie couldn’t exactly blame him for it. Living in an elder sibling’s shadow no matter what you tried to do to escape from it seemed difficult, and she could see the toll it took on him firsthand. There were many a night when he would come barrelling into her chambers demanding that she clean his own room, only to pull her into a tight embrace when the door shut behind them and prying eyes where blinded. She was there with whatever he needed. Some nights, he sat in silence and held her close until he fell asleep. Others, he vented to her for hours on end until he tired himself out and she offered whatever advice she had. Sometimes, he simply pulled her to any nearby surface and ravished her until her neck bore marks from his teeth and his back was imprinted with red half-moons from her nails. 

She saw what these meetings and the impending announcement was doing to him and she genuinely feared how he would react if he was simply tossed to the side by his father yet again. Frigga was, as always, a blessing for keeping her son from feeling well and truly ignored. No matter how many times Odin disregarded what Loki had to offer, his mother saw it and embraced it. She offered him council when the Allfather denied it, she made sure to acknowledge her sons with equal praise, and she, like Ellie, reassured the youngest Odinson that he was just as worthy of a throne.

“I’m sure even Odin knows that bein’ quick to anger is not what makes a king,” she said,   with confidence. “Much like what he told you as a child.”

Loki simply shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “And yet Thor is still favoured above me. I am convinced I must have done some horrible thing to my father in a past life; I cannot think of any reason why I have earned such displeasure from him. I am a Trickster of course, but that hardly makes me worse than Thor…”

“My love,” she murmured, reaching up to gently cup his face in one hand and stilling his anxious fidgeting with the other. “If the Allfather can’t see all that you have to offer, then I fear he may have lost the sight in his one good eye. If there’s one thing that I promise you, it’s that I refuse to let you question your self-worth for more than a moment. I simply won’t allow it.”

His green eyes softened at her words and, with tender care that was usually reserved for her eyes only, he pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand. “You speak of my worth and yet all I realise as you stand before me is how truly lucky I am to have you in my life.”

“And I you. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Even if Father chooses him?” His voice was hesitant and his eyes were shy, almost nervous about her answer. “Even if I am forever sidelined behind Thor?”

“The Allfather himself could forbid me to be near you and I’d sooner tell him to shove his throne up his arse than be parted from you.”

A chuckled escaped him before he spoke. “My, my. What a colourful image, darling.”

“I mean it,” she insisted and placed on hand over his heart. “It doesn’t matter what he says, or what he does, or which son he chooses; you and I will never be torn apart. How could we do that when a part of us lives within the other? Even if he picks Thor, you’ll always be my Loki.”

His own hand covered hers and held it there, the beating of his strong heart thumping through his chest. “How is it that you always know how to calm me?”

“’Cause I love you and it’s part of the job description.” Without any hesitation, she pulled him into a tight hug and relished the feeling of his arms winding around her waist. 

“I love you too.”

His scent enveloped her and put her at ease. She could feel the anxiety slowly seep from his body and disappear. Now perhaps he would feel better seeing his father. She could consider her day a success if she helped him, even if it was just a little bit.

“Would you like me to wash you?” she asked as she went back to the bath and turned off the tap.

“You do not have to do that,” he said with a small frown, watching her like a hawk.

“I’m aware, but I’d like to if you want me to.”

Without another word, he smiled and lowered himself into the warm water — he had never been one for a steaming-hot bath. Cleaning Loki never felt like a chore to her. In fact, she took great pleasure in it. It was something he was hesitant to do at first, but once she explained that she wished to return the gesture when he so gently took care of her after the events on Alfheim, he couldn’t really say no. Now, it was something he loved doing. Anything that reduced his stress-levels was important. He lay in content silence in the water as she cleaned his body  and hair with the utmost care.

It was as he stood from the bath when he spoke again. “I will be requesting your presence for the duration of the day.”

“You want me t’shadow you for the day?” she asked as she handed him his towel.

“Yes, whatever other tasks I had for you can wait until tomorrow. I wish to have you by my side throughout the day in case my father decides to announce his decision.”

