sheridancomputers

[thedummysdummy]

Missing You

The fading rays of sunshine painted the landscape in shades of orange and gold, with purple undertones filling the places where shadows crept in to start the darkness. Each reflective leaf and the sparkling ripples in the lake caught the remaining light and used it to signal good night to the heavens. A soft breeze left a cool kiss on the girl’s cheek as it rushed by on its trip to nowhere in particular. 

She looked out over the land from her vantage point high in the hotel, leaning over the balcony just a hair. The metal railing was cold under her elbow which held up her weight while she rested her chin in her palm. She looked up and saw the first few stars beginning to flicker to life, like flowers opening in the springtime. A few birds sang adieu to the sun with melancholy songs which joined chorus with the chirping crickets. 

It was all so lovely that she pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the scene. No sooner had she taken it than she opened Victor’s contact and sent it to him. “Wish you were here to stand over the countryside and watch the sunset with me.” 

“It’s quite nice, yes. Just stay focused on your work. We will be together again soon.” The reply came in seconds; a faint smile crossed her lips at the thought of him, phone in hand, waiting to hear from her. The tip of her finger caressed the curve of his cheek on her phone screen, wishing she felt his warmth rather than the cold glass. Perhaps he wasn’t busy, since he’d answered so quickly…

So she tapped ‘call’ and held the phone to her ear. It only rang once before the deep sound of Victor’s voice filled her ear. “A text message wasn’t enough, I see. Unsurprised. How has the trip gone so far? Was the shoot alright today? I saw that it was supposed to rain there today.” 

“Oh, come on. You can’t just admit that you miss me, too?” The girl puffed out her cheeks in annoyance and sat on the small balcony chair. “But we’ve been very successful so far. The locals have been friendly and helpful, so we’re a little bit ahead of schedule. If everything goes according to plan, I might actually get to come home as early as tomorrow afternoon. Or maybe I’ll just stay and do some sight-seeing if nobody is anxious to see me at home.” 

A faint chuckle followed her words, the sound full of fondness. “Well, if a certain dummy would rather sight-see than see me, that’s up to her. But I don’t see why she would ever doubt that I want to see her.” The accusatory tone in his voice sent a soft pang of guilt through her and caused a moment of silence. “Of course I miss you. Now stop staring out of the balcony and get some sleep. I expect you to work extra hard tomorrow so that you can finish early.” 

“You’ve got it, Boss. I’ll make sure we work as efficiently as possible so I can see you tomorrow!” She returned to her room and flopped on the bed, suddenly feeling quite weary. “Victor?” 

“Hm?”

“Can you just talk to me while I fall asleep? I will definitely sleep faster if I can hear your voice…” The girl curled up around her pillow, hugging it tightly. 

Victor grumbled good-naturedly. “I suppose so. What would you like me to talk about?”

“Just…tell me about your day, I guess? It doesn’t really matter what. I just…want to feel like you’re here with me, at least a little bit.” 

