#stratford family paper stand

[princeyyuh]

just a gal and her paper stand

[snarky-wallflower]

Guided To His Place

Word Count: 1584 AO3 Inspired by my friend @its-short-for-jackalope's art, which can be found here! Also by my friend @midnightnautilus, whose ficlet can be found here. I found Samuel's arc truly beautiful, and as much as I'm devastated he's gone? I wanted to write my own send off to him, as someone who deeply related to him. I hope you all enjoy it.

Samuel Stratford lies in the grass, the softness of it comforting his back. It's twilight, sweet and true all around him. A peace settles in him, as he looks up at the stars. Shining, brilliant and bright, reminders of home. The stars are familiar, even in this strange place. Shining starlight, up in the sky once more. This place, the end. The place he appeared, once he awakened from his final choice.

He's wandered throughout it as much as he can - recognizing the Paper Stand, the Township, even the Ellen Austin and Lincoln Island. Places he loved, places he made an impact. A place where his story unfolded, now a place for him to walk and discover.

Their echoes.  Now, he rests. It's a strange sensation, being alone. He doesn't know if he'll ever grow used to it. He spots familiarity up in that glimmering cacophony of stars, and feels his shoulders relax. He glows the same as those stars now, golden and warm against the cool night. 

Above him is the Sagitta. Rose, Samuel, Margaret and John. The closest he has come to seeing his friends, his sister. Those stars Rose had named after the four of them, up in the sky. Separated, unable to reunite. Above him, the Satellite, shining out protectively into the dark. A guiding light home. That beauty he laid so many bricks to help create, helping to bring people home.

It's not the true stars or Satellite, of course. But it's still a reminder that his friends are out there, finding their way. He thinks that's still something real, in a way.

A cloak of grief and love covers his heart, as a lump forms in his throat. It's a strange mixture, those feelings, yet they still hold true. He's cried so much since he made his choice. Even now, they start to softly drip down his cheeks, as he thinks of teasing Rose at the Paper Stand, quietly talking with John about the weight of a legacy, of rejoicing with Margaret as she turned that wood to gold, so incredibly proud of her. Masterpieces of memories, fortunate to have ever have made them. They fill him with pride and fondness, rippling through his veins like that starlight across the sky, the love he holds tight to his chest.

John, the man who started as an icon, who became someone Samuel could speak to about his fears of not being enough. Who understood Samuel when he said he still had so far to go. Who Samuel watched choose creativity, becoming more wild and free.

Margaret, his friend, that one who enchanted him with what lived inside her. Her quiet resolve, her determination to find her answers, her own kind of masterpiece. One who he found trust with again, who forgave him for what he had done. Who he spoke and spoke with, trying to build back that original connection once more. Helping her find her way. 

Rose, the one he would have been lost without. The one person Samuel thinks he knows better than he knows himself. The bravest, the best person he knows. Her sheer resolve to make her own legacy, to accomplish whatever she set her mind to. The first person he ever dreamed with, who was the one who reached out with him to find a world that was more than this. 

Memories are what he has in this after, and he thinks of them often. Living in the echoes he made with those he loved so dearly.

There's a peace in his choice, though. Samuel knows it was the only choice he ever could have made. His friends will go on without him. His life was worth them getting to live, to continue their journeys. He acted like the man in his dreams, accomplished great things in the end. There is no greater thing he could have done than make sure that the family he built in brick carried on. 

But, still... "I miss you." His voice is quiet. He misses them so badly that it aches. He could write and write and write, and it would still never come close to capturing the loss that he carries with him now.

But they must go on without him. This is what sacrifice means. It's a sacrifice he cannot ever bring himself to regret. Not when it means that those he loves--John, Margaret, Rose--live on. He did this for them. He would do this for them over and over. He wasn't afraid at the end, no longer needed direction. He knew what needed to happen. In no universe would he have held back from what needed to be done. He saved them, making his final impact.  "I love you." It's easy, to say those words. Reliving those memories, that started all with his notebook. Those connections--those people he holds so dear. His hand reaches out to the stars. Connecting the four of them with his finger, holding their memories and stories in his mind. He's always been a storyteller, after all--that certainly will not stop now. He tells their stories, if only to himself. A fond smile crosses his face, as he feels warm air swoop across his face. He can almost picture them beside him--but only just. 

The world is silent.

It's only Samuel and the stars, at the end of infinity.

A quiet sigh leaves Samuel's mouth, feeling that kaleidoscope of stars all around.

This is a moment, all his own.

Then, a buzz, just above him. He draws his head up, to see an intricately carved box, humming with its own sort of blue-green glow. It's mahogany, the buttons and knobs near the top standing proud and strong. It's near his height, mere inches shorter. He lets out a laugh, recognizing the radio--for that is what she's called--that first and only other being here. He moves to get a better look at her, the other storyteller here. He'd like to call her a peer.  MAIA.  Elation and fear runs through him, as he realises what's happening. "Oh." She does not often call. There's only one reason she's come to his side. "It's time, isn't it?" MAIA lets out a short buzz. An affirmation.  Samuel breathes in. Breathes out. He gets to his feet, feeling the grass shift around him. He rolls back his shoulders, steadying himself.

Once on his feet, he places a hand on MAIA's top.  "Take me there?"  

She lets out another buzz, and-- In a flash, Samuel's no longer in the grass. Instead, he stands in a small room. Marigold-yellow wallpaper covers every wall. A green, plush chair is in one side of the room, with MAIA now rests next to that chair. On her top, now, a vase of roses. Soft blue carpet covers the floor, as a small table holds issues of what he knows to be the Sun. He picks one up and idly flips through it, laughing at the words he wrote with Rose in what feels like so long ago. His journal, a recreation of it, sits besides one of those issues. Trinkets, some he thinks Rose would have loved, strewn across the room.

MAIA starts to hum, a signal. She's picking up on the next story to share.  He's almost nervous.

But why should he be?

They know where to find me. 

Samuel feels a swell of pride, of trust in his friends.  There's agony in no longer being there for them, of course. He thinks he will always feel that pain. There is a part of him that is terrified to listen, to hear exactly what his choice did to his family. That is terrified to hear Rose's grief, the final Stratford still on Earth. His sister, without him. 

But they will persevere.

They always have, and he knows they are strong enough to keep on moving. Margaret, with her quiet inner strength and belief. John with his understanding of the weight of a legacy. Rose, who has survived so much already, his sister who he knows better than anyone else. His harbour in a storm, who will now live on without him. She has people other than him to lean on now, and he prays that will be enough.  They will be enough for each other. They have each other, even without him. They've built their family - and Samuel knows that it will hold fast against the shadows ahead. 

He had always been the storyteller before. The one who wanted so badly to convert passion to action. But now? 

"Tell me how it ends?" 

MAIA buzzes, a unspoken of course. So, Samuel settles in, sitting in the comfortable chair beside her. He can feel warmth exuding from him, something ghostly and true. He leans in, placing his hand on his cheek.  "Rose, Margaret, John..." he muses, "l know you can do this. You're capable of everything. You were worth the world. Protect each other, for me?" He knows they cannot hear him. But he says it anyways, keeping them in his heart. Speaking out to the stars.