“Of course,” she agreed as he patted himself down. “If you need me by your side then that’s where I’ll stay. I’ll go get your clothes ready.”

As she was walking out the door, Loki gently reached out to grab her hand before she could cross the threshold to his bedroom. Turning to look at him in surprise, she wasn’t expecting him to kiss her.

“Thank you,” he said as their lips parted, briefly nuzzling his nose against hers.

“There’s nothin’ to thank me for, Loki.”

With a smile he released her wrist and Ellie got back to helping him ready himself for the day ahead.

* * *

Odin didn’t exactly seem to eager about Loki having Ellie present for their meeting. Not that she particularly cared one way or the other. She had never been Odin’s biggest fan, and he was never hers, so there was an unspoken mutual distrust between them. She wouldn’t go as far to say that they hated each other, but they certainly didn’t like each other. She was quite biased — she couldn’t help but show her favouritism towards Loki when she cared for him so deeply, and she despised seeing Odin disregarded him from time to time. Despite the fact he seemed mildly vexed by her presence, he couldn’t dismiss her because he had to no genuine reason to do so. Loki was perfectly within his right to have her present for it, so he would do as he pleased.

Loki had her stand nearby with a jug of water and some cakes resting on a table top beside her and called upon her to fill his goblet whenever he felt like it. She knew it was mostly just to give him some emotional support — the soul bond meant their connection was stronger when they were nearby, and thus allowed them to help calm each other. So she had no issue with staying close to bring him some ease. As she stated previously, it was part of her job description. As Odin spoke, she could feel the anxiety seeping from her lover, who sat and listened to every word with rapt attention. Thor also gave his father his full attention, knowing that this conversation was a serious one. Both brothers were just as eager to be king, but for different reasons. Neither of them were perfect candidates either, with each having their own flaws and imperfections. Ellie was foolishly hoping that Frigga would perhaps give away some trace as to who was chosen as Odin’s heir, but the Allmother remained completely passive even as she spoke. She couldn’t fault her for that — Frigga had always been a wonderful mother and treated her sons equally, as a good parent should. And, bless her, she had not told anyone of Ellie and Loki’s relationship despite its impracticality and controversy. All she wanted was for them to be happy, so obviously there was no chance she would give any impression as to who Odin had chosen — that is, if he had already. A small anxious part of her really wished he had yet to make a decision, only because she feared what it would do to Loki if he was, once again, overlooked. She would certainly bare witness to his genuine reaction behind closed doors.

Lost in her thoughts, her attention was once again brought back on Odin as his words and tone shifted. “… but this is not the reason I have asked to speak with you today, my sons.”

Ellie’s gaze flitted to the family as they sat at the table. Thor and Loki visibly shifted in their seats. The Allfather and Allmother remained impassive. 

Here we go…

“I have come to a decision as to which of you will become king,” Odin began slowly. “And now that I know, I do not see the need to keep either of you in suspense any longer.” He paused and looked between them. “But, before I share my choice with you, I want you to know that I love you both, and that my decision has been made taking into consideration as to which of you would be best suited in the role. It is for the good of the Nine Realms, but not just Asgard. You would both make excellent kings, but I can only choose one of you.”

Ellie held her breath from her spot and waited.

“It is after much deliberation, that I have chosen Thor to be king.”

Her mouth went dry almost instantly. It took every ounce of strength in her to not hang her head in disappointment. Loki didn’t react — he simply stared between his mother and father as Thor grinned in surprised delight next to him. When Loki turned and smiled at his sibling, Ellie frowned in confusion.

“Congratulations, brother,” the Trickster said, placing his hand on Thor’s shoulder. “You will make a great king.”

“Thank you, Loki,” Thor replied, his voice expressing his delight at hearing the news. “With you at my side, none will dare to test the strength of Asgard!”

The lies slid off Loki’s tongue with ease, as was his way. He had the room fooled, but not Ellie, not with their connection being far greater than anyone realised. She sensed his distress — she could feel its severity with him being so close by. While he sat passive in his seat with his thin lips pulled into a soft smile, she felt his loss and rejection as though it was her own. She desperately wanted to comfort him, to hold him, to tell him that he was loved despite not being chosen. 