And so he obliged. He spoke of meetings, of deals and investments. He told her about difficult clients and Goldman’s latest exploits. The girl set the phone next to her on speaker, and Victor could hear her breathing as it slowly relaxed. When she hadn’t answered him in some time, Victor fell silent and simply listened to her breathe, eyes closed and his phone pressed firmly to his ear. “Good night, my little dummy. I will see you tomorrow.” 

~~~

She was a whirlwind. The crew could feel it, and those who knew her best knew the signs. Anna adjusted the camera and laughed as her boss ran across the set to check a light which had refused to turn on during the last take. Everyone was feeling the excitement of an early wrap, truth be told, but they couldn’t fall apart now. 

“Alright everyone, just two scenes left! Let’s get this take perfect so we can get lunch and get out of here, yes?” The girl stepped out of frame and stood behind the cameraman, fidgeting anxiously as she called the start. The actors sprung to life, delivering their lines and carefully-planned movements with exactness. It seemed her encouragement had sunk deep into the crew’s bones. The prospect of extra time to relax was, indeed, a good motivator. That and the large table of food they knew was waiting inside a nearby shop. 

The girl watched back the take and nodded to herself, until she looked closer and noticed that a support rope could be seen in the background. She scowled and pulled her radio from her hip. It crackled to life as she pressed the talk button. “Backstage crew, we have a support rope visible above the skyline, stage left.” As she spoke, she watched the offending rope until it was pulled away behind one of the building facades. “That’s better. Alright, reset the set for the beginning of the scene and we’ll take it from the top. Effects, I want a little more glow this time. And Alexander, a little more subtle with your delivery. We’re on camera, not the stage today.” 

Within moments, the scene was reset and the crew was ready for another take. The girl pulled a small bottle of water from the bin nearby and drained it as a bead of sweat ran down the back of her neck. The sun had reached its highest point in the sky and if they weren’t careful, the coming shadows would ruin the scene. “Okay, everyone. Let’s take it from the top! We need to get this outdoor scene filmed before the lighting is ruined.” The crew again took over, running the scene with earnest endeavor. 

Everyone waited with baited breath as the girl examined the take, grinning at the end. “Perfect!! Okay everyone, let’s get everyone over to the indoor set so we can shoot the final scene. Prop masters, double check everything while the actors get changed into their other costumes. Set, I want you to do a final walkthrough and make sure the posters aren’t coming loose again. Especially the one at the top of the stairs. And cameras, I want you to scan the whole set to make sure there’s nothing in the scene that we don’t want to be there.” 

The crew hopped to it, each person attending to their duties as efficiently as they could. Those who weren’t needed inside stayed outside to clean up, making sure everything was packed away so it wouldn’t have to be done later. The girl pulled out her phone and checked the time, nodding to herself. They were a few minutes behind her ideal time, but still far ahead of their projected time. As long as the final scene didn’t fall apart, she would definitely be able to catch a flight back to Loveland this evening. 

She opened her contacts and her finger stopped millimeters from Victor’s name as Anna called out her name from the entrance to the shop where they were filming. “We need more gaff tape from the van! Can you come hold the door open for me while I run out and get some?” The girl sighed, stuffed her phone in her pocket, and began running across the open courtyard toward her friend. “Slow down, Boss! You aren’t going to get home to that man of yours any faster if you trip over a cable and injure yourself. What would Victor say?” 

“He would say ‘Dummy, I’m not going to listen to you complain if you fall and injure yourself because you were rushing instead of being cautious’.” 

The deep, familiar voice caused the girl to stop dead in her tracks and whirl around with eyes wide. A tall and slender form emerged from around a corner and the girl let out a shrill squeal as she launched herself into his arms. “Victor!!” she cried, burying her face in his large, muscular chest. “What are you doing here?! How long have you been standing there?!” 

“A certain someone didn’t believe that I actually missed her, so obviously I had to prove it. I arrived about half way through the last scene.” Victor wrapped one arm around the girl and used the other to lift her chin. Staring deeply into her bright eyes, he dipped his head and roughly pressed his lips against hers, drinking in her breath as if he were dying of thirst. The crew members around them paused for a moment to wolf-whistle and laugh, but that only seemed to egg Victor on further. He wrapped his other arm around her bottom and lifted her up into his arms, cradling her as he kissed her even more deeply. 

When he finally broke away, both parties panted for a moment before Victor put her down and gestured toward the doorway. “I think Anna needed you.” His voice was as calm and flat as ever, despite the fire burning in his eyes. He gestured toward the door and leaned against a nearby tree, shading his eyes with one hand. “Go finish up your work and give me your hotel key. I’m going to drop off my things and come back to pick you up.” The girl pulled her key from her pocket and handed it to Victor, a quizzical look on her face. “What? I thought you wanted to do some sight-seeing when you were done with the shoot. And that you wished I could be here with you. It seems I have allowed both of your requests, so get back to work. I have no patience for dawdling.” 

“Only when you want something,” the girl teased, running her fingers through his hair and brushing his leg with her own as she turned to leave. Victor swallowed hard and watched her go, chuckling at Willow’s calls of ‘GET A ROOM, YOU TWO!’ from the doorway. He lingered for a long moment after she disappeared inside before taking a deep, steadying breath and returning to his rented car. 

Only when he wanted something, indeed.

[the-arctic-commune]

I’m sure plenty of people are talking about it, but we had to go over the different viewpoints for Teal Turkey’s Battle Box sweep, because wow, they got every win and every single kill, and they made it look easy.

And it’s not super surprising, really, there was no secret trick; it’s just that each of them knew where they would be best, they knew it from round one, and they responded to each other’s call-outs to avoid getting surprised.

The map for this game was an odd one. It was sort of diagonal; to their left, each team had a water tower which they could rush up to find a harming potion and a nice spot to snipe from. The sides had low corridors and staircases which provided slower access, and the wool was on a tall, open, and relatively inaccessible platform at the center.

Philza was their wool rusher (and if Philza Minecraft is your wool guy, you’ve got a pretty good team, I must say). He took the jump boost pot, which was necessary for the odd setup on this map, where the wool was on a high platform, accessible only from a few points if you didn’t have jump boost. He initially tried to get onto the platform quickly and guard it, but realized that that left him an open target. Instead, he frequently waited for the other team’s wool rusher and then jumped up from below to hit them, taking advantage of the low ground and the platform’s cover to avoid getting hit in turn.

Tommy was more or less a distraction; he rushed the obvious route and he got control of the harming pot meant for his team (and sometimes the other team’s, if they left it, which is incredibly bad tactics; those things do massive damage, and even if you aren’t confident using it, you need to pick it up so your enemy can’t). He was good with the pot; multiple times he got an excellent combo, throwing the harming pot with deadly accuracy before rushing in to get a crit. (I’m suspecting this is a skywars skill; I don’t think he’s done much plain pot pvp, but skywars gives you lots of splash potions, which are very important if you use them wisely.) He kept attention on himself and off of Sneegsnag and Sapnap, letting them do their jobs more efficiently.

Sapnap was extremely impressive (and damn, I’ve never really watched him, but he is, indeed, good; his tracking and his spatial awareness are phenomenal). He had a very particular tactic: he rushed the side opposite his team’s designated vantage point, ducking under the cover of the overhang then using his smooth, confident parkour to get over some bush-like objects and behind the enemy’s lines. This put him in position to either veer center and take out someone who thought they could stay back and snipe, or go up the enemy’s water tower and just sort of appear behind them, ambushing them while they were focused on Tommy. (Side note, I think this tactic was actually part of his team’s abysmal performance in All Stars. On the All Stars map, the side corridor wasn’t good cover, it was a wide-open shooting gallery that left him vulnerable to snipers and far away from the wool, and he struggled to find anyone to fight when he attempted a similar tactic. But it worked wonders on this map.)

While all this was going on, Sneegsnag took the extra arrows and stayed right where he started, shooting down anyone who showed their face in his sight lines. He also used this vantage point to give his team call outs, helping prevent them from getting surprised or rushed. He quickly realized he could use the predictability of the enemy’s rush to their water tower to get a hit in at the start of the round, and he handily kept the enemy teams pinned down, preventing them from going anywhere until Tommy and Sapnap were on them. Even if he didn’t get a kill, every shot was a chance for one of his teammates to go into combat with a health advantage. He was also able to use his position to support Philza at the center, and I want to commend his steady nerves, because I don’t know how many people could stay on that balcony and trust their shooting to get the enemy off the wool instead of attempting the long and tricky parkour around to the wool platform, which could easily have been disastrous.

Overall, each of them had a role; they chose the right equipment for their role, they played that role well, and they did so from round one without needing to settle and figure out the map. Phil kept center safe, Tommy intercepted rushers and kept them off Sneeg, Sneeg provided callouts and covering fire, and Sapnap rushed and took out enemy snipers from behind. A fantastic team, and even if them rolling Battle Box was kind of expected, it was a wonder to watch.

[jwritesandrambles]

“Supposed to Be”

Hi there! Yeah I still barely use tumblr but hey lookit I did the wrote thing down!!!!

I would like to give a bit thank you to @schweeeppess and @dragonsworn05 for editing my messy dyslexic rambles. @noroomforcream and @just-a-little-in-over-my-head  did some really cool art for this! 

(if I missed tagging someone, it’s not personal I appreciate you so much, I’m just posting in a rush mwauh)

Jason was back in Gotham. For the second time since he died, actually.

The last time hadn’t gone well. Technically, it had gone according to plan--for the most part--but Jason was still shambling together the broken pieces of his mind. Back then in December, all that was left of Jason were the shards of hurt and anger. He had been living for nothing but the idea of someone else’s death. Coming back to the real world, away from the sheltered and hidden places of the League of Shadows and the All-Caste, seemed to bring a bit of him back. Seeing Bruce, talking to him…everything that went down, and the reminder that he cared about him--loved him, even--it woke something up in Jason. Something that he thought had died along with him and never came back. 

He had spent a year by himself, taking any mercenary jobs he could get, trying to find something other than the all consuming anger that had fuelled him for the past few years, but his travels didn’t matter now, as he stood in a back alley of Gotham, the protective red helmet tucked under his arm. He wished his replacement, Tim Drake, hadn’t chosen this particular alley to meet up in. 

The balcony and rickety old fire escape were unforgettable to Jason. It was where he had met the Bat, after trying to jack the tires off one of those many damn expensive cars that Bruce had. Not only where it began, but where he once thought it would end. It was only a year ago he had stood, gun trained on Bruce, the man he had, for a time, called father. His voice shook and tears rolled down his cheeks, “it would be so easy to kill you.”

Jason was ripped from his reminiscing as a soft thud signaled that Red Robin had landed behind him. Jason flinched more than he’d like to admit, but fought the urge to draw his weapon. Quick reflexes was a nice way of saying jumpy. 

“Hood,” The teen greeted. 

“Replacement,” Jason said with a nod, echoing Tim’s tone back at him, relaxing. 

“Weren’t you a replacement too?” Tim pointed out, seeming to take no offence. 

Jason shrugged, “True. I’m not denying it. Just as long as you know that’s probably what B expects. Another Grayson,” he mumbled. 

Sure, he was less angry than before, but that didn’t mean Jason wasn’t a bitter son of a bitch. 

Tim bit the inside of his lip, an awkward and slightly uncomfortable look on the visible part of his face. It flickered away and was replaced with a more professional, neutral expression as he cleared his throat. 

