#so since i wanna make a foil print for me if i ever finish it i might make a shadow alt for the back then make a sad bookmark or smth

[mercurymacaroons]

another wip of mr disco ninja frog himself

wip . ۫ ꣑ৎ . do you fw this twink

[black-king-white-knight]

Cyber Files AU - Chapter One:

A/N: Okay, here’s Chapter One. I have no idea when other chapters will be coming, but I hope you enjoy and if anyone has any question, feel free to hit me up.

Warnings: Swearing, Death mentions, Medical mentions... I think that’s all for this chapter? But please let me know if anyone wants anything else tagged or if I missed anything.

“In steel as in flesh. Corpses leave clues.”

Dear You,

The body you are currently wearing used to be mine. The scar on the inner left thigh is there because you fell out of a window and impaled your leg running away from Badges at the age of nine. The four fillings are a result of you avoiding the dentist for most of your life. But the physical past of our shared body isn’t important to you right now.

I’m writing this letter for you to read in the future. Wondering why anyone would do such a thing? The answer is… both simple and complicated. The simple answer is because I knew it would be necessary.

The complicated answer is… rather twisted.

Do you know the name of the body you are in? It’s Remy. Remy Saros. It was my name, but it comes with the body, so I suppose it’s yours now. Changing it would be… unwise. But we’ll get to that later.

Before I tell you the story, there are a few things I need you to be aware of. First, you’re deathly allergic to bee stings. If you get stung and do not take quick action, you will die. I’ve always hoarded all the epi-pens I could find. Check all the glove compartments of cars, backpacks and jacket pockets you now own. If you get stung, flick the lid off, orange to the thigh, blue to the sky, wait for the click, hold for three seconds and remove. You’ll feel like shit, but you’ll survive.

Apart from that, you’re a non-photosensitive epileptic. There should be a sleeve of meds in the front right pocket of your trousers. Repeat scripts are loaded onto your Eye and spare meds will be available later when you need them.

Now, hopefully, you still retain your right hand, and everything it provides.

The fuck? Someone would have stolen my hand!? They thought to themselves, glancing down at their right hand and clenched it in relief before turning their attention back to the words hanging in the rain in front of them.

In your immediate future, the three most important are a Social Identity Card, Bank Chit, Medi-Sys Card, all of them belonging to Remy Saros. Except for four. Those physical cards in your wallet are, right now, the most important. Tucked away in there are a Chit linked to a different bank, a driver’s licence, a Medi-Sys Card and a Social Identity Card belonging to Alexandyr Morgan, a name that will not be linked to you.

The personal identification number for all of them is 160100. That’s my birthday, followed by how old you are. You’re a newborn! Get somewhere dry and safe, find a secure hotel, and check in. The AM accounts will have more than enough to cover.

You are doubtless aware of the next part already, since if you’re reading this you’ve already survived several immediate threats, but you are in danger. Just because you are not me does not make you safe. Along with this body, you have inherited certain problems and responsibilities. Go find a safe place, and the second letter will be waiting for you when you arrive.

Sincerely,

Remy Saros.

They stood shivering in the rain, watching the words on the holographic display dissolve into the downpour. Their hair was dripping, licking their lips under the face mask gave a burst of saltiness, and everything ached. Under the lights of reflected neon, the figure had automatically flicked their right hand out in a muscle-memory gesture to bring up the main menu on their Eyeformer Operation System, looking for some clue as to… anything.

When the Eye booted up a message simply titled To You had been sitting there in the main menu, blinking gently, waiting to be opened.

They shook their head angrily, but the spike in throbbing quickly diffused their anger. They looked up at the sky, watching the rain come down and lightning fork across the sky. Rummaging through the other pockets of their outfit turned up nothing other than a long, thin plastic box with medical instructions, chemical information, and a label printed on it. REMY SAROS.

The Epi-Pen, they thought, staring at it before returning it to the interior jacket pocket it had come from, patting it a couple of times for reassurance. Then they dropped a hand into their front right pocket and pulled out a fresh packet of red and white capsules in a standard plastic and foil medical sleeve. Epilepsy meds, I guess.

So this is who I am, they thought, unsure of how they felt. I don’t get the uncertainty of not knowing what my name is, but I’m not being given control over my own life. Whoever Remy Saros was, they managed to get me in a whole lot of trouble. They sniffed and brushed a dark lump out of their left eye. Wet hair slapped against their skin and Remy cringed slightly.

Ugh, okay, rain first. Get out of the rain, then… get a car, I guess. Yeah, find a car, find a hotel.

Remy looked around, searching for shelter, but since they were standing on a bridge, nothing was immediately available. Just expansive, smoke filled blackness all around, only broken by strings of indistinct neon in all directions and the sounds of sky-borne cargo lifters. Finally spotting an undercover shop doorway at the end of the bridge, Remy stepped out of the slight crater in the middle of the road, and over the ring of bodies that ringed it. They were all motionless, and wearing latex gloves.

They darted from shelter to shelter, staying in the dark wherever they could, contact lenses glowing due to the low-level night vision function built into the Eyes’ Pathfinder app. The only sounds in the smoke-filled night were the gradually fading sounds of main street traffic around the bridge, and the ever-present sounds of cargo lifters and the occasional Fire Bird.

Remy was hugging themself and shivering by the time they got off the main roads, and spent a minute shaking off as best as their throbbing head would allow. Reactivating the Eye, they opened one of the ride call apps and scrolled through. If the accounts contained as much money as the mysterious message said, Remy would gladly pay for the quiet and convenience of an automated cab.

Opening a new tab and selecting the bank account under Alexandyr Morgan’s name, Remy used the login details stored in an in-Eye app to log in, and looked at the account total and withdrawal amount. Both numbers almost short-circuited Remy’s newly born brain. There was… five million in the account. Even given the inflation of various economic crashes, that was a lot of money. Whoever Remy had been in that previous life… they clearly had a lot of cash to splash around.