A voice starts to play through MAIA's speaker, the blue-golden glow shining across the room, a mixture of Samuel and MAIA's combined light. A sweet tune sounds off before it, a opening of a curtain. Their stories go on, even without him. Samuel smiles.  He's ready. "Somewhere between the comforts of the familiar and the precipice of the unknown, an orchestra performs a score written in stardust..."

[enjamin-the-benitor]

i definitely think you should explain!!

okayy so. You know that line in The Stratford Family Paper Stand about Halley’s Comet. I did some research (looked on wikipedia). The meteor shower for Halley’s Comet would be visible around the time of the end of the hoax.

just. There’s something that makes me. Sick. About everything in Ben’s life falling apart after John’s Choice, and then the stars themselves fall from the sky.

[amethystunarmed]

Benjamin and the Paper

Word Count: 1040 AO3 Link Benjamin learns about the events surrounding the launch of the Brick Satellite, and regrets.

Benjamin finds out from the newspaper.

(That’s not entirely true. He finds out when a new, brilliant star appears in the sky, because he knows only two people with the will and the imagination to shift the heavens themselves. He looks at the new guiding light over head and thinks, My God, they did it.)

Benjamin finds out about their deaths from the newspaper. Because of course he does. He can think of no person the ink loves more than the Stratford twins. Of course it cradles their bodies close to its chest, gently brings them home to rest in New York City.

“Extra! Extra! Death in British Guiana, local heroes killed in military coup!”

Benjamin stops so suddenly, three different people run into him. “Sorry, excuse me,” he says, frantically looking around for the paper boy he’d heard yelling. He beelines towards him, shoving what is certainly too much money into the kid’s hand as he snatches the paper away from him. He frantically scours the paper, looking for the story the boy was yelling about.

Maybe it’s not them, Benjamin thinks, feeling slightly hysterical. It could be about anyone, you can’t throw a rock in New York City without hitting a local celebrity. Breathing has gotten harder, the world spins around him. But he can’t stop reading, he needs to know-

Herschel and Hanover, along with Margaret Cavendish and Samuel and Rose Stratford, are presumed deceased.

Benjamin’s knees give out, and he grips desperately to a lamp post to keep from falling.

Samuel and Rose Stratford, are presumed deceased.

Many times, people say they’ve forgotten the last words they’ve said to a departed loved one. They can only hope it was a casual display of love, or, at worst, a mundane conversation with no bearing on their lives or relationship.

Benjamin knows exactly what his last words to Sam and Rose were, despite how hard he tries to forget.

Enjoy the present before its past. 

Benjamin wishes he’d taken his own advice.

“Mister, are you okay?” The newsie asks, looking like he is afraid Benjamin is going to keel over next to him. Benjamin isn’t sure he answers. He opens his mouth, but he doesn’t think any sound comes out. Instead, he turns away and begins walking. 

In the three months since Benjamin ended both his career and his friendship with the Stratfords in an incredibly public spectacle, he has done a lot of thinking. For the first month, he stewed in a blinding, hazy anger, interspersed with far too much whiskey. By the second month, he realized how empty his life felt without the Stratfords in it, and hated himself for even considering it. Recently, he’s just missed them.

(He’d been trying to figure out if there was a way he could send them a letter. He had no idea where to send it, much less whether Sam and Rose would actually read it. He supposes it doesn’t matter now.)

When his feet stop, he realizes he has reached the Stratford Family Paper Stand. 

“You’ll always find a Stratford there!” Sam had once told him, like a reassurance. Like a North Star for Benjamin to follow if he ever lost them.

It is boarded up now, a sign over the door reading “Closed Until Further Notice.” Already, flowers line the walls, memorials for the heroes who told the world about life on the moon. He sees a paper with what could only be a child's drawing of a lunar buffalo. He remembers the way Rose and Sam had cackled when they told him about it, when they pulled this creature from thin air and made it real, preserved in ink before his very eyes. They created life with the dedication of gods and the whimsy of children.

The Paper Stand feels dead without them. There is nothing for him or anyone here. Not anymore. 

He keeps walking. 

It is dark when he finally gets to the office for the Sun.

He drifts forward toward the yellow light in the window. Because, surely, if looks in the window, he will see Sam, golden and brilliant in the lamp light, desperately scribbling in his notebook. He’ll see Rose, fingers blackened with ink from typesetting, the wrinkles in her furrowed brow like the lines of a constellation. He may have been an editor for the Sun, but the Stratfords were truly the ones Benjamin revolved around. As much as he likes to pretend the Lunar Hoax was a plot he got caught up in, he still remembers the thrill that ran through him as he put the first “Great Astronomical Discoveries” into type. He remembers being so excited for Rose and Sam’s reactions the next day. He remembers feeling positively giddy when they had beamed at him, once they saw he ran their story.

(When did that change? When did he decide their joy wasn’t enough?)

He feels adrift, a planet out of orbit. For as long as he can remember, his life has centered around the Stratfords, twin stars that tugged him into their gravity, be it as a friend, an enemy, or a man desperate to reconnect. What is his path, in a world without them?

He isn’t sure.

The door opens next to him, and Benjamin heart soars, because it’s them, it’s got to be them, it was just another hoax, they are back and really, shouldn’t Benjamin know better-

Chester Thomas stands, outlined in the doorframe. He looks worse than Benjamin has ever seen him, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, bottle of bourbon held loosely in his hand.

“What do you want?” He asks, voice curt and monotone. And Benjamin is going to leave, going to apologize and go about his business. Chester Thomas is the last person he wants to talk to right now, he doesn’t think his ego can take it. He fully plans to go home and stare at the ceiling of his bedroom until it is an acceptable time for him to get up again. He is going to leave, really.

So even he’s surprised when he says, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Chester sighs, and steps to the side. “Come on in.”

And, God help him, Benjamin does.

[pulpmusicalssongbracket]

Round 2 Matchups

Planet Earth, 1835 VS The Stratford Family Paper Stand

Great Astronomical Discoveries, Pt 1 VS More Than This

Print It Anyway VS Belief

Nothing Can Stop the Sun VS Great Astronomical Discoveries, Pt 2

Margaret and the Moon VS Its A Hoax! (Reprise) / Carry On

Great Astronomical Discoveries, Pt 3 VS Samuel and the Sun

Behind Me VS John's Choice

To Be Continued... VS Between and Beyond

I Could Get Used to Adventure VS Anna Hanover

Twelve Million Bricks VS Polaris

Township Number Nine VS Through A Glass

Babel + Here VS The Brick Satellite, Part 1

One Bad VS Newton's Second Law

The Brick Satellite Part 3 VS Urania Propitia

John and the Earth VS The Traveler

A World of Our Own VS Great Things

[starcanwrecked-confessions]

Samuel’s “I like his name” from the Stratford Family Paper Stand has become a vocal stim for me.