“Yes... well... We’re here for a job so let’s focus. You got all the information B sent you?” He was honestly trying his best, but he was hesitant about this mission. Could anyone blame him? Jason Todd had proven himself to be... volatile. The memories of Jason’s violence were all too fresh in Tim’s mind. 

“Yeah, I got it. I read the file over,” he mumbled. He puffed out a weak breath, “Scarecrow set up a chemical mixing shop by the docks, at least one shipment has come in, but we can expect more, right? Anything I missed?” Jason asked, rummaging through his coat pockets. 

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He had been trying to quit, but he didn’t want to be getting distracted with cravings while trying to focus on the mission. 

Tim watched him quietly as he lit off, smelling the tobacco from up on his perch. 

“Um... yes, that’s all,”  the teen dragged his teeth along the edge of his lip. The skin felt slightly raw and sore from his empty minded nibbling. 

Jason started walking off down the alley, leaving a slight trail of lingering smoke in damp air. Tim followed. 

“So,” Jason pulled the cigarette from his lips, careful not to let his helmet slip from under his arm. He held it between his first and second fingers, “Uh.. Why’d you have us meet here instead of anywhere closer to the docks?” He asked, trying to break the awkwardly growing silence.

“Scarecrow has patrols circulating around the docks. We’re less likely to be spotted if we’re not waiting around there to meet up,” Tim explains with a little shrug.

Jason hummed a brief note of understanding, “Oh yeah, that makes sense. I’m, uh, I haven’t worked with anyone in... years,” Jason paused, taking another drag from the smouldering cigarette, “Y’know, really nothing team oriented since working with B. Even then I was a shitty teammate,” he laughed hollowly.

Tim nodded, thinking about what Jason’d just said. Had it really been that long? Maybe… maybe the fact that Jason was even admitting to being a bad teammate didn’t bode well. It could mean trouble for them later. If it was so obvious that even Jason could admit it, perhaps Tim shouldn’t have done this team-up. 

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Tim ran to catch up to Jason quickly, “Wait... how old are you?” He asked upon reaching him. 

“I’m t- uh... hold on, well... how long was I gone?” He asked Tim in return. 

“You were thought to be dead for five years,” Tim told him, in a tone like he was reciting a Wikipedia page written about the formally deceased, wayward Wayne boy. Now that Jason thought of it, he was certain Bruce had a file written up on him now. Bruce had written up for every major criminal in Gotham city. 

Jason let out a low whistle and soft huff, “I must be… twenty one now? Weird.”

“So... you didn't know how old you were till now?” Tim raised a brow, causing the mask to shift.

“Yeaahh,” Jason drew the word out sarcastically, pretending to took him deep thought to reconcile. “Somethin’ about the severe head trauma, dying, comin’ back, and being isolated from the normal world for years, all while being a wreck the whole time seems to have made my memory a lil’ fuzzy,” Jason said with a wry, sarcastic smile.

Tim seethed silently, letting out a series of apologetic mumbles, eyes dropping to ground ahead of him- it was a tactless and rude thing to ask, and Tim should’ve known that! 

Jason laughed weakly, hand quickly coming up towards him and... ruffled Tim’s hair? The boy hadn’t even had a chance to recoil. He was just confused; that was the last thing he’d expect from Jason.

The man stubbed out his cigarette and lumbered on ahead of Tim, dropping it in the trash, “Don’t worry about it, kid. I was just being a bitch, you’re fine.”

Tim opened and closed his mouth, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. A man who tried to kill him only a year ago had just ruffled his hair?! He decided not to comment on it, because-- after all--what the hell could he even say?

Tim cleared his throat again, “We should get into position, we’re almost there. Maybe get your, uh, helmet-thingy on?” He suggested. 

Jason glanced at the helmet- he’d almost forgotten he had it tucked under his arm. 

“Yeah, of course,” Jason said, lifting his helmet and plunking it on his head, “good reminder, Timbers.” His voice became modulated the second the helmet covered his head. His low, gravely, smokers growl of a voice, was nowhere near and deep and gravely as Bruce’s--but sounded like it took a step closer with every box of cigarettes--became a pitch lower still. An odd robotic twang edged his words, giving him a metallic, cyber sound.

Tim adjusted his own mask, making sure it was firmly in place before nodding to Jason. The two silently started up again, approaching a warehouse that was supposed to be locked until the next morning’s shipment. “Supposed to be” being the operative words. Instead, there was muted huffing and shuffling as two of Scarecrow’s workers uncomfortably hauled a large crate into the building.

Both Jason and Tim seemed to shrink into the shadows at the same instant; each becoming one with the wall. Jason drew his weapon quietly, earning a disapproving frown from Tim. “I’m not gonna kill them. Chill,” Jason whispered in that odd robotic voice. 

Tim seemed satisfied enough to quit pouting at Jason. They crept closer, making little dashes between hiding spots when the coast was clear.

Jason let out a breath of curse as his eyes fell about the giant, glass, canister. It was filled with a bubbling, sickly, arsenic green substance.

“No way, that shit is all fear toxin? Fuck! He’s got enough to blast the entire downtown!” His voice came through in a synthesized hiss.

“Worse.” Tim whispered, spying the large pressurizer on top of the glass container. “That’s just the liquid form. When he releases it, it’ll be gaseous. If it’s released from the container from a high vantage point, a small breeze could cover the entire city in minutes.”

The severity of the situation washed over what little of Tim’s features were visible from beneath the mask. 

This wasn’t just a quick little in and out operation anymore. One wrong move and there could have a small, yet very messy, catastrophic outcome.

Tim had to plan this carefully, because there was no way they could afford to mess this up.

He turned to Jason...or, rather, where Jason had just been seconds before. 

Jason had evidently had a similar train of thought to Tim’s. He’d realized this was a serious situation, though, instead of drawing the conclusion to re-evaluate, re-plan, and carry on with caution, or something sensible-- he seemingly forgot any sense of subtlety he had. Oh, God forbid carefully thinking his actions out, like any sane rational person would do. Or calling for backup, like anyone with a vague semblance of self-preservation.  No no, instead, Jason had decided it was best to act now and not waste a second with plans or any ideas of safety. He jumped into action.

Jason was already leaping over the crate the two vigilantes had been hiding behind seconds ago, as Tim let out a quiet imploring hiss of “Wait--oh no-”“ but it was too late.

Jason already had his gun drawn. 

“Scarecrow!” he yelled, “this ends now!” He fired at the box the two workers were carrying, sending it out of their hands and clattering to the floor. A series of shattering followed the initial crash as the contents shattered. Whatever chemicals that had been inside hissed loudly, a faint smoke rising from between the boards of the wooden box.

“Hood!?” The Scarecrow rounded to face who he knew as the ex-criminal, ‘The Red Hood.’

“In the flesh.” Jason kept his gun trained on Scarecrow, while a third worker who had been off to the side started to shuffle his way towards him.

“Thought you moved your little operation away from Gotham when the Bats got the better of you,” Scarecrow commented, not seeming pleased about the interruption at all. 

Scarecrow’s worker lunged at Jason. Tim kicked himself mentally and left hiding, kicking the worker --physically, not mentally this time-- back away from Jason. The third worker scuttled back, apparently deciding this altercation was above his pay grade.

Jason felt something he hadn’t really felt in a long time; it was a feeling akin to camaraderie. He had someone watching his back for once. If the circumstances hadn’t been so dire, he might have even cracked a smile. Or, rather, he might have felt a slight tug at the corner of his lips, at least.

“Well, yeah, the bats did get the best of me. Now I’m tryna give them my best. And that involves bootin’ your sorry ass out of here.”

“Quick witted, aren’t you?” Scarecrow tensed slightly. His eyes darted away from behind his mask for a moment. He was glancing to the side. Tim followed his gaze over to the-

Shit! The canister! If the bullet missed Scarecrow it would-

Tim knew what scarecrow was thinking, but it was too late.

“NO!” Tim shouted, helplessly watching as Scarecrow dove.

As expected, Jason pulled the trigger reflexively, but the Scarecrow had already ducked. The bullet made a resounding bang as it fired, hitting the large gas canister. 

Tim seized up, every nerve buzzing, every muscle tensed, every fibre of his being filled with an awful sinking sensation. The room was deadly-still. It was like something written by the hand of a fool-hardy novelist, who was paid far too much for over-the-top paperbacks; The bullet had embedded itself in the glass, acting like a stopper. A sickening series of cracks emanated from the canisters, as a thin spidery web formed across the glass. All tendrils originating from where the bullet hit.

Jason let out a low whistle, “Well. That coulda been disastrous.”

Tim couldn’t help but feel relieved, a stressed laugh escaping his lips. 

Scarecrow was scampering away, his workers already having pulled a quick disappearing act themselves, because, this wasn’t what he’d planned. 

“Don’t even think about it, Crane,” Jason said as he turned, taking a heavy step.

Said heavy step was apparently too much. The glass gave a shuttering groan, followed by a small hiss as gas began to leak.

Tim made an involuntary distressed sound. Something akin to an exhausted sigh mixed with a whimper. 

The one word that ever so eloquently graced Jason’s lips was, “Fuck.”

And the canister...

Burst.

The pressure placed on the glass had built up and could no longer hold.

Jason’s final step had been the breaking point, the spider work of cracks along the glass giving way with a great shatter.

Shards of the canister flung themselves across the room. The liquid that had been held within instantly began vaporizing into a thick, sickening gas. To anyone that had the misfortune of inhaling it, it felt as though the gas was trying --with every atom of its existence-- to choke the life out of its victim. It reached into their lungs, clawed at their insides, grabbing at their desperately beating hearts, and squeezed. It forced their brain to fill their body with adrenaline and hallucinogens. Tim knew this. 

He’d studied the Scarecrow’s fear toxin many times. He’d been exposed to it before, too. Tim knew this fear and knew he was helpless to do anything about it.

Tim was helpless to stop this. He had failed. He’d failed Bruce. He’d failed this mission. Because he was weak. He was weak, helpless, hopeless, a failure, a burden, unwanted. He was nothing more than a replaceable replacement. No one would care if he was gone, God, it’s not like anyone would ever notice! He was a forgettable nothing. Tim coughed and wheezed. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe!

Tim staggered. He tripped over his feet trying to get away from the intense fear that gripped his throat. Tim realized something physical was gripping his neck. The thing dragged him back roughly, towards what he could only assume was something horrid. Tim clawed at the thing gripping his throat. As he gasped for shuddering breath, he couldn’t help but begin to sob. He was going to die. He would die and no one would care. No one would even try to find him when he didn’t come home, they wouldn’t even notice because he was worthless, replaceable, weak, failure, helpless!

A new level of fear washed over Tim as he felt something cover his face, it encased his head. Tim could feel it squeeze his skull, he swore the pressure felt tight enough to crush his cranium like a tin can. It was claustrophobic. He felt his own shallow breath bounce back against his lips, because it had nowhere else to go. He was trapped and suffocating.

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t BREATHE! OH--oh, oh no... no? Wait a moment... he COULD breathe.

Tim took a moment to try to get his bearings. He needed to remember how his lungs worked. He awkwardly sucked in a breath of filtered, recycled air. It tasted tinny on his tongue. Tim blinked the tears from his eyes. They rolled down his cheeks, and he became aware of the taste of salt too. There was the faint scent of stale tobacco and smoke. His mind was reeling as he processed each detail. He dragged tongue over his lips nervously, and began to chew at his bottom lip. Tim’s heart was still pounding and his hands were shaking. He raised his hands to feel his head, glancing at his twitching fingers as they passed in front of his face, confusedly. Everything had a red tinge to it. He pressed his hands to his head, feeling a hard smooth surface.

Tim’s brain felt slow and groggy, taking a moment to clue into what was on his head. Was it Jason’s helmet? Yes, yes it was Jason’s helmet, that was certain, but where was Jason? 