Recalling the letter’s multiple warnings about finding somewhere safe, Remy kept scanning both ends of the street, as well as all the doorways and windows they could make out while waiting for the summoned car to appear. When it did, they scrambled inside, shut the door, and scanned their hand on the Chit reader built into the back of the “driver’s” seat. Remy then selected “Evasive Mode” from the drop-down menu in the app, clicked the seat belt in and sprawled as much as they could across plush seats that automatically warmed up in response to Remy’s wet frame. 

They briefly considered not sprawling like this, since it would give Future!Remy all sorts of aches, but Present!Remy was too comfy, so they just shut their eyes and let the swinging turns and passing neon lull them into a fitful, exhaustion-driven doze.

Remy’s Eye suddenly came to life and started to ping with alerts that they’d arrived at the marked destination, the messages dislodging the slew of automated ads from the earlier apps. They jerked upright then hissed in pain. The journey had been nearly half an hour to the other side and a deeper level of the city, bordering on one of the old mine shafts, turned closed off corporate enclaves when the mine was turned into a city.

Remy’s decision to sprawl all over the back of the car meant that climbing out was a flurry of spasms, aches and pins and needles. Mumbling in irritation as they got out of the car and wishing Past!Remy hadn’t been such a selfish asshole, they stumbled towards the five-star hotel. 

The hotel management students who had been unlucky enough to get saddled with door-duty on the graveyard shift stared at Remy’s face without moving a muscle as they opened the doors for Remy, who passed through with an exhausted nod at them both and walked through the gorgeous foyer.

The impeccably dressed and coiffed desk clerk (at three in the morning?! What. The. Fuck. Are you some kind of hideous automaton, man?) politely stifled a yawn and barely widened his eyes at the soaking wet person on the other side of the desk who had just left a wide trail of dirty water across the marble tiles and was now checking in as Alexandyr Morgan.

The hotel porter who appeared did a poor job of appearing awake, but still managed to guide Remy to the appointed room without incident. By now, especially after a heated nap in the taxi, Remy was so sleepy that they’d practically given up on all vigilance, barely remembering to thank and tip the porter before entering the room and searching for the bed. Having found something large and soft, Remy dropped, content to sleep on it until…

Remy was asleep too quickly to even finish the thought.

Notes: That’s all there is for now. I just wanna say a huge thanks to @milomeepit, and @pipapatton for helping me work out ideas and acting as soundboards, and @lucifer-in-my-head for designing artwork for it, which I’ll add next chapter as the art becomes relevant to the story.

[harringtonstudios]

teenage dirtbag. (part I)

plot: you’ve just gotten a job at Chipotle, your co-worker’s kind of an ass. part 2!

A/N: icky day of another icky week. this keeps me sane! lemme know your thoughts :) gif credit: @mgkgifs​; inspired by Kells’ own interview haha 

masterlist!

Life after graduation was supposed to be amazing. Some big thing, attending college and living up the seemingly best years of your life. Of course, that’d all gone up in flames when you’d been kicked out over some stupid argument, leaving you to fend for yourself. 

Cleveland wasn’t the nicest place to sit on the streets until the sun came out, but you’d managed to nap on park benches until you could piece some things together. A week later, you were staying with a friend, sleeping on their couch and you’d finally gotten a job at Chipotle in the mall. 

You’d caught a break for the first time in a while, and after knowing that you had secured that stupid job, you’d ended up crying just thinking about everything. It was time to get your life back on track.

-

The next morning, you’d walked in to Chipotle, changed into the uniform in the employee’s only bathroom and that’s when you had run into him. 

He was waiting right outside, leaning against the wall. His head was hanging down, sunglasses on, as his fingers fumbled around with a bright green lighter. 

Stumbling out of the bathroom, you ran a hand down your apron before muttering out, “Hey! I’m Y/N.” 

He looked up at that, acknowledging you through a nod. The lighter in his hands flickered. You stared a second before extending out your hand, hoping for a shake. 

“Colson,” he mumbled, letting his hand meet yours, slightly shaking it. You smiled before leaving the area, walking up the counter. Nothing was going to ruin your mood right now, not even the weird co-worker with shades on inside. 

-

Twenty minutes into manning the front by yourself, Colson had come up, standing by the cash register. 

“So you’ve been trained?” he asked, hands stuck in the pockets of the apron. 

“No,” you muttered, rolling up a customer’s burrito at the other end of the counter. The customer gave you a look as you finished wrapping the order in foil before throwing them a dazzling smile. 

Looking back at Colson, you saw a surprised look on his face. His mouth was open and he scoffed a little as he rang up the order. 

“So what you’re just a Chipotle fan? How’d you get everything down so fast?” he asked, returning the change before turning his attention back towards you. 

“I read the instructions,” you responded, pointing at the directions that were printed and pasted on the countertop. 

“Mm, rule follower,” he declared, leaning over to fiddle with the stereo system. 

“I literally just got hired,” you stated back, trying not to be short with him.

While he’d been fooling around in the back, you’d snuck a peek at the work schedule for the next month. Most of your shifts were with Colson B., written in a scrawly scratch on the big calendar. You didn’t want to fight with your co-worker. 

Soft static filled the air between you two, and Colson grimaced before moving back to change the radio station. Within seconds, Iron Maiden flooded the speaker system and you lit up. 

“Keep that on?” you asked, already feeling a little lighter as you bounced on your heels to the music. 

“You like Maiden?” he responded, tone sounding incredulous. 

“Yeah dude. They’re my favorite band,” you responded, tapping to the beat now. 

“Sick,” he shouted out, throwing up a rock sign. You smiled at him, maybe he wasn’t insufferable. 

-

An hour later, you took that thought back. Colson had disappeared again, claiming he had to piss ten minutes ago. The lunch rush had started, and you were struggling to keep up with the crowd. 

People were shouting over each other, loud in the small store. You couldn’t hear the customer ordering, and you’d already messed up an order, having to refund the man. 