“Thor,” Odin began, grabbing their attention once more. “You shall be crowned king in the coming weeks before the people of Asgard. To prepare for your new role, you will attend councils with myself, your mother, and my closest administrators.”

“We are both very proud of you,” Frigga added with a smile. “Of both of you.”

While Ellie knew her words to be true, she noticed that her smile did not reach her eyes. Somehow, this did nothing to put her at ease. Then it hit her; there was more to this encounter. Something else was amiss…

Odin spoke up again, turning his attention to his youngest child. “And as Thor takes on new responsibilities, you will do the same, Loki.”

The latter’s smile faltered slightly at this. “Father?”

“While you may become part of your new king’s council, you must also embrace the path I have chosen for you too. As a prince of Asgard, you will help to repair the still somewhat broken relationship this realm shares with Vanaheim.”

“And how would you have me achieve such a thing?”

“Through marriage.”

The atmosphere in the room instantly changed.

In shock, Ellie foolishly looked at Frigga, but the Allmother only met her gaze for a brief moment. 

Loki sat in dismay, looking between his parents. “M-marriage?”

“Yes, to Lady Sigyn. She has resided in Vanaheim for many years now and has been granted dual citizenship and council with the Vanir for her service. A marriage between you two would help to bring our two realms—”

Ellie couldn’t listen to it; she could not and would not. She didn’t care about Asgard’s relationship with Vanaheim, she didn’t care who this Sigyn was, she didn’t fucking care that Odin was probably well within his right to order this of his son for the good of the realms.

She did not care.

Loki was…everything to her. He was not Odin’s to give away.

She was struggling to not react as the Allfather’s voice and Loki’s protests faded away. Despite trying to keep her composure, he hands shook by her sides, not that it really mattered — none of them took any notice of her as she waged her own war internally. If he was to be wed, what would become of her? What would become of their relationship? The numerous thoughts swimming around her head were making her stomach ache and her legs weak.

“But, Father, with all due respect, I do not wish to wed this woman,” Loki explained, trying to keep his voice level. “I do not even know her.”

“She is a fine goddess,” Odin replied in some poor attempt at reassurance. “Thor is to take on the mantle of king and you must also do your part. After Thor is crowned, she will be brought to Asgard, and after a few weeks you will be wed. Loki, we both know that sometimes we must do things we are not necessarily overly fond of, but this is bigger than you or I. It is to be done for political reasons, but I’m sure you will come to care for Lady Sigyn in time.”

By Odin’s side, Frigga looked displeased with a tightlipped frown on her face. She focused her attention on her youngest son, who was clearly struggling with this new information.

“Why must I marry?” he demanded, losing some of his composure. “What of Thor? He is the one who will need a queen!”

“Leave me out of this,” Thor mumbled, grimacing at the very idea of marriage.

“Thor’s time will come, but he needs to prove himself as king before he is allowed to have a queen.”

“Well I will not marry this woman,” the Trickster spat, shaking his head. “You cannot make me do this. Mother, I—”

“It has already been arranged, so you do not have a choice.”

“Odin,” Frigga cut in gently, trying to ease the growing tension in the room. “If he is particularly abhorred to the idea, then why not reconsider?”

Odin’s voice was short, evidently losing what patience he had left. “There is nothing to reconsider. It does not matter if he detests the woman! It is about time you realised that this world does not revolve around you. This is what it means to be a prince; not everything goes your way, and you will have to do things that you do not want to. There will be no more arguments, no more discussions, that is final.”

The screech of Loki’s chair on the floor as he pushed it back to stand up caused Ellie to wince. Frigga tried to call him back, but he was on his feet and striding out the door in seconds, beckoning Ellie to follow with a snarl. With a swift look at the Queen, Ellie obediently followed her prince out of the room.