The thick gas still hung in a green fog, but the helmet seemed to be filtering the worst of it out. Tim swept his arm though the air, watching the gas clear slightly, before swooping in to fill the gaps. Tim knew he needed to thin this stuff out if he wanted to have any hope in finding Jason before tripping over him. He rushed through the room, feeling his way over to the door. Scarecrow’s men had closed it, containing them --and more importantly the gas--  inside. Small mercy the fear toxin wasn’t being released on the city though. 

Tim dragged his fingers along the wall. His senses were so heightened that it was almost overstimulating. It was likely due to the toxin, Tim guessed. He could still feel the rough brick as he scraped along, even through the tips of his gloves. It was oddly reassuring. A steady constant he could focus on until -thunk-  His hand bumped into a smooth metallic protrusion from the wall. Exactly what Tim had been looking for. 

“Bingo.”

Tim swept his other arm through the air again, doing his best to fan the gass away for him to get a bit of a better view of what he was hoping to see. A metal switch box, old and slightly rusted around the edges. Tim had been counting on any wearhouse by the docks having a ventilation system to keep the products safe from humidity. Of course, he was right. With some difficulty, Tim wrenched the switch box open. After straining to read faded, dusty labels through the gas in the air, he flipped what he hoped was the right switch.

There was a small whine of aching metal that hadn’t moved in a long time and Tim cracked into a grin underneath the helmet. 

He’d done it!

The fans kicked into a regular pace. The smooth ‘whoomp whoomp whoomp’ of turning blades filled Tim with a sense of muted triumph. The foggy haze of fear gas began to thin as the building began to filter it out, mixing it with the humid air. Tim figured it would be condensed and drip out to puddle with the dirty water in the alley behind the warehouse. If Tim was right, which he usually was, it wouldn’t harm anyone unless they decided to drink from the puddle water. Which was unlikely, but not impossible. It was Gotham after all.

Tim looked around the room as the gas dissipated. His gaze found its way to a shaking heap on the floor next to the shattered remains of the canister he had been standing before. The proud grin faded from Tim’s lips. 

That... that wasn’t a good sign at all.

“Hey, um, hood? Red hood, status?” He asked, the words felt strange as they left his mouth. Hearing his own modulated voice echo slightly in the room felt vaguely surreal. 

The heap of muscle and leather known as Jason didn’t reply. 

Seeing Jason’s twitching body on the floor emptied a hollow pit in Tim’s stomach. Jason had never seemed like he was even capable of fear. Capable of rage, capable of hurt, and capable of pain, sure, but fear seemed like something Tim would’ve assumed Jason was beyond. Something so... innate, that the unnatural nature of Jason’s second life would’ve swept it away. 

Tim made his way over, hesitantly rolling the helmet forward off his head. The fear toxin seemed to be thin enough now that it wasn’t harming him.  

“Ja-er, Jason?” Tim’s soft voice seemed thunderously loud in the quiet room. The only other sounds around were the fans quietly whirring away and, far more disturbingly in his opinion, the even quieter shaking breaths and distressed whimpering tumbling from Jason’s lips. 

Jason was not in good shape. He was shaking violently, hands over his head. His whimpers were punctuated by violent spasms that racked his body every few seconds, accompanied with a louder more pronounced cry. 

Tim felt the colour drain from his face. He quickly kneeled down, setting the helmet on the concrete floor next to them both with a slight clink. Tim grabbed Jason’s arm, trying to turn him on to his back. Jason heftily flailed the arm Tim pulled, unintentionally hitting Tim in the face. Tim yelped in surprise as a sharp pain sprung from his nose, warm liquid leaking down his face. The blood pouring down his face didn’t deter Tim much, the blood coursing through him  seeming to do the opposite for pain as it did the rest of his senses. The pain was slightly numbed--or, rather, it had become easy to ignore. He fought to wrangle both of Jason’s arms, quickly scrambling to sit on Jason’s torso, struggling to pin Jason’s arms down with his legs. 

Tim took off his mask. He knew it was against protocol, but an un-obscured face was easier to recognize when the toxin took hold, in Tim’s experience. 

“Jason? Jason, look at me. Can you hear me?” he asked quickly, holding on to Jason’s shoulders. He desperately hoped Jason wouldn’t throw him off. Jason’s eyes were unfocused, spinning around wildly all over the room. 

Tim tried to process Jason’s words, “No, not again, ple--I can’t I--it hurts! Fuck! It hurts,” Jason’s words became incomprehensible for a moment, then his fists clenched tightly. “I don’t want to die! Not again. Not again not again not again! He’s gotta come save me, take me home, he’s gotta! Shit, not again!“ he choked and broke off with a shout and another full body jerk. 

Tim was jostled but didn’t fall off, by some miracle. “Jason!” he tried. “Listen to me!” Tim put his hands on either of Jason’s face. Jason flinched away from Tim’s touch with a sob of “It hurts, it hurts, I can hear all my bones snapping, I’m dying, it’s crushing me, I can’t--I can’t--”

“I know,” Tim cut him off gently, “I know it hurts and--and you’re scared, but you’re not alone, I’m right here. I’m going to help you,” Tim tried to catch Jason’s focus. 

Jason’s roaming eyes stopped dodging around the room, and turned towards Tim. He kept looking from Tim’s shoulders, Tim’s chest, back up to his face and then to his eyes and back to his chest again. Perhaps not the ideal image of calming down but it was a first step. 

“Good,” Tim praised softly in relief. He ran his thumbs over Jason’s cheeks gently. Now more so than ever did Tim take notice of the scars on either side of Jason’s face. On Jason’s left cheek, there was a jagged line that traced from his cheek bone down to his jaw. A similar yet smaller one was mirrored on Jason’s right. Tim could understand why Jason flinched from him. He shook the thought from his mind, “See? We’re okay. Just try to breathe, in and out. You can do that, right, Jason?”

“No! No! I c-can’t, I’m crushed, I can’t. My--my lungs, they’re all full of blood, and mud, and dirt, and fuckin’ I dunno what!” Another violent thrash went through Jason’s body, almost toppling Tim off this time. “I can’t breathe, it hurts! I want it to stop hurting! How do I make it stop!?” 

“Uah--yeah, I know it hurts, but I promise nothing is crushing you. It’s just me, I’m light, and I’m here and I--I know it hurts I’m going to try to make it stop but I need to--” Jason thrashed, but Tim didn’t relinquish his hold on him, “--but I NEED you to stay still!”

Jason’s eyes finally locked on to Tim’s, “M-make it s-stop?” he echoed back to the smaller vigilante.

“Yeah, yeah I’m going to try to make it stop.” Tim slowly pulled his hands away from Jason, sitting back slightly, starting to fish through the many pockets and pouches attached to the strap around his waist.  

He almost always had the antidote on hand. Bruce had trained him and prepared him meticulously, making certain that Tim would be ready with everything they had at all costs. The only issue was it was enough antidote for him; almost seventeen, about a head shorter and ninety pounds lighter--nowhere near enough antitoxin for the two hundred and forty pounds of murder that was the shaking mass of Jason Todd slumped before him.

Jason dropped his head back against the concrete floor, beginning to mutter once again. 

“My fault. All my fault. I can’t--all dead.”

“No one is dead, Jason, everyone is okay,” Tim said, soon after feeling a small surge of triumph as he located his field fear toxin antidote kit. He opened it, quickly pulling out a small vial, and a syringe.

Jason’s eyes snapped to the syringe in Tim’s hand as he filled with antidote. Jason grew quiet for a second before starting to try to fight Tim off of him, “No, no no no no no no! Don’t go! don’t go! Not again, I can’t be alone, can’t be asleep he’s gonna kill us. Dad said he’ll get rid’f his mistakes!” 

Tim knew Bruce wouldn’t have ever threatened Jason like that. He could only assume Jason meant his biological father. 

“Said he would--don’t, don’t! It’s crushing me I can’t be alone!” Jason couldn’t keep hold of his own fears. They ran together, all mixed in to become some dread filled nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. 

Tim was lucky Jason was so sloppy in this state. If he’d had a bit more of his wits about him, Tim figured Jason would’ve easily shaken him off already.

“You aren’t alone!” Tim reminded Jason, struggling to inject Jason without hurting him. “This is going to make it stop, I promise!” Well, that wasn’t fully true. But the dose would reduce it. 

When Jason wouldn’t hold still enough for him to properly gauge where the vein he needed was, Tim unceremoniously jabbed at where he hoped it was instead. 

Jason shouted, thrashing around like a heavy shark in a net being lifted out of water.

Tim pulled the empty syringe away quickly, letting Jason throw him off. He stumbled and crashed back down, landing on the concrete floor a few feet away. Tim only now realized how heavy his breath was as he watched Jason writhe freely on the floor before him. As Tim caught his breath, Jason’s movements gradually began to slow. The mutterings of fear faded into soft whimpers, then into deep breaths like Tim’s. Tim bit at his lip again. “Jason?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.

Jason groaned in response. He took a moment to collect himself as he grew conscious of reality again. Really, reality was a shit hole too, but it was a better shit hole. He shifted slightly, cussing under his breath. 

Tim felt an invisible weight lift from his shoulders; swearing like a sailor was promising in Jason’s case. 

He quickly scooted across the floor to him. 

“Hey,” Tim said in a hushed voice. “Jason? How you feeling?”

Jason--with what felt like the struggle of Sisyphus rolling his boulder for the millionth time--rolled over to face him. The white shock of hair stuck to Jason’s forehead with panic induced sweat. He puffed out a lungful of air in a feeble attempt to blow the hair from his face. Jason swiftly gave up on that and swallowed heavily.

 “I-I... yeah, yeah, I uh... I--okay. I’m feeling okay,” Jason rambled, looking dazed. He took up scanning the room again, hyper-vigilant to any danger.

Tim nodded slowly. He grabbed a water bottle that was shoved in one of his many pouches. He helped Jason sit up, just enough so he could sip at the water, and forced the bottle into Jason’s hands. 

“Drink,” Tim ordered, quietly. 

Jason’s hands still shook lightly, causing him to fumble with the cap in his hands. 

Now that the danger had passed, Tim finally had time to process what had happened; he often found himself acting and only having time to absorb the details afterwards. Details like that Jason had traded his safety and immunity for Tim’s. 

Why did Jason do that?

“Not... that I’m ungrateful,” Tim began hesitantly, “but that was a stupid thing to do, just… now- today,” he stumbled out awkwardly.

“I know,” gasped Jason after a long chug of water, a weak smile on his lips. 

“I mean--it’s like in those before flight messages on planes. Put your mask on before the baby’s or whatever,” Tim joked slightly. Tim’s nose wrinkled slightly, cringing just the tiniest bit as he realized he implied he was the baby in this situation, “Well, you know what I’m getting at…”

Jason seemed to only take even more amusement out of the teen’s regret. Tim never thought he’d see the day where he felt tension draining at the sigh of Jason Todd, a man that tried to kill him and about eighty other people, smiling. 

Jason laughed weakly, though it came out a little haltingly, as the shivering shakes hadn’t yet subsided. “Yeah, well, I d-did have my mask on. I just... gave it to the k-kid before the plane went down,” he mused. He didn’t really believe in his own point, and shook his head. 

“No, no you’re right. It was stupid and I know that.”

They fell into a slightly awkward silence for a second, the burning question still gnawing at Tim’s mind.

“Why?” Tim said, abruptly. “Er, why did you do that? If you knew it was stupid?”

Jason didn’t answer for a long moment. Instead stalling by taking another swig of water. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before answering.

 “I don’t know,” Jason admitted, with a little smile. 

Jason was breathing heavily, but seemed more focused, “I didn’t... really think. Maybe I was just makin’ up for other stuff I f-fucked up or... dunno. I guess I j-just... I knew if one of us was gonna be safe, it had to be y-ou.”

Jason swore he could practically see the little loading sign twirl in Tim’s nerd-brain as the teen processed what he’d said. The mental loading bar filled, and Jason’s words seemed to click. Tim’s eyes dropped away, and he smiled a little shyly. Not an awkward or uncomfortable smile. Just complimented.

“Thanks,” Tim’s voice was just above a whisper, “ that was... really nice of you.” 

“It’s okay, don’t men-ention it. Like literally ever. It’ll ruin my rep,” Jason cracked a teasing smirk once again and Tim got to his feet laughing lightly.

“Annnnddd he’s back to normal,” Tim chuckled and offered Jason a hand. Tim yanked him, not without obvious difficulty, up to stand tall. Jason leaned on him for a moment before straightening, keeping a hand on Tim’s shoulder to steady himself. Tim quickly bent down and scooped up their masks from the floor where he’d set them down.

“Let’s get you home,” Tim hummed, putting Jason’s arm around his shoulders again when he stood.

“Hey, I’m fin-ne, you don’t have to take me back,” Jason argued, but Tim was already starting to lead him away.

“Too bad, I decided I am.”

“Rep-placement Robin number whatever you are--I am fine!”