Shoving lettuce into a bowl, you moved a strand of hair out of your face before sliding the bowl down to the next station. Colson stepped back out and you huffed before muttering, “Finally. Little help?” 

“Yeah,” he laughed, before shouting out, “Yoooo!” 

You looked up to catch him reaching over the counter to dap a couple of guys up. They all started chatting with him, and he was pulled into the ebb and flow of their conversation. 

You scoffed. Typical, you were stuck with most of the work and you were putting up with it too. 

Baring a grin, you walked to the cash register, slamming the bowl on the tabletop. Colson looked at you, unimpressed as you mumbled, “Steak burrito bowl. Extra guac.” 

“Congrats princess. You’ve charged someone for guac,” he stilted, reaching to put in the order. You furrowed your eyebrows, confused at his words. 

“Lots to learn young padawan,” he responded, waving a tattooed arm around. 

“Oh shut up,” you mumbled under your breath, turning to make the next order. 

-

Fifteen minutes later, the store had cleared out. Exhausted, you slumped on the plastic crate sitting in the corner of the little space behind the counter. 

Looking up at the thud, Colson laughed before walking over. 

“First lunch rush is over!” he put his palm up for a high five, and you gave him a glare before reaching up to hit it. 

“Yeah man, no thanks to you,” came tumbling out of your mouth. Immediately, you paused, trying to gauge his reaction. 

He gave you a once over, then shrugged his shoulders before saying, “Don’t really care about this place. I’ve been here too long.” 

“Well, I haven’t. So could you please just help me along? I don’t wanna fuck this up already,” you muttered out, exasperated with his reactions. 

“You’re good dude. Prime example of a Chipotle worker. Reading all the instructions and shit, I just played around with the food the first day,” he counted off, knocking your shoulder with his hand. 

“How haven’t you been fired?” you prompted, looking up at him. 

Raising his sunglasses, he put them atop his head, smirking he stated, “Guess I’m just that charming.” 

You rolled your eyes, hearing him laugh. His own eyes were on display, blue laced with just a little bit of bloodshot. The door dinged and you started to get up before he waved you down, moving as he mumbled, “Stay. I got this one.” 

-

A week into, things had gotten better. You and Colson turned out to have a lot in common, falling in love with the same bands, following the same artists. 

He had apologized for his behavior the first day, claiming he was just super hungover. At first, you’d been reluctant, but then he’d worked through every lunch rush to make it up to you and you’d felt good about something. 

Learning more about him, you had been kinda shocked to see he was still working in a shitty Chipotle. He was talented, way beyond anyone you’d ever met. Could rap real fast, creating lyrics out of thin air. 

Sometimes, during the empty parts of the day, you throw him over an ingredient, ask him to freestyle something. It was great, never the same thing twice, and always to a different beat. It drove you crazy knowing he was filled to the brim with talent, but was stuck here instead. 

“Ay Y/N! Come here,” came his voice, shouting from the front. You had snuck to the back, calling up your friend to let her know you were going to be home later tonight since you had to do closing. 

You walked out front, shoving your phone in your pocket only to see a group of guys gathered around the first table. They looked oddly familiar, and then you placed them. They were the guys that had come in during your first day, the big distractions. 

“Y/N, these are my dudes. Dudes, Y/N!” Colson offered, waving his arms to the both of you. You got on your tip-toes, reaching across the glass to shake their hands. 

“I’ve definitely seen you around. Where ya from?” one of the guys asked, hand lingering on yours. Pulling your arm back, you grinned before saying, “Around here. Graduated from Shaker.” 

At that Colson gave you the strangest look as his friends laughed. 

“We’re from Shaker. Class of 08. I’m Slim,” the guy clarified and you gave him a thumbs up, tuning them out as they continued talking. 

A few minutes later, they waved at you, stepping out of the store. Waving back, you awkwardly turned to look at Colson, reluctant to admit that you weren’t really paying attention to his friends. 

“You weren’t listening huh?” he asked, not even letting you fully turn. Laughing a little, he took his visor off, running a hand through his hair. You grimaced, laughing back before saying, “Sorry, it’s not like that. I just didn’t really know any of them.”

“So what I’m getting from this is you can be bad sometimes?” he continued, scuffing his Chucks against the linoleum. 

You let out a snort before going, “Colson what does that even mean?”

“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” he mumbled out, securing his visor back on as the doorbell rang. 

Returning your attention to the food in front of you, you thought it over. Ever since you’d started here, he’d made fun of you, constantly egging on you for the way you followed the rules. 

He was much more lax with his position, coming in high or hungover, playing with the radio all day long and once even lighting up in the backroom. You didn’t really care what he did on his own time, but the last one had caused your anxiety to spike and you’d yelled at him just a little. 

Finishing up, the customer dropped a dollar into the tip jar before heading out the door. It was just you two again. 

Reaching over to tune the radio, you grinned as another Iron Maiden song came on. He smiled, eyes not really leaving his phone but you were determined to spend just the right way killing time. 

Poking him in the shoulder, you danced a little on the floor. He looked up at that, nodding along to the bass. Soon enough, the both of you were shuffling to the song, hands in the air. He was playing air guitar, and you laughed at his technique, mimicking it across from him. 

“What,” he breathed out, flushed from the rock concert you’d just put on. 

“Never saw someone play guitar like that,” you uttered, moving a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“You play?” he asked, motioning the fake guitar towards you. 

“Yeah, I used to,” you responded, taking it from him. Adjusting the air strap, you flashed back to high school days when your guitar was your escape. Playing the strings, you let a couple of chord songs drop out of your mouth. 

“Learn something new about you every day,” he observed, watching you string with your eyes closed. 

“Huh,” you asked, breaking out of your bubble. 

“You had a guitar?” he continued, running his tongue over his teeth. 

“Um yeah, back in high school. I had to leave it at my old place,” you mumbled out, fingers going to run over the small tattoo on your wrist. 

“Sorry,” he peeked out, seeing the discomfort on your face. 

“No, you’re good. So, you went to Shaker?” you asked, changing the topic. 