She walked with him swiftly as he all but stomped back to his quarters. The silence between them was palpable, but she didn’t dare break it until they were hidden from inquisitive eyes. When they reached the safety of his chambers, he aggressively slammed the door shut behind them, locked it with magic, and began relentlessly pacing up and down in front of the fireplace.

Ellie watched him apprehensively, not knowing what she could say to comfort him or herself for that matter.

“First, he has the audacity to put that fucking oaf on the throne,” he growled, voice laced in malice. “And then he forces me to wed some bitch for the good of Vanaheim? He is barely fit to be king and I am — once again! — shoved to the side! And now, he wants to take you away from me? I will not allow it! He does not get to control me! If he insists on putting Thor on the throne, then he shan’t part us!”

“Loki?” she asked, voice wavering as the hopelessness of the situation finally hit her.  All the years they spent together would be cut short… “What’ll we do?”

He halted his pacing and turned to face her. His eyes were red, expression both worried and angry. Almost instantly, he strode to her and pulled her into a crushing embrace. Her body shook in his arms and she buried her face in his neck, seeking any comfort he could offer. She would also do her best to comfort him considering she was not the only one affected by this new turn of events. Not only would she lose him, but he would lose her.

“I will not let him take you from me,” he insisted, determined despite his shivering form. “Do you hear me? I will not.”

She nodded, inhaling his familiar scent before saying. “I know you won’t, and I won’t be parted from you either, I swear.”

“I do not care what he says. I will not stand for this, nor will I let Thor rule Asgard!”

“Is there anythin’ we can do?” she asked, leaning back so that she could meet his gaze.

He cupped her face gently in his hands and studied her for a moment, green eyes burning into hers as he contemplated their fate. “I will come up with something to stop it, I promise you. My father’s demands mean little to me.”

“But this is serious, Loki. Surely we can’t go against the Allfather’s wishes?” She paused, eyes burning with unshed tears. “Perhaps… Perhaps we could just remain a secret?”

“A secret?” Loki repeated, looking disgusted at the mere thought. “What? And I-I-I marry this wench and sleep with her by my side? And sneak off to meet you in the dead of night, like some common harlot?”

“But it might be our only option—”

“I do not care!” he hissed, tears now freely flowing down his sharp cheeks. “I will not do that to you, I will not wed someone I do not love or want, and I will not brush you off as though you are nothing, Ellie. I will not be brushed off as though I were nothing.”

She hung her head, running her hands up and down his arms. “That’s not what I meant. You’re not nothing.”

“I know, I know, love. But all will be well. I am not going to be with someone I do not care about. I would not expect that of you either.”

“Alright,” she agreed with an uncertain nod. “Then we’ll figure this out together?”

“Yes, together. I will do everything in my power to stop it.”

“Maybe talkin’ to your mother could help? After all, she does approve of our courtship.”

“You are right. I will have a word with her soon. In the meantime, I would ask that you spend the night with me.”

“You don’t need to ask,” she chuckled slightly, pulling his hand to her mouth and gently kissing his wrist. “The Allfather himself couldn’t pull me from this room. I already told you; we’re a team.”

“A team,” he repeated with a sad smile and let his forehead rest against hers. “That we are.”

“What of Thor?” she asked hesitantly. “I know that you’re not okay with his decision.”

He bit his lip at the thought. “I love my brother, you know I do, but he is not fit to be king. He’s reckless and quick to anger. That is not what it means to be a ruler.”

Although she hated to admit it, she agreed that Thor wasn’t a good choice to be king either. The potential was there, but she was uncertain as to whether he would ever grow out of his childish ways. She could see in his shimmering eyes how much this tore Loki apart. This wouldn’t be the end of it. His mood would only get more sour, especially with the added stress of their uncertain future. She genuinely feared what may happen.

“I can’t really fault your logic. Hopefully he realises that soon.”

“If I know my brother, I do not think he will. Alas, I promise I will do everything in my power to stop this.”

“I know you will. All will be well, it has to be.”

To reassure her of his promise, Loki leaned in and captured her lips in a hungry kiss. She didn’t hesitate to deepen it, sliding her arms around his neck and holding on to him with all the strength she possessed. The taste of salt on her tongue and the intensity of his previous words were all she needed to vanquish her fears and doubts.