“Sure you are, that’s why you can’t stand up right by yourself?”

“Shut up!”

“I speak only truth.”

The two bickered all the way back through away from the docks. All the way back through the city. All the way until they reached Jason’s apartment complex. Then they bickered some more. Though neither knew it yet, what had begun forming was the beginning of a close bond. One that nothing would be able to break.

[mikauzoran]

Ladrien: Crash Course in Empathy - Rough Draft Version (One-Shot)

This is the rough draft version of Crash Course in Empathy for the Miraculous Fanworks Discord server’s Sprintember 2021 writing event.

You can find the final draft version here on my AO3. ^.^

As she crouched on the lip of the roof of the Agreste Mansion, Ladybug began to worry that she was becoming a bit of a creepy stalker.

In her defence, her patrol route just happened to go past Adrien’s house because it was so close to the Eiffel Tower, and it made sense to include major Parisian landmarks on her runs.

It also just so happened that that night in particular she got distracted by a hauntingly beautiful melody carried on the early spring breeze.

It wasn’t a crime to appreciate art…but she had the sneaking suspicion that Gabriel Agreste would take issue with a superhero camping out on his rooftop to listen to his son practicing piano.

A pigeon who had been perched contentedly on the parapet of the building beside her suddenly took off with a flurry of wings and a disgruntled coo, startling Ladybug and throwing her off balance.

With a yowl that sounded embarrassingly like a maimed cat, she went flailing off the precipice, only catching herself with her yoyo when she was less than three meters from the Agreste’s garden balcony.

Unfortunately, this sent her swinging into the wall of windows of Adrien’s bedroom.

She would have crashed unceremoniously into them like the proverbial bug on a windshield if not for the fact that the pane she collided with was unlocked.

It opened inward, and, still yowling, Ladybug tumbled gracelessly into her crush’s bedroom.

The lovely melody came to a jarring end in a dissonant jumble of notes.

“Ladybug?”

Adrien gaped at her, wide-eyed, incredulous.

“Are you…okay?”

Ladybug opened her mouth to stutter some kind of plausible explanation for how she wasn’t a complete mess and was incredibly competent and qualified to be a superhero, but she was interrupted by a knock at the bedroom door.

“Adrien?” Nathalie called from the other side. “Is everything all right?”

In a panic, Adrien held up a finger to his lips, entreating Ladybug’s silence.

“Yes, Nathalie!” he responded in a calm, collected tone that belied his harried state. “I was just startled because a bird crashed into my window. Everything’s fine.”

Nathalie seemed to take Adrien at his word because there was no further reply.

Adrien went back to his piano practice, playing a little louder than before as he whispered, “Are you okay, Ladybug? That looked like quite the landing.”

Ladybug sprang to her feet and waved away his concern, overcompensating with a painfully large grin.

“What? That?” She laughed confidently as quietly as she could, trying to sell it. “That was nothing. Just took a little spill off the roof. I’ve fallen off of the Montparnasse Tower before and walked it off, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

Unlike Adrien, Ladybug was not a very good actor.

But Adrien politely did not call attention to this fact.

Instead, he nodded, pretending that he believed her.

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay, at least. …May I ask what you were doing up on the roof, though? The Eiffel Tower a few blocks from here is a lot better if you want a good vantage point.”

She paled, briefly considered pulling a whopping lie out of thin air, remembered how patently bad her lies usually were, and opted for the truth.

Hanging her head, she admitted, “I’m sorry. I was out on patrol when I heard you playing, and the song was so beautiful that I stopped to listen.”

Adrien blinked, and then a soft smile turned up the edges of his mouth. “You like this?”

He nodded to the piano as he continued to play.

Sheepishly, she nodded. “You’re very talented. Earlier, it almost made me want to cry.”

His smile slowly lost a bit of its warmth. “Thank you. I’m really honored that my playing could move you like that. Honestly, though, I think it’s Chopin, not me. This song has the nickname ‘Tristesse’. …You can hear that sadness and melancholy in it, and that’s all Chopin.”

“I don’t think it’s just Chopin, though.”

With a soft frown, Ladybug tentatively approached, stopping to stand beside the piano.

“I have a friend who knows a lot about music, and he said that the ability to move someone comes from putting a piece of yourself into the music,” she explained.

He looked at her, considering her words, but was soon distracted by the way the moonlight reflected off of her lips, making them shimmer in the dim light of the bedroom.

He had kissed those lips.

Not that he could remember those kisses…not that Ladybug knew that it was Adrien whom she had kissed.

He wondered if he’d ever get another chance.

Maybe, if he just stood up and leaned in… She was right there, just an arm’s length away.

He’d seen the way she stared a few seconds longer at the Gabriel billboards with his face on them when they were out on patrol. He suspected she had at least a little bit of a celebrity crush on him.

Would it be so wrong to take advantage of that?

“Yes,” he decided, forcing himself to look away. “Yes, it would, and she’d probably hate you for it as soon as she found out your identity.”

Blushing, he cleared his throat and tried for a light, playful tone of voice. “Your friend sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.”

Abruptly, weariness of being so fake set in, and he let all pretenses drop.

“…I often play Chopin when I’m sad and need to get those feelings out,” he confessed in a hush. “This is my ‘crying music’.”

Ladybug’s eyes widened, and she took a sideways step closer. “If you don’t mind me asking…why are you sad, Adrien?”

He shrugged, putting on a wry smile. “Oh, a lot of reasons. Normally, I don’t let things get me down. I’m really good at either letting negative emotions slide right off of me or shoving them down deep and not thinking about them too much. …Sometimes it’s hard, though, and a lot of little things pile up until it’s impossible to shake them off or bury them.”

“So, you let those negative emotions out through music?” she inquired, feeling uneasy but wanting to show that she was listening and absorbing what he was saying.

He nodded. “Sometimes. Sometimes I just implode, but…it’s not uncommon for me to use Chopin to let off some steam. His Revolutionary Étude is especially good for that.”

He smiled as he switched to a tempestuous piece that churned like a cyclone with brooding anger and frustration and grief.

She listened for a stretch as an astonishing amount of pain and anguish came out in the music.

Adrien always acted so cheery and resilient. She’d had no idea he was keeping so much raw hurt and sadness hidden just below the surface.

After a full minute, she came to a decision, slowly taking a seat beside him and reaching out a hand, placing it on top of his, stilling the torrent of notes.

He gave a start, turning to face her with a look of surprise that made her suspect that he’d forgotten she was there.

She smiled warmly, curling her fingers around his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I think I can relate a little. A lot of times, I don’t have the time or the energy to experience my emotions. As a superhero in charge of keeping Paris and her citizens safe, I don’t always have the luxury to feel negative emotions, so I stuff them down and make them wait until later when it’s safe to deal with them. I don’t always handle it well, and sometimes ‘later’ doesn’t always come, but…I can kind of relate to what you’re saying, and I think it might help to talk it out a little. …Would you mind telling me why you’re sad right now? Did something happen?”

He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, shaking his head. “It’s… Well, it’s not ‘nothing’ exactly, but…it’s a lot of little things that have been wearing down on me for a while. My father not showing up at dinner tonight was just the last straw.”

Ladybug gently squeezed his hand, encouraging him to continue.

He swallowed, looking up to meet her sympathetic gaze as he confessed, “I…I miss my parents. Maybe you heard in the news, but my mother disappeared a few years ago. Even though my father is still here physically, it’s almost like he’s not. It’s like I lost him too.”

Her gut reaction was to tell him how sorry she was, but she suspected that he’d heard that from everyone else who didn’t know what to say to comfort him and that he may be sick of hearing “sorry for your loss”.

So, instead of empty platitudes, she nodded and scooted in closer so that her knee rested against his, silently showing her support.

Emboldened, Adrien kept going. “He shuts himself away, and I have to make appointments to see him.”

Ladybug winced but didn’t pull away.

“He doesn’t spend time with me anymore, and I miss him,” Adrien sighed. “It’s not like we were ever the perfect family. Even my mother was moody and a little short-tempered sometimes, but we were happy enough. Now…”

He grimaced, his gaze falling back to his hands on the keyboard. “…Now, it’s like I’m an orphan. I feel like I’m all alone in the world sometimes…and even though my father won’t spend time with me himself, he won’t let me go out and be with friends either, so…I’m alone a lot, and it feels like it’s choking the life out of me.”

“Adrien,” she tentatively broke in. “Have you talked to anyone about this?”

He shook his head, peering up at her sadly. “Who would I tell? Father won’t listen. He’ll tell me I’m being needy.”

“What about your friends?” she pressed, mind whirring as she scrambled to find a way to help him.

He shook his head again, wilting in defeat. “They wouldn’t understand, Ladybug…and I wouldn’t want to bother them.”

“It’s not a bother. They care about you, Adrien. They’d want to help you,” she insisted, distressed at the easy way he dismissed his problems.

A tired smile slowly stretched across his lips. “Thank you. I really appreciate you listening to me, and I’m sorry to dump all this on you. I’ll be all right tomorrow. I’m just feeling a little down right now, so please don’t worry about me. You’ve got far more important things to deal with.”

An indignant frown crumpled her brow as she retorted. “You idiot. Of course I’m going to worry about you.”

He blinked at her in startled silence, taken aback by her vehemence.

“If you think it will help, if you think it will make you feel less alone, I can come visit you, if you like,” she offered before she could think better of it.

The incredulity remained, but he finally found his voice to respond. “…Really?”

Her nerves caught up to her, and her face flushed a brilliant crimson as she nodded. “Yeah. I mean…if you want. I could come over sometimes, and we could…we could play games or watch movies or…or whatever you want.”

The light came back on in his eyes, and a wide grin spread across his lips.

Hurriedly, she added, “I know it doesn’t make up for your parents not being around or not being able to go out and spend time with your friends but…we could be friends…if you think that might make you feel less lonely.”

She swallowed. “I…I’d like to be your friend, Adrien.”

“I’d like that too,” he whispered, leaning in and lightly pressing his lips to her cheek. “Thank you, Ladybug. You’re truly incredible.”

She almost fell off the piano bench. She felt almost drunk with giddiness.

“If you’re not too busy, would you want to get a start on our friendship now?” he inquired tentatively, hope expanding like a balloon in his chest. “Maybe we could play Super Smash Brothers or Mario Party or something?”

“So long as you don’t mind getting your butt handed to you,” she quipped, her competitive streak overriding her crush for a moment.

He burst out laughing and assured, “I love it when a girl kicks my butt.”

Ladybug’s stomach did a somersault.

She had a feeling

[of-tatooine]

honor him. | chapter 5 - second nature

a simple assassination contract takes an unexpected turn.

This was where it all ended, but in many ways no one could fathom, where it all began.

Dunwall Tower had been where reigns started and ended, whether legendary or calm. Where calculated coup attempts took place, some successful, some condemned to death. Where the law that governed the citizens all across the Empire was made, where nobles and aristocrats and the like raced their voices during court. The gardens of the vast Tower used to be open for the general public to visit and relax in, though they were sealed off again during the late Empress’s reign - you guessed it was the Royal Protector’s order, to ensure the Empress was protected against any impromtu attempts against her life and rule.

Sadly, that had not been enough to keep the blade from killing her in the end, hence led to the new Lord Regent taking new precautions, many out of sheer paranoia, over the months.

From the rooftop you were perched up on for the last couple hours, you had a front-row view of the new installments the Regent had added to the once gleaming tower. By the Void, you were sure the entire city of Dunwall could spot the creepy-looking, steel installment of a safe chamber on the rightmost wing of the tower, along with the numerous tallboys venturing around the entire premises to spot any intruders. Being one of the very limited number of people who knew the truth behind this grand coup, seeing those additional structures made you want to tear them all down with fire and smoke. It made your blood boil to see the man guilty of all this chaos stay safe in his high-up tower while the entire city, the city he seemingly ruled, bled from their eyes.