My name is not infact Samuel

~~~

[missholloween]

After listening to Samuel and the Sun Reprise and finding the courage to relisten to The Great Moon Hoax, I paid especial attention to the scene where Chester Thomas breaks Samuel's notebook.

Before pulp 4, I barely stopped to listen, as it was only the triggering event for the story I've grown to love. However, in the relisten I notice how harsh it is: Chester Thomas not only picks all of Samuel's hopes and dreams from him without his consent, but tears them apart in front of him. He also diminishes him, saying that neither Samuel nor his writing are good enough, and there's no place for them even in a newspaper that has its days counted. He is so defeated in The Stratford Family Paper Stand, giving up on their dreams, with only surviving (that now seems impossible for him) on his mind. It's Rose who makes him cheer up through More Than This– she's the relentless one from the pair, she's the one that keeps going on even when the odds seem impossible (most of her solos only reinforce this idea, but even in Print It Anyways she's the one who convinces Benjamin).

Just by the first two songs of Pulp, we see how Samuel relates his worth to his writing and his actions. That's also why we don't see much of his insecurities after Print it Anyway, as his worth as a writer is restored, and soon after Chester Thomas hires him back. It is only in quiet moments that we can see his insecurities resurface, as it happens in Samuel and the Sun. He talks about how frightening was to put the hoax in motion, and how know he fears for Margaret's reaction once she finds out. We don't have time to dwelve into it, but I'm sure Samuel would've been moved by Chester's words in President Chester Thomas.

In the Brick Satellite we also see some signs of that insecurities that drive Samuel in two different ways: his relationship with Margaret and his work on the satellite. The first one is more obvious: Samuel feels bad for breaking Margaret's trust and wants to make things right, often ending up pushing her. Given that he can't fix his issues with Margaret through words, the thing that makes him valuable, he decides to put all his effort on the satellite.

Throughout the episode, there are various references of Samuel being the hardest worker on the satellite: he's the person who has built more bricks, he knows the inside of the satellite as if it was the back of his hand. In Through a Glass Samuel admits that his work in it is the first thing he does for himself, as well as letting the listener know how much his family tights him. He wants to be someone who others can rely on, who they can look at and be proud... And he isn't quite there yet.

However, by the end of the episode (Great Things), Samuel is confident in all the effort he has done, in all his growth. He's fine with dying in the satellite, as he had found people who he cares about and who make him better. He wants to be with them, he wants to keep living for them, building a life with them.

Samuel starts Ghosts of Antikythera in his highest point in all of Pulp, with no lies to hide and knowing his worth... Until Kal shows up. In Gunpowder and Rum p.1, Kal is trying to convince Samuel to drink to "have courage", "get rid of his fears", and Samuel barely reacts to it, so Kal tries another strategy: saying his worth is only for what he writes. Until that point, Samuel had never doubt his role as a writer– He doubted his skills, or his capacities, but never his identity as an author. Writing was the only thing Samuel could always cling to, and Kal shakes it just by their first conversation. Being close to Margaret or seeing Sia in action during the episode only makes his "innaction" (or what Samuel perceives as such) feel greater, as he can't launch a satellite or defeat Kal in a fight.

We thus arrive to Searcher in the Shadows, that for Samuel, John and Margaret only takes place inmediately after Antikythera. Samuel has no time to process his worth in a world where everything seems so big: people have impossible powers, there are ships that may travel through the skies, and his beloved sister is the key to save them all. I won't say Samuel is in a bad place in Searchers, but his insecurities, now reignited by Kal, are back. However, unlike in Great Moon Hoax, Samuel has also discovered his worth (and others see it, as remembered by Margaret in Masterpiece Containing Masterpieces reprise), but also what's important to him... And that's his family. That's why he presses the Purple Button.

Samuel's death should not be read as a tragedy, as him giving up for others. It's a concious choice he makes for them, a victorious moment, a grand finale that only an author like him could write, or in this case, do.

something I find really interesting is Samuel’s self confidence. It seems perfectly fine until Kal shows up. He devalues Samuel’s work as a writer, and in turn himself. This only gets worse when Samuel goes to Lincoln Island and sees everyone else’s accomplishments (Rose being the key to save the blazing world, Margaret reconnecting with her home and her brother, John getting a girlfriend.) He doesn’t feel fully confident in his ability to act until Samuel and the sun reprise. That all makes sense, but I can’t help but wonder if these were pre existing insecurities that were only worsened. Great moon hoax!Samuel seems very confident in himself and his work, but did Chester Thomas make him feel bad about it? I love how much he thinks his sister is incredible, but did he ever compare himself to her? I don’t know.

[sporesmoldandfungi]

Magic - A Ghosbusters Story  Chapter One : The Grey Lady

Word Count : 1730

The library was fairly quiet, full of busy students working on schoolwork. There was the occasional rustle of paper or cough, but the quiet atmosphere was never disturbed. That was true until Peter Venkman and Raymond Stanz walked in. They were loudly discussing work with each other, ignoring the peace they were actively disrupting. Ray pointed in the direction of two adults, a man and a woman.

The man was Egon Spengler, a professor at Columbia University, one of Ray and Peter's colleagues. He was sitting on the floor, his legs criss crossed. His dark curls dropped in front of his eyes, covering the left side of his glasses. In his hand was some sort of measurement device, he was holding it to the underside of the table.

Above him sat the woman, Genevieve Stratford, the men's fellow colleague. She had wavy, auburn hair that ended at her mid-back. She too had glasses, they hid her green eyes staring at Egon as he worked. Her attention was then drawn to Peter and Ray's voices as they grew nearer. Genevieve watched as Peter began to tiptoe, obviously trying to sneak up on Egon. He was lightly tapping the table, making Egon's head perk up. Peter grabbed the nearest book, slamming it on the table, making everyone in the library jump.

"Oh, you're here." Egon said, quickly standing up, adjusting his coat before joining Ray and Peter.

The three men began walking together, talking amongst themselves. Genevieve stayed behind, picking up Egon's stray papers, jogging to catch up. She smiled at Egon as she handed him the papers.

Peter smirked in her direction, "Still fetching Egon's papers, Genny?"

"Still sleeping with your students, Venky?" she quipped. "And for your information, I haven't been Egon's assistant for three years now. Your joke is dated."

"Still relevant though." Peter said, motioning to papers Egon was now holding.

A man quickly approached the four, "Hello, I'm Roger Delacorte, are you the professors from the university?"

Peter shook the man's hand, "Yes, I'm Dr. Venkman, that's Dr. Stanz, Dr. Stratford, Egon." he said, introducing them down the line.

"Thank you for coming. I'm hoping we can deal with this quickly and quietly." Roger said in a hushed voice.

"Slow down, we don't even know what you have yet." Peter said, following Roger over to the back of the library.

A very frightened older woman, in her late 40's, was laying on one of the tables. She stared up at the ceiling, muttering to herself. Peter and Genevieve approached the woman together, while Ray and Egon stood back, still measuring something. Peter stood to the woman's right, offering a smile. Genevieve pulled up a chair, sitting on the woman's left.

"Hello, Alice. Could you describe to us what you experienced?" Genevieve asked.