The lovers were selfish. The good of the realm did not matter.

All Ellie cared about was the rejected prince that she loved so dearly.

[theonion]

AUSTIN, TX—In an investigation of the phenomenon’s tendency to occur during barroom brawls, a report published Thursday concluded that 83 percent of cases in which a player piano spontaneously begins to play were on account of a couple local ruffians went and got themselves into a gunfight.

A team at the University of Texas analyzed data from saloons, watering holes, and brothels across the western frontier and found 428 instances in which, right after some no-good rascal had shot off his Colt .45, a self-playing piano began hammering out a spirited rendition of “Oh! Susanna.” The report stated that the majority of these cases resulted when disputations between two ol’ scoundrels got out of hand, causing guns to be drawn and starting an all-out tussle that darn near wrecked the entire premises.

“Our findings indicate that roughly four out of every five player pianos are set off by a stray bullet, either when a notorious outlaw is finally cornered by a young gun, or when pistols are fired in a bordello following a quarrel over a kindhearted prostitute,” said the report’s lead author, Marina Fuller, noting that in most cases the piano continued to play right up to the moment the sheriff arrived and fired his gun into the air, putting a stop to the whole ruckus. “We also observed quite a few cases in which, as soon as the player piano started up, a grizzled old-timer who had been asleep in the corner jerked awake and began to pick out a rollicking accompaniment on his banjo.”

She added, “Even in cases when a bullet ricocheted off the bar before shattering some unsuspecting fellow’s whiskey glass mid-sip, it usually set off the player piano along the way.”

According to the report, an additional 11 percent of player pianos began playing when some lucky prospector who had just struck it rich got hit over the head with a jug of wine, fell off the second-story balustrade, and landed on the instrument, while another 6 percent started up when a fancy man from back East was thrown down the full length of the bar, smashing into every beer mug along the way and flying headlong into the piano.

Researchers confirmed that in approximately a third of these fights, a bullet went through a huge barrel labeled “XXX,” causing moonshine to pour directly into the mouth of the town drunk, who had staggered in and passed out near the bar. In nearly every instance, the dusty old piano reportedly began to play even faster as the gunfight escalated.

“Interestingly, we noticed these pianos will cease playing immediately—right in the middle of the song—if at any point during the shootout a famed gunslinger rumored to have died steps into the bar and causes the stunned brawlers to stop dead in their tracks,” Fuller said. “Otherwise, these altercations tend to continue until all the furniture in the saloon has been broken over someone’s head and the entire melee has poured out onto the street.”

“These types of scuffles can even spill over into the Women’s Temperance League meeting going on next door, forcing the ladies in attendance to fan themselves and run out of the building,” she continued.

The report stressed that the best way to stay safe during such gunfights is to jump inside a barrel to hide, though it also warned that if a man pokes his head out to see what’s going on, he’s liable to get his hat shot clean off the top of his dang noggin.

[ciathyzareposts]

Waxworks: Hammer and Sickle

Sometimes the game is more fun for its gruesome death images than from actually defeating the challenges.

           I’ve solved two of the four or more Waxworks scenarios, and started to explore a third, and it’s a measure of the game that I have no idea what to expect from the last. Waxworks seems to delight in changing the rules between scenarios, which is good for variety’s sake, although I haven’t found any of the scenarios so far terribly challenging or compelling.

The first one had me explore a six-level pyramid, with each level getting smaller as it went up (just as in the recent Beneath the Pyramids). There were branches here and there, but in general the pyramid’s levels were linear enough that I didn’t have to map. I died about a thousand times, with 950 of those deaths due to tripwire traps, which you have to click on and “avoid” every time you cross. No matter how many times I told myself to watch out for them, no matter how many times I thought I remembered the positions of specific ones, I just kept setting them off.

The rolling-rock traps are unavoidable but also easy to dodge. You just have to dart down a nearby hallway when you see the rock coming. If you back up, you can easily outrun it.            