He snorted out before saying, “Messed around at Shaker is more like it. Don’t really know how I graduated but here I am,” he finished out, waving his arms around at the empty space around you. 

“Hey dude! Same!” you shouted out, palms reaching over to clap them onto his shoulder. He laughed at your enthusiastic face, shaking away his smile as you tapped your fingers against him. 

Motley Crue filled the air and you bit your lip, resisting the urge to bang your fists onto his shoulders with the beat. 

Moving away, you handed him two straws, taking a paper cup of your own. He got the message, drumming in thin air as you pretended to string along the guitar. 

The whole song, you two kept flashing smiles at each other, raging as the music just got louder. Finally, the song came to an end and you grabbed two cups, moving out of the counter to get water from the fountain. 

Trying to catch your breath back, you smiled to yourself while pressing the buttons, thinking about how Colson’s energy had matched yours perfectly. 

“C’mon live a little,” came a voice from right behind and you turned your head to see Colson right behind you, closer than you expected. 

“Mm no thanks,” you responded, bringing up the second cup to the water option. Within a second, his arm came from behind, hand guiding yours to the Lemonade option. 

You begrudgingly held the cup as he filled it up, waiting to hand it back to him. 

“We’re not supposed to do that,” you murmured, moving back to the counter, moment gone. 

He let out a loud groan, facing you from the other side before saying, “Y/N. I promise you they don’t care.” 

“How do you know that,” you spit back, sipping at the water, eyes motioning to the cameras on the ceiling. 

“They don’t work. Believe me, I’ve been doing stupid shit since I got hired and I’m still here.” 

“Stupid shit?” you wondered, interest peaking a little. 

“Yeah extra chicken if I’m on scooping. Don’t charge for extras, and sometimes you know I just give out food,” he listed before continuing, “it’s why the tip jar’s usually full. You gotta work for the people.” 

You laughed at his self-righteousness, watching him refill his cup. “You do all that?” 

“Yep,” he popped, flashing you a grin. 

“What a rebel,” you sighed out loud, mocking his whole spiel. 

“Shut up, corporate doesn’t care if you suck their dicks,” he shot back, eyes twinkling.

“Hey give me some credit, I’m a lot more selective with the dicks I suck,” you shot back, laughing at your own joke. 

He moved closer to the counter, leaning on his elbows so that he was looking up at you, hands balled up at his cheeks. 

“Tell me more about these dicks,” he asked sweetly, grinning at the blush building on your cheeks. 

The door rang and you threw up a peace sign, moving over to assist the customer, happy with a distraction. Colson sighed again loudly, before walking around to get at the cash register. You moved along the line, filling the burrito with all the items before rolling it up just right. It was like a secret talent, folding it up perfectly so that none of the contents would fall out. Satisfied with your roll, you put paper over it before passing it off to Colson. 

He looked at you for a second, winked and then faced the customer. “Hey dude, it’s on the house. You’re our 100th customer today, enjoy!” he rattled out, smiling as he handed the food over. 

You widened your eyes before smiling over at the customer, blurting out, “Happy 100!” making jazz hands. Dropping a $5 into the tip jar, he turned around, leaving with his free food. 

As soon as he left, you wacked Colson in the shoulder, grumbling, “What the fuck was that man? 100th customer bullshit?” 

“So we were talking about your type?” he continued, without missing a beat. 

“Huh?” you asked, shaking your head. 

“Your type of guy? Like what you’re into,” he gestured, focused on you.

“Uhm, I don’t know. Why does it matter?” you questioned, turning away from the bore of his eyes, taking off your plastic gloves. 

“It doesn’t I guess,” he murmured, letting the air around you fall into silence. 

You threw out your gloves, and then turned around just to see him biting his lip over at you. 

He took a breath before saying, “You wanna go out with me after this?” eyes meeting yours. 

“Like- on a date?” you clarified, playing with your own fingers, nervous for his reaction. 

“Yeah,” he nodded out and you tried to hold in your smile. 

“Nope, I don’t like you,” you answered, keeping your voice as montone as you could. 

He grimaced, shoulders sagging a little. Watching him, you burst out laughing, going over to his side. 

“Yeah dummy, I’ll go out with you. No more of that good girl shit though,” you slightly scolded, hand reaching up to pat his cheek.

“Rule breaker huh?” he mumbled, tilting his head just a smidge to lick your palm. 

“Colson!” you shouted, pulling your hand back, rubbing it on your apron. 

He just grinned over, teeth shiny white on display and you rolled your eyes before saying, “Dude stop looking at me like that!”

Your heart was fluttering just a little and even though you were dreading the closing rush, knowing that Colson was stuck here with you and that there was something to look forward to tonight made you feel so much better. 

-

taglist: @iamdorka @no-shxt-sherl @bakerkells @findingmyth @rosegoldrichie @mayaslifeinabox @itjustkindahappenedreally @hnbtx @backoftheroomandnotbelonging 

[gracieisnotmuchofawriter]

Liars

Jude’s car rolled across the pavement smoothly. They had just gotten it after they graduated from high school. It sat low with tinted windows and a boxy frame. Jude named her (yes it’s a her) Anastasia. It was a cute, compact car with a black paint job.

  The sky was bright and blue, the sun was just past the top of the sky. Long, flowing wispy clouds painted over the horizon. It was a brisk day, the first since April. We passed houses, strip malls, a couple of banks, all populated with the busy Tuesday afternoon traffic.