So much had changed in the Tower District since the last time you were around. Witnessing the consequences of your actions first-hand as you roamed through the rooftops of Dunwall did nothing but deepen the crack in your pained soul. Under the purple and orange lights that the city’s pretty sunsets offered, the plague victims who sneezed and coughed and vomited in the back alleys proved to be a stark contrast. It was a city of opposites after all - across the river, a little further down the shore was a gentleman’s club, surprisingly accompanied by the close proximity of the Office of the High Overseer. A city where the poor wept under the doorsteps of the rich and noble.

And yet there you were, tasked with the mission of ending another noble life.

This would not be your first aristocrat who tasted your blade, nor would it be the last by the looks of things. Before, during your days of following your master’s orders without failure or divergence, killing anyone had been easy. A very well-trained assassin like yourself did not even bother shutting their eyelids after your target was on the floor, gargling on their own blood. Never before did you have any doubts.

This certain Pendleton, brother however, would be different.  Your fellow assassins had delivered the innocent and pure Lady Emily, only a little child, to his forsaken brothers a mere four months ago. Over the years, rumors had been spiraling around that the three Pendleton brothers,the very three banes of aristocracy, had not been getting along well - with Morgan and Custis siding off together to keep their mining business running, the number of people they have enslaved and tortured only known by the Outsider. The very same two brothers who knew the location of the little heiress.

Brothers would be brothers - they would fight, bicker and argue, but they shared secrets. You hoped Pendleton would not be so shy to let you know what he knew before you put a blade through him.

Roaming on the rooftops came as second nature to you, with so much time spent running from tacklers and stray gang members looking for their preys for the night. It was liberating, to feel the breeze ghost over your overcoat, with the muffled sounds of your stealth boots across the tiles. That night had not been different - despite the numerous plans and kill scenarios going on in your mind, it was a short-lived blessing to be able to sneak and transverse across the rooftops as the illuminated Parliament building loomed in front of you, overlooking a vast square encircled with apartment buildings - no doubt occupied by the affluent who had influence on the court.

The previous adventures you had as a Whaler had brought you over to this part of town many times, so the horizontally stretched-out architecture with many ornate windows and well-kept white stone walls did not intimidate you like it had the first time. The long, red banners draped across the exterior, with none other than the Lord Regent’s silhouette pasted on them did, however. It should have been the light blue, golden-encrusted silk adorning the walls instead, their memory still fresh and aching from that wretched day when they stopped swaying in the wind.

That beautiful blue, reminiscent of clear skies, was the fragment of your memory that kept you on the drive to reach the little Empress, somehow, sometime.

Senses in your body were awakened as you crouched at the edge of a balcony, closer to the ground level but with a clear vantage point for the huge wooden doors. There exited two figures, their clothes and faces illuminated by the ever-blinding streetlights installed by the City Watch. The thinner, slightly taller one clad in finely-tailored ivory garments you could discern a mile away - your target. The muscular one clad in uniform on his side, however, you had yet to meet. Unknown pawns and intruders in any mission had been a huge risk, and you needed to see if you could get that nobleman alone.

Other members of the Parliament, slowly yet surely, started walking out of the double doors, following the pair’s lead as they descended the stairs after the session ended.

Some would head to their homes to their wives and kids, some would head to bars to drink their woes away. Yet your attention was on the pair of men, who were headed towards a back alley, their body language rigid and somewhat eluding.

Like they had something to hide. Needed some place to talk privately.

Behind the mask, you would raise your eyebrow in intrigue. What would Pendleton have to do with some uniform for them to head over to the back of an ale house to talk? Playing court politics was not exactly your particular area of expertise, you had been a foreigner to Gristol after all, but you knew this much - if it meant a secluded and hushed talk in a dark corner, it was more than just games played to win votes.

Making your way as you followed their movements albeit on the leverage that the roof provided, you spot them stopping near a row of wooden barrels, without a soul in sight while you loomed over to eavesdrop.

“So you think he will make it out? No one’s ever done that before, Admiral... this could either make or break us,” Pendleton spoke lowly, running a hand over his face in thought.

The supposed Admiral nodded, albeit hints of worry were etched in the slow movement. “He’s our only hope. We cannot go and save her ourselves - our reputation would tatter, and we need your nobility to work in our favor,” the man spoke in a gruff voice pensively, his arms crossed as he took a couple wandering steps around. His steps were calculated and had a certain rigidness to them, his tone of speech exuding authority - everything about him screamed some sort of military training background, which made him a little more dangerous to the mission for any normal assassin, but not for someone in your caliber.

Pendleton would let out a sigh followed by a slight shrug, crossing his arms to match his companion. “We would need someone on the inside, someone to unlock his cell when the time is right. Martin would know who to bribe. The man has more connections than me and I am the noble one...” he would say, sounding somewhat willing to co-operate with the Admiral.

As a professional assassin, you could care less what crime your victim was trying to plot next, let it be a near impossible one of infiltrating Coldridge. You just needed to get him alone, slit his throat and get paid -

“Good call. Though I give Corvo a one out of five chance of escaping, it is worth our efforts.”

The silent breath got hitched in your throat. 

The mention of his name stopped you dead in your tracks, your heart starting to beat faster and faster out of your chest. So that was who they were breaking out of prison, that explained the quick and straight to the point nature of the conversation as well - his life would cease in less than two months at the hands of the prison executioner. Every single plan needed to be made in utmost haste and total precision.  

Your mind then would drift to the Royal Protector, him in those noble clothes that were no doubt tattered by then, defending the Empress moments before her death, sending your assassin friends to their demise with his pistol.

The man who had nothing to do with this conspiracy, thrown on a dishonorable road, probably tortured every single day in that hole for a crime he did not commit. Who had everything taken away from him. If given the opportunity, you knew he would make it, you knew he would live - he had always been strong, so very strong to beat any opponent.

It sparked a glimmer of hope inside you, knowing that there were men out there in high places, planning to restore the rightful order in the Empire and bring back the innocent.

It only was a big shame that you were sent to kill one of them.

Noticing the conversation ending for the time being with the Admiral parting his way from the noble, your trained senses came back into play as you furrowed your eyebrows in full concentration. Your mind worked at an impeccable pace, combinations of different plans and scenarios going in them as you settled on one. The eavesdropping had given you so much information, and you would be a fool not to use them to your advantage, so you took off your mask in a quick motion before strapping it onto your belt - you would not need to hide your identity for what you were about to do.

Following the Lord onto the street, you would see him walking into his apartment, hastily making your way to his bedroom balcony through your well-performed transversals. Like any other elite assassin, you took your time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike your target and fulfill your contract at once. There he was, without a clue of what was bound to come, of what was lurking in the shadows for him - with his back turned to you, his hands rummaging through his vast chestnut dresser in search of something.

Perfect.

With your hand on your trusted blade, your quick yet quiet feet thanks to your padded boots would carry you over through the richly-decorated master bedroom, to be positioned right behind him, sneaking up on him with such ease. A swift and expertly controlled movement later, you would feel his breath get caught in his bulging throat as your cold steel rested against his unshaven skin.

“One move and I start cutting.”

[theonceoverthinker]

A Winter’s Snowball (CS Role Reversal)

Summary: It’s unusual for love to be in the air just outside of a ball meant to inspire it, but that’s how the Charming family has always worked, hasn’t it?

AO3             Fanfiction.net

A/N: Hello, OUAT fandom! It’s great to be back, and just in time for the @csrolereversal!

What? Did you think you’d get rid of me so easily? As if! 

AND LOOK AT THE AMAZING ARTWORK THAT INSPIRED THIS, YA’AL!!! ALL of the props in the world to my super awesome artist, @clockadile. Clockykins, what can I even say? I love this artwork. It’s an incredible mix of the classic Captain Swan aesthetics as well something so new and fun! The watercolors are gorgeous, and give off this amazing fairy tale feeling that works so well with all things OUAT! It really helped me to make this piece the quirky thing that it is.

()()()()()()()()

If there was one thing that Snow White was more certain of than anything in regards to her daughter, it was that she did things her own way. It’s what Snow loved about Emma the most -- Emma was hardly the ambiguous type, always upfront with her feelings and at-the-ready to follow her gut and her heart. 

David joked that it was something the two of them had in common, and Snow wholeheartedly and unashamedly agreed with the sentiment, proud of all that it entailed, especially because in so many respects, they truly were different in so many other things. 

For instance, they had different approaches to their kingdom’s grandest of celebrations.

Balls were fun for Snow and David -- remarkable events with elegant dances, decadent food, and encounters from all over the kingdoms of the world that brought with them memories the attendants would have for life. Rooms came alive as conversation, lights, and music beamed all throughout their castle. Snow was positively invigorated by everything about them, from the planning phase to the final bits of cleaning the castle’s halls up.

However, while they were fun for Snow, they weren’t so much for Emma, as she was often one to tell them. It wasn’t that she hated her dresses, the idea of dancing, or even the socializing -- quite the contrary in those respects, since she loved those things at times where balls weren’t being held. 

No, what she disliked was actually what Snow loved the most -- the grandeur of it all. Emma compared balls in their castle to what would happen if an entire circus or bazaar was shoved into their dining room, calling it “too much to handle at once.” In her defense, she wasn’t wrong. Balls could serve as courtship openings, family reunions, dances, and managerial work all at once.

Oh well, not every daughter was like her parents. She supposed it couldn’t be helped.

At least Emma was like her where it counted.

That’s the conclusion Snow reached upon seeing Emma playing in the snow of all things from the balcony, in any case.

While Snow loved balls with all of her heart, even she wasn’t about to say no to a short break from one after a few hours, and few spots in the castle served better to hide away in during those breaks than the balcony just outside the ballroom. It was private enough where she could get a moment to herself, yet close enough to the festivities that if she was needed, she could be there within moments. And the view from this balcony in particular was simply gorgeous. Their castle was blessed with a luscious garden, and while the snowfall that started this morning and persisted until the start of the ball had covered the lovely bushes of flowers there, it left the ground with a beautiful blanket of snow amidst the garden’s many arches and gazebos that was quite the sight to take in all the same, and much of it was captured so well by that balcony’s vantage point.

Snow had spent a few minutes there by herself, enjoying both the quiet that now surrounded her and the cold and crisp nighttime air. It was so peaceful there that if not for the ball inside, she’d have been content spending the entire evening out there.

But all of the sudden, that placid atmosphere was interrupted when she heard a sound from down below.

It was a man’s yelp.

Immediately, Snow’s attention moved to the previously peaceful ground.

Her speedy reaction was rewarded when she saw a young man emerge from below the balcony, now hurrying across the formerly clean landscape. 

“Y-your Majesty!” he cried, his right hand massaging his shoulder where a bright spot on his otherwise dark navy jacket appeared to be.