"I was walking downstairs, putting away books. When all of a sudden I got the feeling something or someone was watching me. I kept feeling cool breezes and feeling like books were moving as I walked. I was walking past the library cards when they started to fly out of their compartments. I was running to get out when I saw it. I don't remember any legs but it definitely had arms because it reached out to me." as she retold the story, you could see her re-experience every emotion she felt.

"Arms? I can't wait to get a look at this thing!" Ray said a little too happily.

Peter ignored him, smiling at the woman again before speaking, "Alright Alice, I'm gonna ask you a few standard questions. Have you or anyone in your family been diagnosed with schizophrenic? Mentally incompetent?"

The woman looked at Peter, "My uncle thought he was Saint Jerome?"

"I'll take that as a big yes. Are you habitually using drugs, stimulants, alcohol?"

"No!"

"Just asking." Peter then got that mischievous look on his face Genevieve knew all too well. She gave him a glare, silently telling him to stop whatever game he was going to play. He ignored her. "Are you, Alice, menstruating right now?"

Roger leaned over to Peter, appalled, he asked, "What's that got to do with it?"

Peter stared blankly, "Relax man, I'm a scientist."

It was then that Egon appeared from one of the back bookshelves. He was holding the PKE meter or the Paranormal Kinetic Energy meter. He excitedly said, "Ray, it's moving, come on!"

Ray and Egon booked it, leaving Peter and Genevieve to excuse themselves from Alice. They followed, Genevieve was actively trying to catch up, Peter not so. Genevieve approached Ray and Egon, who were both hunched over, slowly walking, using the PKE as their guide.

It was absolutely silent except for the clicking sound Genevieve's heels made when they met the floor and the buzzing and beeping of Egon's PKE meter. They turned the corner into another endless aisle of books. Egon slowed his pace when he noticed a tall stack of books, barely balancing in the middle of the aisle. Ray and Egon looked at it in wonder.

Ray held up his video recorder, moving it up and down, capturing all of it. "Symmetrical book stacking, just like the Philadelphia mass turbulence of 1947."

"You're right, no human being could stack books like this." Peter said, unimpressed.

Ray's head suddenly turned, "Listen! You smell something?"

Egon and Ray took off once more, leaving Genevieve and Peter behind. They looked at each other, silently agreeing how ridiculous the other two were behaving. Genevieve slowly began following the men, Peter close behind. As the two caught up, they could sense they were going to encounter something completely different from the stack of books. They turned the corner and saw the wall where the library cards were stored. Just as Alice said, there were cards strewn about, some on the floor and others stuck in books. They dripped clear slime, making small pools on the floor.

"Talk about kinetic activity, look at this mess!" Ray exclaimed, walking closely to record the slime dripping.

"Venkman, get a sample for me." Egon said, handing Peter a petri dish, continuing to walk ahead of the group.

Genevieve giggled as she walked past Venkman struggling to collect the slime without touching it. Flicking his hand as soon as a drop landed on him. She could hear him gagging as she walked closely behind Ray and Egon. Peter quickly approached the group, pushing past Ray to hand Egon the dish. As soon as Egon's fingertips touched the dish, the large green bookshelf that lined the back wall began to creak. It suddenly swung forward, barely missing the four as it slammed on the ground.

Peter turned to Ray, whose eyes were large with shock, "This ever happened to you before?"

Ray shook his head.

"Huh, first time?"

Ray nodded.

Peter chuckled dryly, continuing to follow Egon. They only walked about twenty or so steps before they all quickly stopped. Looking ahead, they were fixated on what they only call it what it was, a ghost.

It was an older woman, levitating three feet above the floor. She had grey hair that was pulled back neatly in a bun, and wore a dress with a high collar. A purple and pink glow exhibited off her, making the entire space around her covered in purple and pink shadows. In her hands, she was holding a book, reading it attentively, completely missing the four scientists staring at her in shock.

"A full torso apparition, and it's real!" Ray whispered, looking at Egon excitedly.

Peter, the only one who was thinking with any sort of logic, asked, "So what do we do?" He looked to the other three, who were still enamoured with the library's ghost. Peter leaned over Genevieve, reaching for Ray's ear, pulling him back to the safety of the bookshelves. Egon and Genevieve following soon after. Peter looked at Ray again, asking a little more impatiently, "What do we do!"

Egon reached for his calculator, only for Peter to frustratingly slap it out his grasp.

"I don't know. One of us should actually try to speak to it." Ray suggested.

"Good idea." Egon agreed.

The three men looked towards Genevieve, who shook her head, "Nope, no way."

"It's either you or Peter." Egon said, making Genevieve look over at Peter, who was completely unimpressed by the whole situation. She groaned loudly, walking back to the ghost, stopping a few feet away from it. The three men stood far behind her, and she could hear Ray excitedly snapping pictures of the interaction.

"Excuse me!" Genevieve said, getting the ghost's attention. It looked as if the ghost was looking straight through her and staring at her at the same time. She worked up the courage to ask, "What are you reading?"

She closed one eye, expecting the ghost to charge her. She relaxed when she watched the ghost calmly lift up the front cover high enough for the woman to read and then slowly putting it back down. Genevieve turned around, a big smile on her face.

Ray congratulated her, "Let me take your photo! You will be the first person in known history to make non-violent contact with a Class 3 Apparition."

He began snapping photos, Genevieve awkwardly smiling and holding a thumbs up.

Peter scoffed, "Please, I could have done that. Watch." He pushed past Genevieve, walking close to the ghost. "Hey lady!" he shouted.

The ghost turned to him, shushing him, then returning to her book.

Peter took another step forward. "I'm talking to you!"

The ghost turned again, but this time the kind, old lady facade was long gone. Her face completely morphed, her mouth doubled in size, sharp teeth protruding out the front. She yelled at Peter, sending the scientists running away, screaming.

They continued to scream up the stairs, through the quiet room, out the front door, and down the stairs back onto the New York streets. The man who greeted them before, Roger Delacorte, tried following them, asking them what they saw. It was no use, Roger didn't phase them anymore than a fly buzzing around them. He shrugged to himself, watching the group almost trip down the stairs and continue sprinting down the street. Their yells got quieter and quieter as they got further away from the library. Roger sighed, turning to go back inside, curious to what they might have seen.

[athena-give-me-strength]

That time when my daily mix in spotify had Planet Earth, 1835, and I was ready for The Stratford Family Paper Stand to begin, but instead Not Your Seed started playing

There is one person who might change his mind...

The Stratford Family paper stand woohoo mariah!

I'm not your girl anymore well that's a different mariah character

[the-seer-of-the-faithful]

Prologue

I swear, this is not how I expected my sophomore year at Lacuna Valley High to go. Quite frankly, I wasn't really expecting anything of any sort, but THIS was certainly not it. My only friends, those I used to think were becoming a part of my family, had turned their backs on me. Everyone looked at me as the latest basket case in town. The fact we had won the lacrosse finals last season was unexpectedly forgotten, which was out of character for a school as passionate about sports as Lacuna was. And my parents were nowhere to be seen. Long story short, my whole life was just crumbling, right in front of my eyes. And I couldn't do anything about it. I guess if you are to understand what I'm talking about, I should give you a bit of context. So let's go back to the start of the year -- there's quite a bit for you to know.