  Today, Jude helped me lie to the teacher. On Sunday night and some of Monday night, they helped me do all of the homework I hadn’t kept up on. By help, I mean they just sat in my room and asked if I was done with an assignment. After Asha showed me that “Finished Not Perfect” video (we talked quite a long time after we got dinner) I was inspired to try to put someone’s disappointment out of my head and just get things done. It didn’t work because I was an anxious wreck doing those late assignments. My leg bounced and it felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. I kept telling myself not to “fuck this up you fucking idiot.” I didn’t want to seem incompetent to Jude. They seem so smart and mature. We’re the same age(18) and they’re calm, collected and I’m just not. After I set the spaces between the letters right on the last assignment, I breathed a sigh of relief. Jude asked if I felt accomplished but I just felt exhausted and annoyed. I wanted to know that elated feeling of finishing something, flaws and all, but I couldn’t. I just kept chastising myself for how easy it all was. The minute I got going, it was fine, I was fine, everything was okay, but the fact that it was okay made me feel so stupid for being so afraid of it. Why am I like this? I want my auntie. I want my mom.

  After Jude left, I sat at my desk, motionless. The door was open, the orange floors were glowing with all of the lights still on. They didn’t shut off automatically like other suites. I just looked at all of the empty space, embarrassed with myself. Jude left thinking I must feel amazing and relieved, but I felt worse than ever. A sinking feeling weighed my stomach down. The uplifting speech Asha gave at Apple Bee’s seemed wasted. It could’ve gone to one of her friends, not a roommate scared of everything, no matter how difficult it is. I let these people down, I didn’t feel the accomplishment they felt for me.

  I sat there for hours, when I felt the confidence to get up and go to bed, the sun was already coming up. I looked at my phone, it was three hours before class. I took a shower, laid in bed and felt the pull of sleep at the moment my alarm went off. When I went to turn in my stuff, Missy asked me a few questions.

  “Why are you just now giving me these, Amber?” She says, the question is piercing, but indifferent.

  I grunted and looked for the words, but I couldn’t find any, my mind went blank.

  “She lost the thumb drive that had them on there.” Jude said, their voice gives nothing away, I look at them with what I hope is a look of gratitude.

  “Where was it?” Missy’s brow furrowed, she doubted Jude’s story and looked over at me.

  “At the bottom of my bag, under a book.” This was a lie. I don’t have a thumb drive.

  “That’s strange, because we have AirDrop and your computers are automatically synced to the printers.” Her voice is stern and much harsher now, her eyes are on me.

  “I go home sometimes and forget my computer, so my brother gave me a thumb drive and lets me use his old computer, it has all the design stuff on it. He pirated it.” I say, with as much confidence as I can, hoping my worried expression doesn’t give me away.

  “Okay,” Missy sighs, “it’s done, that’s what matters, but it’s late so you won’t get full credit.” I felt relieved. But she didn’t believe me. Before we walked out, she called after us.

  “Amber, it doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as you made it and you printed it out, I just want you to be honest with me, alright?” She said, her voice was firm but somehow comforting.

  We pulled into Michael’s. An art supply store. I couldn’t think straight. Missy’s voice echoed in my head, her words dug into the soft flesh of my brain. We sat in the parking lot for a few minutes. Jude tapped my shoulder.

  “Hey, you alright?” They asked, I looked over at them, their face was filled with worry. I felt like I was being split in two.

  “I shouldn’t have lied.” My voice was small and low.

  “Maybe, but does it matter? I mean— okay, it wasn’t true, it was a lie, but the work still got turned in.” Jude said, their voice was sure and comforting.

  “But now I’m not just ‘Amber’, I’m now ‘Amber The Liar’, I broke her trust.” I asserted, my stomach felt hollowed out.

  “Yeah, now I’m ‘Jude The Liar’, too” they grab my hand, squeezing gently, “but it doesn’t matter—“ I cut them off.

  “How doesn’t it matter? I lied to someone I shouldn’t have.” I say, my voice is whiny.

  “Then don’t go along with my lie next time, it doesn’t have to be this big ole thing.” Their thumb runs back and forth over my knuckles. I just want a hug, but we’ve known each other for five days.

  “But what about now?” I say, my voice is small. I search their face, hoping to find an answer.

  “What about now? It’s over, it’s done, it’s okay to let it go.” They give me a soft smile, their voice was comforting.

  “How do I let go of this?” I look at my feet, my voice was quieter now.

  “By living, c’mon, I need pens and I have something to run by you.” They let go of my hand, the door opens with a pop and slams shut with that soft, dull thud.

  The store smelled like wood and disinfectant. The floors were white, cloudy and had warped reflections of the lights above. Vaguely human figures shimmered across as well, warped by the same cloudiness that folded the image of the lights. The aisle we were in had racks hanging with pens. At our waist sat a shelf with tiny, square compartments with little numbers carved on the top and bottom of the separators. Pens were individually taped shut with a weird foil strip with a barcode tab hanging off to the side.

  Jude read the top and bottom numbers, looking off to the side, eyes distant as they imagine what the pen may look like in action. Or at least that’s what they looked like. As an aside, even in the harshest light they were beautifully handsome.

  “So what’s this thing you wanted to run by me?” I ask, they glance at me for a moment before looking back at a pen.

  “You know that video? ‘Finished not perfect’?” They say, voice monotone as they read the sides of this number five pen.

  “Uhm, yeah, what about it?” I ask, recalling Jake Parker’s comforting, fatherly voice. Making the assertion that the only way to becoming a successful artist is by finishing things. It’s what inspired me last night to get caught up.

  “Well, Jake Parker, the guy who made the video, has a challenge coming up in a couple weeks.” They say, looking up at me with a smile.

  “Okay?” I chuckle, they’re so cute when they’re excited.

  “It’s called Inktober, every day in the month of October, you draw something based on the prompt of that day, here—“ they pull out their phone, they get closer to me, showing me a picture of all the prompts, “these are all the prompts, everyday, you draw something new.”

  “But with pens?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. They smell like honeysuckle, it’s my favorite.

  “Yup, with ink. It’s about discipline, endurance and I want you to do it with me.” They turn the phone off putting it back in their pocket. I know I already said it, but they’re so cute when they’re excited.

  “Why me?” I ask, a nagging feeling pulls at my stomach, “Why not that one chick, the ginger? She’s better than me.” I continued, she was a very studious individual, probably had all thirty-one illustrations already done.