And then she heard a second, quite unorthodox sound.

It was her daughter’s voice.

“For the last time, Killian, it’s Emma!” Emma barked through a chortle. Something then flew from her form to his, something small, and something fast, but something Snow also couldn’t quite see -- that is, until it hit him in the chest.

Yes, the man -- Killian -- filled in the remaining blanks of her sight with another yelp.

“Bloody hell, that’s cold!” he shouted, as what was clearly now a snowball made contact with the space just above his ribs.

“Not used to the winter?” Emma asked, the hand that held her snowball now resting against her hip.

“Not at all,” Killian answered, seemingly coming down from the chill that the snowball birthed in him. “My work tends to keep me in warmer climates.”

It made sense, now that Snow thought on it. The way he was dressed spoke of a military profession, and if Snow remembered correctly from his introduction alongside his brother earlier in the evening, he was a lieutenant.

Hmm. A princess and a lieutenant -- how unorthodox. 

Snow wasn’t surprised though -- after all, this was her daughter.

And they looked cute together.

“But,” Killian continued, “I will say, though the winters here are merciless, they are indeed beautiful all the same, just as you are, Your Highness.”

Instinctively, Snow’s hand shot to her mouth.

Killian seemed to instantly tell what he has done wrong as well, as a sound -- not of any existing tongue, but one that could only come from the worst of realizations -- left his mouth not three seconds after he addressed Emma.

Bless this young man’s heart -- Snow knew he was quite earnest and liked him already, but she knew her daughter well, a Emma was never one for royal titles.

“I-I!” Killian started saying, trying to cover up his tracks.

But Emma crouched to the ground and rolled up another snowball, clearly not about to let him get away with it.

“Looks like the lesson hasn’t sunken in yet,” Emma said, seemingly very excited about what was to come once more. “Good thing you like the winters here, because here’s another taste of them.”

Killian tried to catch the snowball with his hands, but was woefully unprepared for Emma’s speed. After all, lieutenant or not, no one could compare in a snowball fight to the girl who cornered her own father when she was only nine.

And so another snowball hit him, this time square in the chest. Another followed seconds later, just above Killian’s right bicep. A third hit just seconds after that, this time on his left knee. 

Despite every part of her upbringing telling her she shouldn’t Snow couldn’t help but laugh as she watched the scene before it. 

“Emma, Emma, Emma!” Killian yelled. “That’s your name! I promise to Poseidon that that’s all I’ll ever call you from now until my dying days! As far as I’m to ever concern myself with, the only name you go by is Emma! Will that suffice?”

Snow could hear her daughter chuckle as she approached Killian.

“Well,” she said, “when you put it like that, how can I say no?”

Killian’s breathing was so loud that Snow could hear it from the balcony, but while it was heavy, the last thing she expected to see was him fall to the ground from exhaustion.

That made it all the more startling when that’s exactly what happened.

“Killian!” Emma cried, her tone quickly shifting from lighthearted to worries as she now ran over to help him. Snow covered her mouth, now in freight, not daring to utter so much as a call in their direction out of fear of distracting Emma from aiding him.

This man -- he seemed so healthy. There was no way he could just collapse like this, could he?

Then again, Snow knew more than most just how powerful diseases could be in this world. It was certainly possible, and especially in this kind of weather.

Killian was right -- this weather was indeed merciless. But hopefully, it would make an exception this one time.

As Emma was checking on Killian’s situation, that’s what Snow prayed for.

Thankfully, with Emma’s help, it seemed like Killian could at least stand. Snow sighed in solace as she watched them rise from the ground, snowflakes sticking to their clothes, imprinting themselves onto them like fingerprints to a blade. 

Few things were ever as much of a relief as seeing someone come through a scare like that. And though she cared for Killian’s fate, Snow was especially relieved for Emma’s sake. The guilt of feeling like one caused the death or even pain of another was something Snow would never even wish on her most vicious of enemies, let alone her own daughter. Words couldn’t begin to say how good it felt to know that Emma wouldn’t feel that way tonight.

“Thank you, Emma,” Killian said, just barely audible enough for Snow to hear. “I’ve worked with strong sailors before, but you’ve quite the powerful throwing -- and apparently, lifting -- arms on you.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Emma retorted, smiling and winking all the while.

Killian slowly stood back from her, as if testing his balance after his fall. Fortunately, he looked to be stable enough standing on his own, another relief in a moment filled with them. He and Emma smiled at each other, and Snow relaxed her elbows upon the balcony’s edge.

“I promise you I shan’t again.”

Emma turned and looked out towards the rest of the snowy garden, possibly in search of a bench or something they could sit down on.

Snow was tempted to call out to them and see if Killian needed any further assistance as opposed to letting him linger on outside in the cold, but before she could, she saw something in Killian’s right hand. It was obstructed by the night’s sky, but she knew what it was.

Oh, Emma!

Killian smirked. “But,” he continued, “I’ve quite the strong arms myself, and one thing you ought to know is that there’s only one thing a man can say after enduring an attack like that -- revenge is a dish best served cold!”

And with that last sentence, a muted snowball flung through the air and landed right in the middle of Emma’s back.

It was now Emma’s turn to yelp, and yelp, she did.

“Eep!” she screamed, jumping forward, only to trip and land face first into the snow. 

Snow covered her mouth again, though unlike the previous times, she was unsure if it was out of shock, amusement, fear -- for Killian’s sake, that was -- or all three.

“You sneak! You planned that!” Emma shouted.

Killian’s smile had grown into a smirk so large, it bordered on a grin.

“Aye, love. Charming though you may be, I can’t let you get away with your crimes so easily.”

Despite Killian’s retaliation, Emma met it with a smirk as she got up and wiped the snow away, half shocked and half cocky. 

“Something you ought to know, Killian -- Charming is my father, not me. I’m more of the vengeful type too. So trust me when I say you’re going to PAY for that!” 

“Assuming you can hit me again,” Killian cheekily retorted, now smirking at her as he rolled another snowball into his grip. Snow realized as he did so that one of his hands was fake, but he was so adept at it that she hadn’t even noticed it. She wondered if Emma did. “Looks like I’m adapting quite well to these winters, aren’t I?”

“I’d say so, but let’s put it to the test, shall we?”

“Ready whenever you are, Emma.”

Emma said nothing, simply crouching down to grab another snowball of her own.

And then, the fight began. 

Killian took off running, making sharp turns as he ran through the gardens, with Emma hot on his tail. The garden’s smaller space kept the game exciting, and kept them close to each other the whole time. 

Snow had a feeling they liked it that way.

She certainly did. 

For minutes on end, Snow watched them run around, laughing as their various snowballs hit and missed each other without reason or rhyme. It was so exciting to watch that she had completely let the time fly away from her, perhaps for too long given her role at this ball.

And someone took notice of her absence.

“Sn-o-ow?” David called in a sing-song fashion, walking out from behind the curtain onto the balcony, and gently pulling Snow close to him. “I was wondering where you went off to. And where’s Emma? It’s almost time for desser-.”

The finale of that sentence never came, as David grew quiet upon looking out into the expanse of the garden below them, clearly realizing what he was now bearing witness to.

As David studied the two of them, Snow eyed him warily. It was always impossible to tell how David would take things regarding Emma’s love life, and especially under such unconventional circumstances, even Snow was at a loss for how he would react.

After a pregnant pause that followed his glance at Emma and Killian, David looked to Snow, and then back to them, and then back to Snow.

“Are they having a snowball fight?” he finally asked, more confused than any other emotion Snow could so much as hope to discern from him.

“Yes, they are, David,” she answered, careful to keep pride and support in her tone.

David nodded. “Okay. Just wanted to check.”

Then, his reaction came out, and in a way Snow never expected it would -- he smiled.

“You know,” Snow said, positively beaming from his reaction, “when I pictured our daughter falling in love, I probably should’ve considered that beating whoever it was over the head with something was a possibility.”

“You didn’t?!” David cried, mock surprise littered in his voice.

Snow playfully smacked David’s chest, but settled back into his embrace not five seconds later.

“At least the snow won’t leave a scar, unlike the one my lovely Snow did,” he continued.

Feigning shock, Snow turned from him, her mouth agape and a hand to her collarbone. “Are you trying to get kicked out of this ball? Because if you are, know that you’re going to have a far worse time outside than they are if you do.”

David kissed her temple.

“No, I know my wife. She would never kick me out of a ball, and if she did, I would just take her with me.”

Snow chuckled as she once more snuggled up to David and looked out at Emma and Killian in the garden. 

“Do you think we could take them in a snowball fight?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” David answered. “We’re the ones that taught Emma to throw a snowball in the first place.”

“That may be so, but she’s better at it than you.”

David scoffed, though his smile betrayed him. “She got lucky once, and you two have never let me live it down since then. I could take her.”

“He’s good, too. You should’ve seen him get the jump on Emma earlier.”

“Whose side are you on?!” David teased, nudging Snow.

“I’m just being realistic!”

The two of them broke down in laughter, watching as Emma and Killian came together in much the same way.

A powerful gust of wind brought Snow’s attention back to the fact that outside of their little bubble, there was still a ball going on, one they were needed at more than they were on this balcony.

Snow sighed as she sadly looked at David, who was already giving her the same look she knew she herself carried. Balls were wonderful, but she was starting to understand why Emma found herself able to ignore them so easily in favor of having such a wonderful time outside.

From atop the balcony, Snow could see Emma snuggle into Killian’s side, nuzzling her face into an unmarred part of his uniform for warmth while his arms surrounded her. Despite that chill, they looked so warm together.

Still, all it took was another gust to remind Snow that while it was lovely outside, it was indeed cold, and these winters were gorgeous, but intense all the same.

“We should make sure they come inside,” Snow said. She didn’t know how she’d broach the topic, especially since it meant revealing that they’d been watching the two of them for however long they’d all been out here.

Thankfully, before Snow needed to put too much effort into it, David beat her to the punch, at last breaking the silence between the two couples for the first time.

“Hey, guys!” he shouted.

Never before had David seen two people stop what they were doing faster than Emma and Killian as they jumped apart from their embrace and straightened their postures to face David. It was almost enough to make Snow keel over in laughter.

David smirked. 

“They’re serving cake now, and it’s going fast,” he continued. David then turned to Killian. “The first thing you should know about Emma is that she cannot ever be held back from her desserts without serious repercussions.”

The smirk dissolved into a smile, one that grew as he saw the tension drop in both of their shoulders. Emma smiled at him, moving closer to Killian once more.

Killian let himself smile as well.

“Well, in that case, we shall be right up!” he called out. “Can’t have Emma going without a slice. She has too good of an aim to chance the consequences.”

Emma started laughing, a laugh that Snow recognized well. It was a laugh that spoke of such happiness, such hope, and Snow couldn’t be happier to hear it. 

From below them, Emma and Killian made a start for the nearest entrance back into the castle, and while Snow and Charming came back into the ball, Snow made a point to request to one of the servants that a set of matching towels be brought to the door closest to the garden. And while the servant gave her a look, all Snow could do was smile and shrug.

After all, her daughter did things her own way, and as it turns out, so could she.

[knightthunderis]

Ch 9 Explanations and Revelations

“Only one from there would know everything there is to know about all the other players in the game.” the duke admonished. “I would almost say for sure that your knowledge of us is equally thorough.”

“I also correlated and memorized the history of every house family from the first lock up to present day.” Reimeiko said. “Shall I give you the rundown of every house from the beginning to the present day?”