The halls echoed with the steps of a raging sea of students, trying to figure out where their lockers were. Freshman students were trying to get to their first period on time. Seniors were messing about here and there, misguiding the new ones towards far ends of the building. I heard some called it the Bastion, I could see why. It was a massive building with two annexes, one for the Hurley reference library, the other for the dorms. Itt lay on an extensive field surrounded by state-of-the-art sports facilities, Lyn Forest, White Willow Lake, and the only road in and out of the most elite school on this side of the country. "Hey newbie," I heard a voice call me from behind, startling me a bit. "Hi..." I tried answering to the slightly taller brunette beside me, fixing my glasses on my face while dropping my schedule "Don't lose this." He handed me my paper, as I tried to make way to my locker while remaining silent. "You got a name?"- I pressed my finger on the padlock, waiting for it to turn green so I could shove my stuff inside. "I'm Sage Hansen." I extended a hand to him, multitasking to try and make a new acquaintance, considering I wasn't from around the area. "Cole Mercer."The handshake was firm. According to my dad, lawyer at Montgomery, Hansen & Stratford, the most prestigious law firm in the UK, a firm handshake was a good sign of someone's character.

Cole kept standing beside me while I tried to make my locker mildly organized. "So..." he started while walking a bit towards me. "I never saw you at Greenfield -- that and your accent. I'm assuming you're new around." His attempts at conversation were reassuring;what harm could it do trying to make friends? "Yeah... I'm from London, Westminster to be more precise," I noted, closing the rather spacious locker after grabbing my things for next class. "I have to go to the chancellor's office, mind if we chat a bit later?" The excuse sounded rather quaint, but it was still true. With a nod he trailed off, while I made my way back to Chancellor Knox.

After a quick word from the secretary, making sure I had settled in as best as I could, she led me down the hall. The mahogany doors and walls, decorated with the colours of the school, and multiple posters, bulletin boards and lockers that matched together as if perfectly designed to make it look harmonious, made me think about Ridgestone Manor, my school house back in London. How I missed the place. After what felt like an eternity, we found ourselves in an area of the third floor of the Bastion. The ambiance had been designed to look like a research compound; I assumed this was the science department. A knock on the door, and the cheerful secretary was greeted by a rather strict-looking professor. Late 40's, salt and pepper hair, three-day beard, and a frown so tense I thought a vein would pop out sooner or later. "Is this him?" He pointed at me with the sternest voice I had ever heard, aside from father that is. "Of course."The secretary looked at me. "This is chemistry with Prof. Atkins; he can seem strict, but just work hard and you'll avoid his bad side." She finished and turned on her heels to tread the way back to her desk on the first floor. Prof. Atkins gave me a severe look and ushered me inside.

"Alright class, this is Mr. Hansen; he'll be joining us from today. Be sure to turn in your work on time, Hansen." Everyone stared silently at me as I slowly tried to reach the only empty seat, between Cole and what looked like the class bully. Just my luck. I fixed my glasses once more and sat. Atkins started talking about how he expected them not to memorize formulas but to think in context, something else about that being our most valuable asset. My focus was interrupted by a note from Cole. "You look like you need 3 gallons of coffee, you OK?" I barely scribbled that I was fine and that we'd talk after class.

Time passed by in an instant. I thought Atkins would be your classical stuporous professor who made his students' lives miserable. Surprisingly enough, I found myself paying more attention than I was willing to admit. That was some teaching method! I had completely forgotten about Cole, who I walked past with my headphones on. He took me by the hand, catching me a bit off guard. "Hi?" he asked, slightly accusing. The expression of recognition I gave him explained everything. "I'm sorry, I still can't find my way about here, I totally forgot about the note." One apologetic look later, we were making our way to our next class. It looked like we were sharing our full schedule today. Next up was calculus with Prof. Carson, then lunch, P.E. with Coach Harrison, and then we both had a free period. Meaning we would be heading out of the main building, IF I didn't manage to scare the guy away.

Carson turned out to be a lovely old lady, maybe late 60's, gray hair, a couple of wrinkles here and there but still poised and graceful. Her class consisted of her sharing the syllabus with us and giving us the rest of the class for questions or free time. Cole came to my side, accompanied by a tall girl; her skin was slightly olive and her light brown hair fell slightly past her shoulders, arranged in a clean ponytail. "Sage, dude, this is Tea." The girl didn't wait, and extended her hand to me. "Teagan Riggs, pleasure." I shook her hand, still firm, yet gentle and feminine. "Sage," I barely managed. "So, I was thinking, tryouts for Lacrosse are held today at 1:30; wanna give it a shot? Maybe try something a bit more active than cricket." Cole said while taking out his phone "It would be amazing to have you with us in the team" I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to try out for Lacrosse, it always seemed slightly barbaric While I wasn't bothered with the jest, I found it rather awkward --, no one aside from the royal court played cricket anymore. "I'm not really big on sports... but if you're trying out, I'll gladly come along." Teagan gave me a big smile and dragged a chair beside me, resting her arm on my shoulder. "So, London right? What's it like studying there?" The answer to that question was rather funny, although many may have found it slightly disappointing in the end. "Well, the system's the same as Harry Potter --, not quite as exciting, but we do have a house cup, and some schools even started quidditch teams." Cole gave me an impressed look. "He's a big HP fan -- you should've seen him when the Harry Potter side of Island of Adventures opened up in Orlando, he was like a child." Teagan commented while laughing, she sure knew how to push Cole's buttons. Trying to picture him in full attire, wandering about with a wand and feeling all excited, made him wonder how that would feel.

Lunchtime came to an end, and with P.E. being mostly free time as well1 o'clock came about rather hastily. I made my way down to the sports centre in the back of the school. The grounds included lacrosse, rugby, basketball and football fields, each in an independent parcel; the bleachers and the soccer field were surrounded by the track. There was also a massive gym, which I would seldom find myself in. Cole and Teagan were sitting in the lacrosse bleachers, chatting while everyone got ready. I jogged up a bit, just so I had enough time to have a word with both of them before Cole had to go. "Sorry for the delay, were you waiting long?" Teagan nodded sideways. "I love your accent by the way, it's so... posh." I merely shrugged. " I get that a lot." I was trying to focus on what Teagan was saying about the game, when the official lacrosse team approached the bleachers. A blond, slightly muscular, green-eyed, tall boy came over to us."Hey Cole, Tea, new guy." I barely waved; the guy was gorgeous, I knew I was gawking quite a bit longer than I should have. "Hope to see your A game out there -- you know Blake will be watching, right?" Cole nodded, and with that, he trailed off. Teagan laughed. "I know by now you're not all that expressive, but if I was any other person, I'd say you have a massive crush on Mason Drake."Cole ignored the comment. "I don't, he just startled me." I hope she believed it. Expressing my feelings was never my forte. And no one knew I was gay, the main reason I left Ridgestone. I wasn't about to put myself in that kind of vulnerable position again.

With that, the guy I assumed was Blake called everyone for tryouts, Mason was standing third in line; I could still feel that gaze of his on the back of my shoulder. I slightly scratched it off as tryouts began.

[amethystunarmed]

I have a huge theory on Traveler intervention!!! This is definitely a big one, because how else did John get the paper so quickly with the speeds ships traveled during those times!

But! I have two other main moments that I think could also have been Traveler intervention, and they both happen in 1817.

So in Pulp Musicals, there are 2 major events that happen in 1817. The first is the establishment of the Stratford Family paper stand.