  “Because Edith is done already and I barely know her.” Jude says, picking up another pen, reading the side.

  “You barely know me.” I say, it’s only been five days since they gave me a pop.

  “I know enough and for the record; no ones better than anyone.” Jude says, picking up another pen. “Fuck, I can’t ever find the—“ Jude looks up, staring at a pack of ‘Pendergast Writing Utensil’, “Son of a bitch, I like generic ass pens?”

  “What?” I chuckle, looking over their shoulder.

  “These pens are the ones that I used last year. They ran out of ink and I’ve been looking for them since.” They look at the package for a while, then turns to me, “Wanna split it?”

  “Sure, I got a couple bucks.” I grab my wallet from my back pocket that will inevitably shrink my leg due to always sitting on it. I read that happens somewhere.

  “Alrighty, let’s get out of here, I’m starving.” Jude says, walking past me, I follow after them.

  A burrito bowl sat in my lap in a brown paper bag. Jude’s tacos sat at my feet. We pull into their parking space, doors to the resident hall just ahead. Late afternoon, most students will still be at class.

  “Why me?” I ask again, remembering I didn’t get an answer earlier.

  “Because, I wanna do it with someone I can laugh with.” Jude says, smiling at me.

  “No I meant Inktober.” I say, trying to sound as small as possible.

  “I did mean Ink— shut the fuck up and eat your burrito bowl.” We laugh, the days events dull as we move through our time together.

—

The sun morphed the sky into a myriad of colors. Deep indigos gave way to a shining orange glow. The hills sang as the light breeze flew through the trees and across the deep cuts of land. I couldn’t move. My legs were numb from the settling blood. Tiny dull pins stabbed at my legs.

The paint on my canvas was a matte crimson. My mom wore a shade very similar on her lips, every time we went grocery shopping she put it on. I loved it, because she planted her lips all over my face, I always wore it like makeup. There’s a picture on my wall, just above my computer of my face filled with red ovals. My mom is next to me, she looks so sweet and happy. Her arms are around me, I have the biggest smile I’ve ever flashed. It was The Fourth and she put it on to chase me around my aunties yard. I ran, yelped, and giggled more than I ever have. I tripped on a twig and she held me down. I laughed as she planted her lips all over my face. We sat up, her lipstick was smudged, she hugged me and my brother took a picture of us. I looked so happy, my round face held up in a tight smile, my blonde hair, frizzy and unkempt. My mom and her short blonde hair, frazzled like it always was. Her smile was as big as mine. I miss her.

The cravings kept me up again, I sat with my leg bouncing for hours. Trying to get up and do something else, but all I could do was paint. The paint on my canvas was a matte crimson. The words I wrote asked if Jude was as fleeting as my mom.

Amber

[fanfictionandmore]

The Kreizler Institute | The Alienist + Mphfpc

[Chapter Two | Tales of the Peculiar] 

Jade's POV:

The dinner with Caleb Carr and my uncle was lovely last night. I got to get to know one of my favorite authors, and he gave me great writing tips! After our guest left my uncle and I were up until midnight washing dishes as well as cleaning the kitchen. So it wasn't a surprise when both of us slept in a little late.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stretched before getting out of bed. Once I got dressed I walked downstairs to find my uncle just starting to brew a pot of coffee. "Good morning, Jade. I hope you slept well." He said with a small smile. "Good morning. I slept great. I don't think I woke up once during the night; I must have really been tired." I replied with a slight laugh.

He decided to cook breakfast and I looked out of the kitchen window, which overlooked my uncle's small flower garden in the back yard. The sky was a beautiful blue with fluffy white clouds floating around. A golden sun was shining brightly as well, making everything really look like spring. The best part was that the temperature was a little warmer than yesterday.

'Maybe Alfius will want to join me on a walk today or something.' I thought inside of my head as I noticed the coffee had finished brewing. I poured both of us a cup before I sat down at the kitchen table where I are dinner with Caleb Carr last night!! I honestly don't think I'll ever get over that as long as I live.

"Could you go and get the newspaper off of the doorstep, please." My uncle said, taking me out of my thoughts. "Sure." I replied. I walked over to the front door and opened it to find a rolled up tube of newsprint laying on the doorstep. When I reached down to pick it up I suddenly got the strange feeling that I was being watched. So I looked around to see if I could spot out anyone in particular that was looking on my direction.

After a few seconds or so, I realized that I didn't see anyone really watching me. Everyone was going on about their daily business; but I still couldn't shake the feeling that someone or something was watching me. I pressed my thoughts to the back of my mind before I stepped back inside and closed the door behind me. When I entered the kitchen breakfast was ready. So I filled my plate and joined my uncle at the table to eat and make small talk.

"So... what do you think we should do today?" I asked him curiously after a few moments of comfortable silence. "We could go for a walk. I'd love to show you around the city a little, especially since it's such a nice day." He replied with a small smile. "That sounds wonderful." I replied happily. After we finished eating I chose to get ash the dishes as he read the newspaper.

When everything was cleaned and put away, I quickly brushed my teeth before we got ready to head out. This was my first time in New York, so I was feeling excited and a little nervous as well. I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. The only thing I've seen so was is Stuyvesant Park and the inside if an old book store. What happened yesterday suddenly came flooding back to me.

The memories of meeting Caleb Carr completely pushed the events of earlier that day out of my mind, until now. I remembered the young man in Victorian clothing who was standing in the window of one of the houses on East Seventeenth Street. 'Wow, I can't believe I actually remembered the street I was on.' I thought to myself as I got into my uncle's car.

To be perfectly honest, I thought I'd be seeing New York through the window of a cab. But I didn't mind having the privilege and comfort in being in a private owned car. He took me all over the place. I got to see the most touristy spots as well as the more local gems that get ignored by visitors. Alfius was my own personal tour guide, which made me feel a bit special. I got to see some things that only a handful of tourists ever get to see.