The rock rolls harmlessly by as I hide in a side passage.

             The levels had a fair share of spear-wielding guards and dagger-wielding priests, and my survival against them was mostly luck. Among the six levels, you’re limited to the hit points you start with, those you develop by leveling, and another 40 or so that you can restore by having Uncle Boris create the scrolls for you. Combat, meanwhile, is just a matter of activating it and clicking around the screen. For the pyramid, I wasn’t able to detect that a particular area of the screen resulted in a greater chance of hitting, or more damage, nor was I able to determine whether choosing a variety of attacks had more success than just spamming the same attack over and over. There was a clear escalation in weapons–dagger, sword, spear–and the enemies definitely went down faster as my level increased.

That level is the only thing that really qualifies the game as an RPG. I like that you get experience points for every square you step on; it encourages full exploration. But in the pyramid, where the experience was so linear, any sense of “leveling” is really illusory, since every player will pretty much reach every stage at the same level.            

I misread the room.

I failed to get out of the way.

I took too long.

I fell in with the wrong crowd.

        It turned out not to matter that I loaded up my inventory with everything not nailed down. You have no encumbrance statistic and no maximum number of items, and carrying a bunch of redundant pots actually helped at one point. You just have to take care not to accidentally stick new items in jars or baskets, because you then have to spend half an hour looking into every one that you have to find it.

That leaves the puzzles. One recurring puzzle required me to find a series of tuning forks and then use them to shatter glass walls. The tuning forks all had different frequencies, and I thought there might be some complex puzzle associated with that, but the game never made use of the frequencies as such. Different tuning forks shattered different walls and that was it.           

Captured this screenshot just at the right time.

          I also had to watch out for blocks propped up by wooden beams and collapse those beams with a hammer, thus causing blocks to fall from upper levels and clear the passages. There were a couple of points at which it was possible to put myself on the wrong side of the passage before collapsing it, and thus end up in a “walking dead” situation. In fact, there are enough walking dead situations in the game to require a careful approach to saving, and in particular keeping a save from the last time you were in the Waxworks in case you have to start over completely.             

Collapsing the passage.

            Level 1’s major puzzle involved a pool of water where I needed to fill up some jugs, so I could pour the water on some hot coals on Level 2. Messing with the water got me attacked and killed by a crocodile, so I had to find a way to lure the crocodile out of the water while I held my spear ready. The only thing that made sense for bait was a pile of entrails I’d found in one of the jars. By dropping that on the tile before the water, I was able to entice the croc out of the pool and then kill him with a thrown spear.             

See ya later.

         We already saw the door puzzle between Levels 1 and 2. The major obstacle here, other than the many traps and guards, was that square of burning coals. The game did me a favor by filling up all my jugs with water on Level 1, so I had enough (it turned out I needed 5) to cool the coals instead of making me fill, say, three, and then realize I didn’t have enough, and have to trudge back and forth multiple times.

The transition between Level 2 and Level 3 had a door puzzle in which I had to twist a series of valves to divert a flow of water into a preferred jug (with an ankh symbol on it), filling it faster than the jugs with snakes on them. It really couldn’t have been easier. I just had to trace the pipes backwards and turn the valves accordingly.          

An easy puzzle.

       Level 3’s big challenge–again, after traps and enemies–was to weigh down a pot and thus open a door. There was no more obvious object to weigh down the pot than two piles of sand I’d previously found in some corridor. Thus must have been an introductory level.

Level 4 had a couple of obstacles. One required me to knock down a bridge by shooting it with a bow and arrow, but again the choice was fairly obvious. Later, I had to cross an area of tiles by stepping on the right hieroglyphic tiles. This one took me a few minutes to suss out. A message said to “follow the path of life.”

The only other hieroglyphics I’d seen were on a piece of papyrus from the first chamber. Each row of tiles, from which I had to choose one to step on, had two tiles that were on the piece of paper and one tile that was not. I figured the trick was to step on the one that was not, and that did get me safely across the room. Only later, when I thought about it, did I realize the game’s logic. The specific arrangement of the hieroglyphics on the papyrus didn’t matter; what mattered is that they were all associated with Anubis, the god of death, and thus the “path of life” would take me across symbols not associated with him. That’s reasonably clever.          