This is the foundation for the Hoax! The very thing that lead Margaret to discover her powers and remember the Radiance and her past. The Stratfords' story was the catalyst to getting Margaret to remember who she was and I think it is incredibly possible that Sia or another Traveler were the ones to help the Stratfords move to America and start their own business, especially considering all the financial issues Samuel and Rose reference in their past. An extraterrestrial sponsor would have definitely made the move easier!

This, of course is not a lot of compelling evidence if it wasn't for the person who mentions a second major event in 1817: Anna Hanover.

Much like the Stratfords, Anna also experienced a major change that altered her life forever.

Her entire world was destroyed and Anna cites her father's death as the motivation for creating the Brick Satellite. Later Anna reveals that she was also on the ship, and this is how she knew what happened.

But my question is... How did a nine year old survive a shipwreck in the middle of the ocean? She says it herself, she was the sole survivor, alone and near death.

My theory? The Travelers has a vested interest on keeping her alive.

The Satellite launch was incredibly important to Margaret's story! It lead her to gaining more control over the Radiance and reuniting with Sia.

I think all three of these moments, John with the Hoax, the Stratfords' immigration to America and the establishment of the Stratford Paper Stand, and Anna's shipwreck, were pivotal moments that led to Margaret regaining her powers and her memories in the long run. And all of them are near impossibilities without outside interference.

Sia has already shown a precedence for interceding like this!

She connected them with Morgan, a sailor in need of exactly their skillset, who would lead them to the Antilythera, another bid at helping Margaret remember. Margaret herself even says this was Sia's plan!

Now, obviously this is all speculation. But let me tell you, I have not stopped thinking about it.

you're on your way to Lincoln island, meanwhile I'm still here.

It HAD to be divine intervention right???? Traveller Species intervention?? Those pieces had to fall into place??? The Paper had to reach the cape of good hope in time?? Because John had to be in New York in September??? so that he could take them to British Guiana??? So that they could be launched via the satellite so Sia could meet them in space??? So that they could end up on the Ellen Austin??? Right??? These characters have so much momentum behind them and they don't even know???

[lastsonlost]

BECAUSE THE CORONAVIRUS IS JUST HURTING FEMINIST AND ONLY FEMINISTS AND ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ELSE...

..........

Enough already. When people try to be cheerful about social distancing and working from home, noting that William Shakespeare and Isaac Newton did some of their best work while England was ravaged by the plague, there is an obvious response: Neither of them had child-care responsibilities.

Shakespeare spent most of his career in London, where the theaters were, while his family lived in Stratford-upon-Avon. During the plague of 1606, the playwright was lucky to be spared from the epidemic—his landlady died at the height of the outbreak—and his wife and two adult daughters stayed safely in the Warwickshire countryside. Newton, meanwhile, never married or had children. He saw out the Great Plague of 1665–6 on his family’s estate in the east of England, and spent most of his adult life as a fellow at Cambridge University, where his meals and housekeeping were provided by the college.

For those with caring responsibilities, an infectious-disease outbreak is unlikely to give them time to write King Lear or develop a theory of optics. A pandemic magnifies all existing inequalities (even as politicians insist this is not the time to talk about anything other than the immediate crisis). Working from home in a white-collar job is easier; employees with salaries and benefits will be better protected; self-isolation is less taxing in a spacious house than a cramped apartment. But one of the most striking effects of the coronavirus will be to send many couples back to the 1950s.

Across the world, women’s independence will be a silent victim of the pandemic.

Purely as a physical illness, the coronavirus appears to affect women less severely. But in the past few days, the conversation about the pandemic has broadened: We are not just living through a public-health crisis, but an economic one. As much of normal life is suspended for three months or more, job losses are inevitable. At the same time, school closures and household isolation are moving the work of caring for children from the paid economy—nurseries, schools, babysitters—to the unpaid one. The coronavirus smashes up the bargain that so many dual-earner couples have made in the developed world: We can both work, because someone else is looking after our children. Instead, couples will have to decide which one of them takes the hit.

Many stories of arrogance are related to this pandemic. Among the most exasperating is the West’s failure to learn from history: the Ebola crisis in three African countries in 2014; Zika in 2015–6; and recent outbreaks of SARS, swine flu, and bird flu. Academics who studied these episodes found that they had deep, long-lasting effects on gender equality. “Everybody’s income was affected by the Ebola outbreak in West Africa,” Julia Smith, a health-policy researcher at Simon Fraser University, told The New York Times this month, but “men’s income returned to what they had made pre-outbreak faster than women’s income.” The distorting effects of an epidemic can last for years, Clare Wenham, an assistant professor of global-health policy at the London School of Economics, told me. “We also saw declining rates of childhood vaccination [during Ebola].” Later, when these children contracted preventable diseases, their mothers had to take time off work.

At an individual level, the choices of many couples over the next few months will make perfect economic sense. What do pandemic patients need? Looking after. What do self-isolating older people need? Looking after. What do children kept home from school need? Looking after. All this looking after—this unpaid caring labor—will fall more heavily on women, because of the existing structure of the workforce. “It’s not just about social norms of women performing care roles; it’s also about practicalities,” Wenham added. “Who is paid less? Who has the flexibility?”

According to the British government’s figures, 40 percent of employed women work part-time, compared with only 13 percent of men. In heterosexual relationships, women are more likely to be the lower earners, meaning their jobs are considered a lower priority when disruptions come along. And this particular disruption could last months, rather than weeks. Some women’s lifetime earnings will never recover. With the schools closed, many fathers will undoubtedly step up, but that won’t be universal.

Despite the mass entry of women into the workforce during the 20th century, the phenomenon of the “second shift” still exists. Across the world, women—including those with jobs—do more housework and have less leisure time than their male partners. Even memes about panic-buying acknowledge that household tasks such as food shopping are primarily shouldered by women. “I’m not afraid of COVID-19 but what is scary, is the lack of common sense people have,” reads one of the most popular tweets about the coronavirus crisis. “I’m scared for people who actually need to go to the store & feed their fams but Susan and Karen stocked up for 30 years.” The joke only works because “Susan” and “Karen”—stand-in names for suburban moms—are understood to be responsible for household management, rather than, say, Mike and Steve.

Look around and you can see couples already making tough decisions on how to divide up this extra unpaid labor. When I called Wenham, she was self-isolating with two small children; she and her husband were alternating between two-hour shifts of child care and paid work. That is one solution; for others, the division will run along older lines. Dual-income couples might suddenly find themselves living like their grandparents, one homemaker and one breadwinner. “My spouse is a physician in the emergency dept, and is actively treating #coronavirus patients. We just made the difficult decision for him to isolate & move into our garage apartment for the foreseeable future as he continues to treat patients,” wrote the Emory University epidemiologist Rachel Patzer, who has a three-week-old baby and two young children. “As I attempt to home school my kids (alone) with a new baby who screams if she isn’t held, I am worried about the health of my spouse and my family.”