For lunch we stopped at Cafe Lafayette, which was quite fancy. It put me out of my comfort zone but the owner seemed to know my uncle, so I kinda understood why he chose to eat here. We got a table that was secluded from the other patrons as well. I didn't much appreciate all the sideways glances I was getting from the customers. They were all dressed in expensive clothing while I was wearing a Marilyn Manson t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. Not to mention the worn looking combat boots.

Alfius introduced me to the owner and explained that it was my first time in the city. He said that he would tell the chef to make something extra special for the occasion, which gave me anxiety. Extra special sounded like extra expensive to me. I might be an author, but I don't sell enough books to live the high life. I'm more of a bare bones sort of person when it comes to that kind if stuff.

I like to live comfortably not extravagantly. But there wasn't any way I could protest against what was happening. I was the one paying for the meal, and I didn't want to come off as rude since my uncle is friends with the staff. So I just sat there and sipped on my glass of water. "What do you think of New York now that you've seen most of it?" My uncle asked, breaking the silence.

"Oh, I really like it. It has charm and beauty." I replied with a small smile. "Good, I'm glad you like it." He said happily. Eventually a couple of waiters came with out meals, and we dug into the delicious looking food. After we ate my uncle spoken to the chef and owner of the joint. I just sort of lingered in the background... watching. The pair of them gave me great ideas for characters in a book, but I tried not to think about that too much.

Especially when the characters started to resemble some characters I've already written about. 'I wish I could get some inspiration for new characters.' I thought even though I knew I wouldn't be able to write anything. The writers block seemed as if it was here to stay, and it scared the hell out of me. Nothing is worse when you can't create when creating is you're everything.

"Alright, you have a wonderful evening. I'll see you guys sometime later this week." My uncle said, taking me out of my thoughts. He had paid for the meals and it was time for us to leave the cafe. We got into the car and I suggested a walk around Stuyvesant Park. I found it absolutely beautiful, and I wanted to appreciate it now that it wasn't cold and raining.

Since the weather was nice there was a bunch of people milling about. Some were playing with their dogs, others were watching their children have fun, and a few were reading books or newspapers. I was there to enjoy the park and people watch. I also hoped that the ducks I saw last time were there again today, which they were. When we decided to head home I spotted the house I noticed the last time I came to the park.

"Alfius, what can you tell me about that place?" I asked him when we had to stop for traffic. I wasn't sure if he knew anything about the house, I was just sort of hoping he did. "Number 283, East Seventeenth Street. Well, it belongs to my good friend Caleb... actually." He replied. "It does? Is... is there anyone staying in the house?" I asked with slightly furrowed brows. My first thought was that he had to have someone staying in the house if I saw someone inside it. Unless he has squatters.

"No. He gave up trying to rent it out a long time ago. I think it's because the locals think it's haunted." He said with a very serious look on his face. Usually I'm the only one who believes in spirits and ghosts, but I guess that's something I inherited from Alfius. It seemed like he too believed the house was haunted. "Does Caleb think it's haunted?" I asked. "Well... not exactly. I mean... he thinks something is there, but he doesn't believe that it's ghosts." He said, giving me a sideways glance.

Chills ran up my spine as we began to move again and headed back to his place. I'm not sure why, but I got the feeling that he wasn't telling the whole truth. I didn't wanna mention what I had seen yesterday and something told me I didn't have to, because he already knew. But if the house is haunted then why try to hide it? I pressed my thoughts to the back of my mind as we got closer and closer to our destination.

When we got home he parked his car in his garage and I headed upstairs to my room. Now that I had some time to myself I decided to check out that book I bought at the second hand book store yesterday. I took the book off of my bedside table and opened it. The pages were elegantly illustrated with flourish and gold foiling. The page after the title page had 'To Alma LeFay Peregrine. Who taught me to love tales. - MN'

Then there was a quote in a language I didn't understand. At first I thought it was Latin but I could have been wrong. But what was the most chilling and interesting was the forward that was printed just after the table of contents page. It said:

"Dear reader,

The book you hold in your hands is meant for peculiar eyes only. If by chance you are not among the ranks of the anomalous --- in other words, if you don't find yourself floating out of bed in the middle of the night because you forgot to tie yourself to the mattress, sprouting flames from the palms of your hands at inopportune times, or chewing food with the mouth in the back of your head --- then please put this book back where you found it at once and forget this ever happened. Don't worry, you won't be missing anything. I'm sure you'd only find the stories contained herein strange, distressing, and altogether not to your liking. And anyways, they're none of your business.

Very peculiarly yours,

The publisher"

I sat there for a few minutes wondering if this was some kind of joke the publisher decided to put at the beginning of the book, or if it was true. 'Am I peculiar?' I wondered curiously to myself. After a little while I decided that I was going to read the thing regardless. After all, I spent money on the thing and I was curious to see what tales the book held inside. What were a few strange and unusual tales going to do to me? Besides, I myself am strange and unusual.

So I continued reading and found the first three tales very interesting. Especially the tale about The Splendid Cannibals and The First Ymbryne. As I began to start on the fourth one, my uncle knocked on my door and asked what I'd like for dinner. "It doesn't matter." I replied. "If that's the case, grab your jacket, I'm taking you to the best pizza joint in town." He said, which made me smile.

I sat my book aside before I got up off of my bed and slipped my jacket on. I was heading out of my door before something told me to hide the book underneath my pillow, and so I did. "I hope you weren't writing anything. You're on vacation, you need a break from work." He said as he locked up the house.

"I wasn't writing anything. I was reading." I replied. When we got into the car my stomach churned like I was going to be sick. But it soon faded away as we headed down the street. I desperately hoped I wasn't coming down with something.

++++++++++++++++++ A/N: Thanks for reading!!

[cupidmarwani-archive]

Leaving Our Home (1/10)

Summary: Mike and Peter, two gifted teenagers, decide to run away before they can have their powers exploited. But they know they can't do it alone, and soon start looking for more people like them.

Word Count: 1330

“You’re thinking weird.”