Crossing the perilous floor.

          On Level 5, I was almost immediately stymied by a puzzle in which gas started filling the corridors and the exits were closed off. I found a “mirror” on one wall, but it threw me for a while because it seemed to show a picture of a guard. I realized well after I should have that the “picture” was actually my image in the mirror. I’m not me in these exhibits; rather, I have taken possession of the “good” brother, who in this case is a pyramid guard named Cassim. This was all explained later when I made more liberal use of Boris’s head. I had been conserving my “psy,” but I realized later that I was just wasting it.           

This is supposed to be me?

          Solving the gas puzzle involved shattering the mirror, which of course was done with a collection of the tuning forks, something that should have been more obvious.

        Later on Level 5, I reached a couple of rooms with murals on the walls–very nice murals, I should add. Graphically, Waxworks can be lovely. The two consecutive murals on the south walls all produced hollow sounds when tapped, so I realized I could smash through them with my weapon to reveal chambers beyond. The first one had a piece of tile that, when I picked it up, released snakes into the room. I couldn’t fight the snakes and they killed me. The solution was to spill oil all over the floor and ignite it before picking up the piece, so that the snakes emerged into an inferno.                

A treasure room holds only a couple relevant items.

             The transition between Levels 5 and 6 required me to arrange four tiles (which I’d picked up at various places along the way, the first three without any fuss) in a particular order. I never found anything that helped me determine the order, but there were only 24 possibilities, and I got it after about 6.

On Level 6, I rescued my princess by opening her sarcophagus with a scarab beetle found all the way back in the first room. She oddly ended up in my inventory, which was also what happened to Elvira in Elvira II.             

I don’t mean to complain, but her face looks rather masculine.

          To finish off the level, I had to balance a scale using a series of weights I’d picked up in various places throughout the pyramid. It took me a while to realize that the weights are not all the same weight; by examining them, you see that they are “very light,” “light,” “heavy, “very heavy,” and “extremely heavy.” The puzzle still took a while longer because it didn’t occur to me that you might be able to solve it without using all the weights. I believe the solution had the extremely heavy and light weights on one side, the heavy and very heavy ones on the other, and no use of the very light weight.

             Trying to figure out a balancing puzzle while “my betrothed” sits in my inventory.

            Solving the weight puzzle opened a door where I confronted and killed my evil twin brother, then exited the world somehow by putting a brooch into a hole on a statue’s belly.            

A nice final shot of Egypt before we leave.

          I was not prepared for my accumulated experience and levels to drain away the moment I left ancient Egypt. But that’s what happens: in between each of the scenarios (at least, I assume the pattern continues), everything resets to 0. You inventory also disappears, too, which is more of a blessing. I guess it really doesn’t matter, then, which order you experience the exhibits because there’s no way to save the harder ones for when you’re stronger. I guess I get the logic, but it’s another blow to Waxworks as an RPG.             

Hey! Don’t you work for me now?!

         When I returned to the waxworks, Uncle Boris’s butler became weirdly hostile, pushing me down the corridors and trying to shove me into any exhibit I happened to come across. I had to run ahead of him to enter the exhibit of my choosing, which was the undead graveyard.           

Transitioning between areas.

        This was a very different experience, and I wasn’t prepared for how different it was. Instead of multiple levels, it occupied only one “level” about the same size as the first level of the pyramid. It had only a couple of puzzles and was, overall, a lot shorter than the first challenge.

What it did have is zombies. Dozens of them. They pop out of the ground right in front of you, and I don’t think you can ever kill them all. You only have (or I only found) one weapon to fight them: a sickle. To kill a zombie, you first have to chop off one arm, then the other, then its head, so the locations that you click do make a major difference in these combats.        

I’m not sure why I couldn’t have gone right for the head.