Single parents face even harder decisions: While schools are closed, how do they juggle earning and caring? No one should be nostalgic for the “1950s ideal” of Dad returning to a freshly baked dinner and freshly washed children, when so many families were excluded from it, even then. And in Britain today, a quarter of families are headed by a single parent, more than 90 percent of whom are women. Closed schools make their life even harder.

Other lessons from the Ebola epidemic were just as stark—and similar, if perhaps smaller, effects will be seen during this crisis in the developed world. School closures affected girls’ life chances, because many dropped out of education. (A rise in teenage-pregnancy rates exacerbated this trend.) Domestic and sexual violence rose. And more women died in childbirth because resources were diverted elsewhere. “There’s a distortion of health systems, everything goes towards the outbreak,” said Wenham, who traveled to west Africa as a researcher during the Ebola crisis. “Things that aren’t priorities get canceled. That can have an effect on maternal mortality, or access to contraception.” The United States already has appalling statistics in this area compared with other rich countries, and black women there are twice as likely to die in childbirth as white women.

For Wenham, the most striking statistic from Sierra Leone, one of the countries worst affected by Ebola, was that from 2013 to 2016, during the outbreak, more women died of obstetric complications than the infectious disease itself. But these deaths, like the unnoticed caring labor on which the modern economy runs, attract less attention than the immediate problems generated by an epidemic. These deaths are taken for granted. In her book Invisible Women, Caroline Criado Perez notes that 29 million papers were published in more than 15,000 peer-reviewed titles around the time of the Zika and Ebola epidemics, but less than 1 percent explored the gendered impact of the outbreaks. Wenham has found no gender analysis of the coronavirus outbreak so far; she and two co-authors have stepped into the gap to research the issue.

The evidence we do have from the Ebola and Zika outbreaks should inform the current response. In both rich and poor countries, campaigners expect domestic-violence rates to rise during lockdown periods. Stress, alcohol consumption, and financial difficulties are all considered triggers for violence in the home, and the quarantine measures being imposed around the world will increase all three. The British charity Women’s Aid said in a statement that it was “concerned that social distancing and self-isolation will be used as a tool of coercive and controlling behaviour by perpetrators, and will shut down routes to safety and support.”

Researchers, including those I spoke with, are frustrated that findings like this have not made it through to policy makers, who still adopt a gender-neutral approach to pandemics. They also worry that opportunities to collect high-quality data which will be useful for the future are being missed. For example, we have little information on how viruses similar to the coronavirus affect pregnant women—hence the conflicting advice during the current crisis—or, according to Susannah Hares, a senior policy fellow at the Center for Global Development, sufficient data to build a model for when schools should reopen.

We shouldn’t make that mistake again. Grim as it is to imagine now, further epidemics are inevitable, and the temptation to argue that gender is a side issue, a distraction from the real crisis, must be resisted. What we do now will affect the lives of millions of women and girls in future outbreaks.

The coronavirus crisis will be global and long-lasting, economic as well as medical. However, it also offers an opportunity. This could be the first outbreak where gender and sex differences are recorded, and taken into account by researchers and policy makers. For too long, politicians have assumed that child care and elderly care can be “soaked up” by private citizens—mostly women—effectively providing a huge subsidy to the paid economy. This pandemic should remind us of the true scale of that distortion.

Wenham supports emergency child-care provision, economic security for small-business owners, and a financial stimulus paid directly to families. But she isn’t hopeful, because her experience suggests that governments are too short-termist and reactive. “Everything that's happened has been predicted, right?” she told me. “As a collective academic group, we knew there would be an outbreak that came out of China, that shows you how globalization spreads disease, that’s going to paralyze financial systems, and there was no pot of money ready to go, no governance plan … We knew all this, and they didn't listen. So why would they listen to something about women?”

Remember this article the next time a politician brings up the draft again...

because I remember the last reaction.

[myhauntedsalem]

Phelps Mansion

In Stratford Connecticut there is a haunted house by the name of Phelps Mansion. Eliakim Phelps, a Presbyterian Minister, lived in the house with his wife and children during the early 1900’s. Apparently, the Phelps were well known by the people of Stratford to be dabblers in spiritualism and the occult.

Locals say Reverend Phelps held a seance and inadvertently invited an evil spirit into their house. The Phelps family reported coming home one day to find all the doors of their house standing wide open. What they discovered inside was chaos. Someone had to ransacked the place, knocking over furniture, smashing dishes, scattering books, papers and clothing.

In one of the bedrooms, someone had spread a sheet over the bed and had placed one of Mrs. Phelps nightgowns on top of it. Stockings had then been placed at the bottom of it to suggest feet and the arms of the gown had been folded over the chest as though crossed in preparation for the funeral. The family was terrified.

Mr. Phelps stayed awake that night, armed with a pistol. He walked around the house, keeping guard. But when he walked into the kitchen in the dead of night, he got a terrible shock. The kitchen was full of mysterious figures lurking in the darkness.

When he turned on a light, he found that they were makeshift dummies. Someone had stuffed the family’s dresses and clothing with rags and arranged them around the room like dummies. And all while Mr. Phelps was keeping watch.

The Family began to experience poltergeist activity, unexplainable knockings, objects that moved around on their own, furniture being raised off of the floor and objects being launched from places until they broke. Activity became more frantic the following day as an umbrella jumped into the air and traveled nearly 25 feet, forks, spoons, knives, books, pens, and assorted small objects launched from places where no one had been standing. Pillows, sheets and blankets were pulled from beds and fluttered into the air.

The night hours were filled with rapping, knockings, voices, screams and bizarre sounds, while the daylight hours saw objects sailing about through the rooms. Silverware bent and twisted, windows broke, papers scattered and tables and chairs danced across the floor as if they had come to life. Determined to find the cause of the haunting, they investigated the history of the property. What they found made them shiver in fear. Centuries before, an old woman had been hung on that very spot for practicing witchcraft.

After that, the activity got worse. The Phelps children were tossed out of bed at night and sometimes were thrown up into the air and dropped on the floor. Mr. Phelps kept finding strange messages in weird scrawled handwriting telling the family to leave the house.

Finally, the Phelps family could take no more and moved out of their house, leaving it abandoned and empty.

In 1947, the mansion was converted into a hospital and the hauntings started back up again. For the twenty years that followed, hospital staff reported knocks, strange voices and doors opening and closing on their own.

By 1971, the mansion had been abandoned. One day, police saw a little girl inside the mansion and they chased her up to the third floor. Officers reported that after reaching the third floor, the girl vanished before their very eyes. Shortly afterwards, the mansion was torn down and it seemed like the haunting of Phelps House was over.