When Peter was about six years old, it started. He thought he was sick, although he frequently got shots and saw a doctor, but neglected to tell anyone. At the time, Pam was already in treatment for the things she heard in her own head, he remembers. Endless medications, constant appointments with psychologists and psychiatrists and other -ists he was always overwhelmed by. He remembers how frightening it had been to hear the things Pam did. To have to deal with it all the time, he can’t imagine. So he told no one about how he could hear others’ thoughts.

“That’s not unusual for me.”

Mostly those of the shy boy who lived next door, Michael Dodds. While all minds vary in clutter and readability, he has always been so easy to understand. Whereas most minds are like Jello, easy to get into with a little bit of attention and desire, Mike is like water, free flowing and almost impossible not to touch. Inside, however, he is extremely disorganized. Wild with emotions, mostly pain and fear, but plenty of guilt. Especially guilt. It all comes along with memories of the sort of things his father put him through on a day to day basis. At times, it’s overwhelming, more so than the other people he slowly begins to hear as well.

“And that’s not what I meant. You’re hiding something from me.”

Mike was the very first person Peter told the truth to about the things he hears. In their teen years, they spent so much time together, talking through the windows of their brownstones and playing “I Spy” while Mike playfully accused him of cheating by reading his mind. It was always true because Peter didn’t know how not to. He had so little control. Not that he has much now, he thinks, but he’s getting better at controlling how much he sees. Today, however, he’s giving more effort into reading Mike than he ever has without pushing too deep, and everything is incredibly stiff and forced. There’s a barrier. He’s hiding something.

“I’m not.”

When they were eight, Mike showed him his powers. The two of them were biking around the block when Peter hit a divot in the road and fell. Like eight year olds do, Peter burst into tears and laid there on the hot asphalt, burning his skin more on accident and crying harder. Then Mike was pulling him out of the street and sitting with him on the sidewalk with a hand on the back of Peter’s neck. His skin was cold. Slowly, the pain faded, and the scrapes knit back together. Just like that, he was listening to Mike’s thoughts and learned about how he had powers too. He wasn’t alone.

“I’m not kidding.”

There’s no answer to Peter’s prodding. Mike just focuses on pouring milk into a measuring cup. It’s his seventeenth birthday, and it’s long since been a tradition of theirs to bake him a cake. His father would never allow it if he knew, and that’s exactly why they always do it. Sometimes, he just deserves good things.

“Do you ever think about running away?”

“You say that all the time,” Peter says, “but you never mean it. You’re underage and your father is literally the chief of police. And mine is a DA. At best, you get a slap on the wrist for running away. I don’t wanna think about worst case scenario.”

Normally, this is where Mike starts whisking in the milk while Peter cracks in the eggs, but instead he turns around and lights the burner. “No, no, I’m serious. I’ve got a bunch of money saved up that I’ve been taking from my dad’s wallet when he’s asleep. And- and- I used some connections to get us fakes.”

“Us, Mikey? And what’re you doing with the stove?”

In Mike’s thoughts, it’s mostly blank. All that remains is an image of Mike’s father towering over him, slamming a door on him. That, and a heavy intention that Peter tastes in the back of his throat like pennies. For the first time, he’s afraid of what Mike might do. He’s seen enough horror films to know how easy a stove stop can hurt someone, especially someone whose face is pressed against it by someone much stronger. And the fear is there, really there, while Peter watches Mike with wide eyes.

“I want you to come with me, is all. I’d miss you. And you have every reason to run away too.”

He finishes his details in his head, and Peter can only stand still in shock. Mike’s been listening in to conversations between their parents. When they’re out of school and no one will miss them, how they can be used to interrogate people. Mike can hurt them, Peter can read their minds. They wouldn’t be people anymore, they’d be tools. And they’d never truly get to live, as if their childhoods haven’t been taken from them already.

With how distracted he is, Peter doesn’t notice why Mike turned the stove on until the thoughts flare with pain and he pays attention in the real world to see Mike holding his fingertips to the burner. The air turns acrid. By the time he’s able to react, he feels like throwing up as he drags Mike away from the stove top and watches the burns heal into bumpy scars. Suddenly he realizes how serious Mike must actually be, because he burned his fingertips. No prints.

“You’re leaving with or without me, aren’t you?” he asks, staring down at the healed burns. “You wanna get as far away from here as possible.”

As much as Peter wants Mike to be safe and happy, this is extreme and he’s terrified of what could happen next. If they fail to escape, the repercussions could be severe. They don’t know how to make it on their own, anyway. And they’re still in high school. But he also understands how Mike can’t wait a day longer in this place. That all said, he can’t handle the idea of sending Mike out on his own. He’s naive, and sweet, and not experienced with what real people are like. It would be reckless. He pulls Mike into his arms and holds him close. All he can hear from Mike’s thoughts is hope for the first time in his life.

“Okay. Do you have everything on you that you need?” Peter asks. It may not be safe to let him back into that house. “All your money? The IDs? I have clothes if we need them.”

Mike nods. “I have for about a month. And my backpack has other stuff we might need. One of those foil blankets, and matches, and a refillable water bottle. I didn’t do anything in class today and I know that my Dad is gonna kill me when he gets home.”

Just like that, Mike’s thoughts turn to immediate plans. The first solid image Peter reads is his own hands on the burner, losing his prints. It would be much easier, he has to admit, but he’s still scared. Pain has never been something he handles with ease. Any last objections, he needs to raise now, before it’s too late. The cake ingredients are sitting on the counter, unmixed. Peter can stay here, and say he knew nothing, hide all clues about Mike from their families’ heads.

He can’t. And he nudges Mike’s thoughts  with an okay. Smiles when Mike still looks up at him for permission. Every ounce of his willpower goes to not resisting when his hands are guided to the heat. He doesn’t feel it because Mike takes the pain for him, heals him, which is somehow worse. When they’re out on the streets, Peter will have to feel pain and Mike can’t always protect him from it.

“We’ll be okay,” Mike says, tilting Peter’s hand a little to make sure the full prints are gone.