        A lesser challenge, but perhaps more annoying, was simply mapping the area. Gravestones serve as “walls” within the cemetery, but it’s very hard to visually judge how close you can walk to them and exactly where you can turn and move forward. While you’re dithering around trying to find paths, zombies are appearing around every corner.            

Is it clear to you that you can move one step forward here? Because you can.

         If you find the heart from a dead woman in the middle of the cemetery, Boris can use it to heal you once during the adventure. Since your hit points are thus finite, you want to avoid combat as much as possible, which is hard when you’re trying to comprehensively explore the map. Eventually, I just resigned myself to dying a lot of times while I mapped, and to then complete the level after a final reload.

There were three major puzzles in the area. The first required me to get access to the family crypt, for which I needed some tool to exploit a hole. Uncle Boris’s head suggested I search the fence around the graveyard for a loose bit of railing. I’m glad I consulted him because I absolutely never would have found that on my own. It’s hard to find even if you know what you’re looking for.            

You have to be facing a particular direction. Even then, it wouldn’t have occurred to me that you can pick up that broken piece of iron. It looks like it’s still attached.

          Once inside the crypt, I was able to speak to my ancestor Druec, who somehow knew I was from the future and not the original inhabitant of the body before him. He confirmed Uncle Boris’s accounts of the curse and said that in the current time, Vladimir had bound the souls of his forebears, not allowing them to die, using their energy to fuel his necromantic rituals.           

Conversing with the first generation of cursed.

         Boris said he could break Vladimir’s aspell, but he would need an “absorbent material.” This turned out to be a hunk of bread, found in an altar in a chapel in the far northwest corner of the map. A vampire guarded it, but I’d found a stake on the way, sharpened it with the sickle, and pounded it into the vampire’s chest the moment he appeared.           

As I put the stake to his heard, the vampire appears to be regretting life.

           Vladimir himself was just up a stairway from the chapel, but he was impervious to physical attack and killed me. Boris, meanwhile, had to fashion his counter-spell within the family crypt, so I had to trudge back through most of the map, killing zombies along the way. In the crypt, Boris completed them spell and told me to activate it, I should simply touch Vladimir. I turned around and walked back through the graveyard again, fighting more zombies.        

This game is about to offer an interesting take on “destroy.”

        In my best run, I still made it back to the chapel with only a few hit points to spare. Boris said I should “touch” Vladimir, so I equipped my hands as weapons and poked him in the chest. For reasons I don’t fully understand, touching him caused him to collapse into a baby. Moments later, I was back in the waxworks, the butler approaching me menacingly down the hallway. As before, my experience points and level were reset to 0.           

If anyone has an explanation for this, I’d appreciate hearing it.

         I immediately leapt into the Jack the Ripper waxwork and found myself on the streets of Victorian London, over the body of Jack’s latest victim. This one is clearly going to offer a new challenge–avoiding patrolling bobbies and mobs of Londoners on the streets. Every time one manages to enter my square (or I blunder into theirs), it’s an immediate death. I still prefer it to the tripwires in the pyramid.          

The Met has come a long way since then.

                 By now, it’s clear that Waxworks mostly fails as an RPG, and what we have here is not a hybrid but an adventure game with “RPG elements.” A few years ago, I wouldn’t have known the difference. Now I realize that a good hybrid manages to preserve what people enjoy about both genres. On the RPG side, it offers a fully-realized combat, equipment, and character development system. It doesn’t just toss in hit points and experience points.        That means that to the extent that I’m enjoying Waxworks, it’s mostly for its adventure elements. So far, most of the puzzles have been relatively fair, particularly with the optional Boris-head hint system, and I’ve had some moments of satisfaction figuring them out. The graphics are well-done and immersive, though on the sound side the developers put too much effort into the music (which is era-appropriate, atmospheric, and, for me, as usual, turned off) and not enough into sound effects, which mostly only occur during combat.

          Unless the game pulls the rug out from under me with additional unlocked scenarios, it looks like I’m already half done with this one. I’ll try to finish it up in one more.

Time so far: 10 hours

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/waxworks-hammer-and-sickle/