[pulpmusicalssongbracket]

Round 1 Matchups

The Stratford Family Paper Stand VS A Penny

Great Astronomical Discoveries, Pt 1 VS Is It True? / It's A Hoax!

Belief VS Is It True? (Reprise)

New Eden VS Nothing Can Stop the Sun

Before the Storm VS Its A Hoax! (Reprise) / Carry On

Great Astronomical Discoveries, Pt 3 VS President Chester Thomas

Benjamin's Apartment / The Radiance VS John's Choice

On The Roof VS To Be Continued...

Shadows VS Anna Hanover

Twelve Million Bricks VS Charles at the Flywheel

Through A Glass VS The Brick Satellite, Part 2

Babel VS Here

Penumbra VS Newton's Second Law

The Brick Satellite, Part 3 VS Twelve Million Bricks (Reprise)

Polaris (Reprise) VS The Traveler

A World of Our Own VS May This Monument Stand Forever

[rbvcdeluxe]

currently vibing to the stratford family paper stand

im doin it i’ll be listening pulp musicals. first note is that ive been listening planet earth 1835 for quite some time and i love it sm, so im jus relistening this one song YAAAY

[everlarkbirthdaygifts]

Happy Birthday, vmariainez!

Today, we wish a very Happy Birthday to @vmariainez! We hope you’re having a wonderful birthday, and celebrating in style. To kick the party up a notch, @ally147writes has written a story just for you!

AN: Happy birthday, @vmariainez! I opted to go with your prompt; Katniss learning she’s secretly royal. Unbeta’d, and kind of unfinished since 1) I think there’s a million places to take this particular prompt that I can’t cover in a single birthday drabble, and, 2) I’ve got uni work I need to get back to immediately, but I hope you enjoy it anyway :)

When the first letter comes, Katniss assumes it’s just a weird scam. Sure, the seal in the corner for the tiny, far-off nation of Panem looks official (to her untrained eye, at least), and the thick paper far nicer than average, run-of-the-mill printer paper. But the sheer insanity of the words has her snorting in her morning coffee and throwing the page in the smouldering remains of Peeta’s tiny brick oven fire.

When the second letter comes a week later, her temper flares. Do the scammers think she’s an idiot? An easy target? Why not go after someone like old Effie Trinket in the apartment downstairs? She’d fall for something like this hook, line, and sinker.

His Royal Highness has deceased… next in line… future Queen… please contact immediately…

Royalty. Christ, pick a better one. She might have been able to believe outstanding debt, or that a Nigerian prince desperately needs her help.

Assholes.

When the third, fourth, and fifth letters arrive, her rage reaches a pitch she’s never known before. Not even Peeta’s gentle touches and soft-spoken words can calm her.

 She paces the length of their small kitchen, five steps up and down, while Peeta leans back against their narrow sliver of bench space and reads the most recent missive with a mild frown. Schemes like this must be illegal, and the way they’re pelting her with letters like they’re Harry Potter’s Hogwarts invitations has got to be harassment. Which government department would you even report this sort of thing to, anyway?

 “They’re, uh… persistent,” Peeta says at last.

 Katniss halts in place and rolls her eyes. Is that all he’s got to say? “They’re liars.”

 Peeta shrugs. “Maybe. But even liars would get tired by now.” He sets the letter down on the bench and crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Do you think there could be even a shred of truth in what they’re saying?”

 Katniss shakes her head. “Why would I think that? There’s no… there’s no possible way. It’s a shitty hoax, Peeta. Nothing more.”

 He drums his fingers against the bench. “You know, I’ve researched Panem,” he says. “Just recent news and stuff. Their king did pass away last week.”

 “So? They’ve done their research. They’re competent scammers.”

 “The royal family’s name is Stratford, the same as your mother’s maiden name,” he presses. “And the photo of the king and queen they had on the website… they looked an awful lot like your mother.” His gaze shifts to the floor while his finger traces the edges of the seal in the letters’ corner, the silhouette of a bird mid-flight, an arrow grasped in its beak. “How much do you actually know about your mother’s life before she came to the States?”

 Katniss opens her mouth to reply, but the more she considers the question, the less she thinks she has an answer. Her mother met her father, emigrated, married, had two kids, did the whole Happily Ever After thing until it all came crumbling down. That was that. That was all Katniss needed to know.

 Wasn’t it?

 “Is it really impossible?” Peeta goes on, taking advantage of her silence. “You’ve told me before she came from Panem, that she was shunned by her family for marrying your father. I know how crazy it sounds, believe me, but could she have been royalty?”

 Katniss shakes her head. If her mother had been royalty — God, she’s about ready to laugh at the thought — then where the hell had her family been when she died? When her husband and youngest daughter died? Shouldn’t they have intervened then?

 But there was an older, stately-looking couple at the funeral. Standing off to the side, frowning but not crying, their hands plunged into the pockets of fur-lined coats that both looked to cost more than Katniss’ yearly salary. They disappeared without a word as soon as the ceremony was over. Katniss assumed they were the sort of people involved with the church who randomly rocked up to every funeral.

 And if they weren’t?

 Katniss’ heartbeat echoes in her ears like a frantic drumbeat. “Could you bring up a picture of the king and queen?” she asks weakly.

 Peeta darts off down the hall, beckoning for her to follow. His tablet sits on the arm of their lounge, and the news article he was talking about must have been the last page he visited, because it’s still there when he presses the home button, and so is a photo of the royal couple that has Katniss gasping.

 “That was them,” she whispers. The room is spinning around her. Peeta grips her arm and keeps her upright. “They were there, at Mum’s funeral. Those assholes just stood there and watched me bury her like they were watching a disappointing polo match. They didn’t say or do anything! Holy shit, Peeta.”

 “I guess shunning someone is pretty serious business when you’re royal,” he jokes without humour. He swallows, rubs at the back of his neck. “And you had no idea of what she was? She never dropped any hints? Nothing?”

 “Nothing,” she confirms. “I mean, she was always a little… I don’t know. I guess proper would be the right word? My dad called her princess, but God, I just thought it was a nickname.”

 She leans her head against Peeta’s shoulder and lets him wrap his arm around her. He drops a kiss to the top of her head and whispers there, “So, what do you think we should do?”

 “Maybe we should call this Plutarch guy? See what he has to say?” She stares at the name, signed with a flourish, at the bottom of the page until the letters blur. She’s lightheaded; does this make her a princess, too? No, she corrects herself as another wave of nausea crashes over her. The letter says she’s a Queen. That there is a throne and an entire country waiting for her. The more she considers the title in her mind, the more the mere idea of that sort of responsibility, that sort of publicity, makes her want to vomit.

 “Might be worth a try.” Peeta shrugs. “If nothing else, it’ll probably get the letters off your back.”

 “If it’s not a giant scam.”

 “Yeah.” But Peeta looks just as unconvinced, just as uncomfortable as she feels. “If it’s not a giant scam.” He kisses her again, and all she wants is to melt into him, let him comfort her the way only he’s ever been able to. “Want me to get the phone?”

 “No. I —” She cuts herself off with a huff, stands straighter and squares her shoulders. “I should get it. If I’m really a… queen or whatever, I should make decisions, right?”

 Peeta lets out a laugh. “And if I’m going to be your prince consort, I should probably get used to falling into line.”

 She darts out of his hold and makes a slow beeline for the kitchen. His warmth comes up against her back as she lifts the phone out of its cradle and keys in the numbers. With every press of the buttons, dread rises higher in her throat like bile. Each little beep carries her closer to a life she’s got no conception of, no idea if it’s something she could ever want. But either way, she thinks as the dial tone rings, she’s going to find out.