“Heavens no, that would take centuries for the long haul as you say.” Byron breathed. “And that would build up quite the appetite.  Which reminds me, now that you are here as our guest, the royal kitchens can make you anything your heart desires.  Go on ask for anything.”

“Anything huh?’ Reimeiko asked. “How about the biggest ice cream sundae I have ever seen with three spoons and I will share it with the two of you?”

“The finest chefs in the world and you choose an ice cream sundae of all things?” Byron sneered. After a few minutes they receive an ice cream sundae as big as Reimeiko’s head and three spoons. “Alright, I stand corrected, this is actually very good.”

“That is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” Malachi said. After the dining room, the brothers showed Reimeiko the sights, starting with the lofty rooms that proudly displayed the Alliance history. “And here in the historic east wing, we have the national Taborian gallery.”

“In the days past, this was the throne room, the center of power where reigning monarchs would hold court.  But once the new throne room was built, this became a gallery devoted to the important relics like the Taborian crown jewels.  Those are over here.” They led her to a display case where an orb and the Taborian scepter sit glistening on pillows.

“It is very orblike.” Reimeiko replied. “The golden scepter.  Is everything themed?”

“Oh yes, pretty much.” Byron said. “They are the symbols of the crown.  Every king and queen has held these during their coronation.”  

“You know, if everything goes according to plan and you marry Prince Karyson, you might one day hold them yourself.” Malachi added.

“I know that you want to tell them that Reimeiko is already married to Karyson.” Tristan said. “But you need to wait until I can reconnect him to me and Knight Wolf.”

“I like your confidence.” Malachi said. “And here is the palace pool and deck.  Floating the days away has never been so attainable.  It is like we are at a fancy hotel.”

“If by fancy hotel you mean an enduring symbol of the strength and dignity of the Taborian government.” Byron snapped.

“This is not the Thaddea I know and remember.” Reimeiko thought. “I just do not understand what happened to invoke all of these crazy changes?”

“The parents are still working on that.” Tristan said. “We need to find out who is ruling Thaddea in Dad’s place so we can fix the main situation.”

“Why is a bathroom part of the tour?” Reimeiko asked. “Do not get me wrong, it looks perfect for bubble baths.  Why is this particular bathtub and bathroom on the tour?”

“This is the biggest bathtub in the entire palace.” Malachi said. “It is perfect both in shape and height to achieve the optimal ratio of water to bubble levels.  I will share my formula with you later.”

“Please tell me when you say that this is the biggest tub in the entire palace,” Byron asked, “that you have not actually tried every tub in the royal palace? No wait, do not answer that.  I would like to maintain some level of plausible deniability on this.”

Malachi chuckled as he and Byron led Reimeiko to the last room of the royal tour, the royal throne and hall of portraits room.

“The royal throne room looks like it was totally made for me and the future.” Reimeiko replied. “I will gain him and everything about him for the sake of the future.”

“As it should be.” Byron said. “This is where the King and Queen sit to meet with foreign dignitaries and their people.  In the old days, it used to be that people and nobility alike had to pay their respect by kneeling and touching the hem of the king or queen.  But ever since a successful assassination on a queen several hundred years ago, that was outlawed.  In fact, you must never touch the king or queen physically without their permission.  Now, if you will follow me this way.”

Byron walked away from the thrones to the hall of portraits on the far end, but Reimeiko and Malachi hung back to really look at the thrones.

“I have always wondered if those thrones were comfortable.” Malachi asked her. “I wonder if they are as comfortable as they look from here at this vantage point.”

“As tempting as trying them on for size is.” Reimeiko replied. “Maybe we should respectfully look at them from a distance although, I know it is only what you have been doing your whole life.  Shall we catch up to Byron before he realizes that we are not listening?”

Without thinking twice, Reimeiko and Malachi hurry to catch up to Byron before he could turn around and find they were not with him.

“And this portrait of King Keitaro was bequeathed to him by the Count of Evedia as a gift.” Byron said.

“Wow, King Keitaro was extremely handsome.” Reimeiko replied, “He also has a very commanding air about him and is very hypnotic. Karyson, Racine, Koridon and Garyson’s great great grandfather on their mother Seidre’s side of the family was quite the fierce protector and defender as well.”  As Malachi skipped off to scout ahead, the grandeur of everything that had been seen hit Reimeiko hard but she had to act like she really did not know anything about her Karyson and Garyson’s royal home. “Wow, Karyson was not kidding when he said he was crown prince of Thaddea, was he?”

“I would much prefer it if you did not use his first name so much in public.” Byron said. “There is royal protocol to follow you realize after all.  But I am curious, what exactly are you doing here in Taboria?” 

“Well Your Grace, have you not ever been in love?” Reimeiko asked. Byron dumbfounded and blushing caught her attention. “I knew it! Alright wiseguy, who is the lucky lady in your life?”

“There is no one.  I do not have time for such diversions.” Byron said. “It is you we are talking about.  Why are you here trying to win the hand of Prince Garyson Walters?”

Reimeiko knew that she had to be careful how she answered for the sake of not blowing her cover, but also to make sure that she did not reveal herself too soon like Daryien said although Byron and Malachi already knew who she was and where she came from.

“Byron, believe it or not, fate led me here.” Reimeiko replied. “I am not sure why fate put Garyson in my path and brought me to you, but Karyson is special. I knew it from the moment we met and I did not even know that Garyson was a prince then unlike Karyson who is from Thaddea.  And now I have this incredible chance to reconnect with him thanks to you and Malachi.  Should I not follow through and see what happens next?  Do you think it is too sentimental?”

“No, Your Highness, I think I see it now.” Byron acknowledged. “You have a certain something about you, maybe a charm, I am not sure, but I sense something very familiar about you like you have been here before.  Perhaps you do have a slim sliver of a chance after all.”

“I knew there was something I did not like about him.” Tristan growled through the earpiece. “Byron Blanchard was not always a stuck up blowhard like he is now.  Back in the days before old man Blanchard deserted and abandoned them, Byron used to be cool.  Nowadays, he is just as stuck up as his old man. I wonder if there is more that happened to make him such a stiff.”

Reimeiko chuckled at Tristan’s rogue assessment. “Do not celebrate yet.” Byron said. “We will still have our work cut out for us.  If you are not careful, it could all end tomorrow.”

“Typical grouch.  You just could not end it on a high note could you?” Reimeiko asked.  Byron shrugged as Malachi returned to them.  To herself she thought. “I hope I do not regret making this move.  It would be a shame if the man I am already married to gets caught up in a bad case of bigamy.”

“Hey what is up?  Are you two coming?” Malachi asked. “Come on, I hear it is almost time for dinner and I am totally starved.  And it will be an excellent time to see what you know about the different silverware.”

“It sounds like a party.  Lead the way.” Reimeiko replied. Later on, after the tour of the palace and the dinner, Byron and Malachi walked with Reimeiko back to her room. “You know, I have to really say that this was really fun.  We are going to have so much fun together and thank you both for picking me for your house.”

“It was the best decision I have ever made as far as I can really tell.” Malachi said cheerfully

“The dye is cast, is it not?  I suppose we shall see just how you fare in the days to come and how much you have learned tomorrow in any case.” Byron added ruefully. “Good night, Reimeiko, we will find you tomorrow to plan for the masquerade.  If you need anything, we will be in the suite next door, otherwise, sleep well.”

She returned to her room and after her things are unpacked and put away, she sat at the table on her balcony and began typing away into her latest entry in her computer journal:  After the final battle with Chaotic and Nemesira, I thought we were done facing off with tyrants, dictators and conspiracies, but it seems there is another conspiracy to face off with.  Something has happened to separate Karyson from Tristan, Knight Wolf and his memories of being connected with Reimeiko Thunderis and where she fits into his life: A video call from Pepper paused her musings.  She knew that Pepper was going to have a ton of questions knowing the truth.

[ask-corvo]

I drew a scene from an RP we had with @dishonwhored .

I might upload it one day to AO3 but for now, you can read it here. Or click on “Read More”.

My Website and Commission Info.

Daud already lost count of how many nights he had to spend out on the rooftops soaking in rainwater just to clean up some messes and tie up loose ends. Daud was a man of circumstance but he was not a man of chance; everything had to be executed in a way that didn't leave much wiggle room for things such as misfortune to interfere with his plans. There was no such thing as bad luck. Only miscalculations.

One such miscalculation was the fact one of his men stationed across the city of Dunwall was caught and apprehended by the Abbey of the Everyman. That of course meant being tortured or killed on the spot, and Daud knew that each Whaler had the fear of death trained out of them; they'd rather die than betray their Master. Because of course they would. But Daud wasn't as cruel as to completely ignore his men when they are in need of his help. And so he stalked the religious lunatics until he had located the stray Whaler. Poor bastard was the only one left of that particular patrol group.

Daud crouched down, still a safe enough distance away from the wailing and screeching of the Overseers' music box, but it reached his ears regardless and gave him a slight headache. He always hated dealing with those. Life was easier before the Abbey figured out how to tinker with machinery. Sometimes he swore they didn't even know how to prepare the most basic meal. The assassin counted the amount of heads that need to roll through his eyepiece and exhaled, rainwater dripping down his pursed lips. He wanted to get this over with quickly and go back home.

Sliding from the tiled rooftop down onto a nearby balcony Daud transversed around the dimly lit alley until he found a good enough vantage point from which he would take down the bastard with the music box that was now scrambling his brain like eggs. He had to be precise and grit his teeth through the pain though because it will do neither him nor his Whaler any good if they'd both end up captured or dead, all because of this idiot cranking a  cog wheel. Daud decided to take a direct approach instead of a stealthy one. Maybe it was impatience and irritation that drove him this time but he got the job done regardless, coming up behind the Overseer with the box and effortlessly snapping his neck before the others even managed to draw their swords. Once the box ceased emitting its headsplitting chime Daud had quickly cut through the remaining Overseers with a few transversals and swift hands.

He didn't waste too much time getting to free his captured underling, merely muttering some chastising words and ordering the man back home. He'll deal with this mishap later. All he knew for now is that the Overseers were dead and he could breathe easy, if only for a moment.

Teague was watching from the shadows as the Knife of Dunwall cut through the Overseers moments after the mind-numbing music ceased in its play.

From the very beginning, he's told the men to keep guard and interrogate the assassin quickly, but if you wanted something done right, you cannot trust anyone to do it but yourself. At the same time, Teague needed not answers from a mere assassin when Daud was there right in front of his eyes. His mismatching hues didn't detach from the older man when Snow shifted in his position, ready to pounce.

Every muscle in his body was tense and ready to act just like the wolfhound by his side. No other Overseer would have the chance to take Daud down. It had to be him. And he had to have some questions answered now. There wouldn't be another perfect opportunity as such.

Go for the masked one. Teague ordered, and Snow dashed for his target, while he was to draw his sword and sprint at the red-coated Whaler.

All it took is a fraction of a second for Daud to turn sharply and face the oncoming threat. The rain obscured their assailant's footsteps and he had hoped the Overseers' wolfhounds would have a harder time tracking his scent in this weather, but one was charging right at them, white as snow, with its owner right behind him.

Daud's body acted on instinct. He stepped right in front of the wolfhound's maw and shielded the Whaler with his gloved arm, allowing the hound to latch onto him instead. Not a particularly wise move considering he momentarily compromised his sword arm while there was another person sprinting towards the Knife with his own sword drawn, but seeing as his left hand was free, Daud raised it and time stopped altogether, raindrops suspended in the air surrounding them.

But that was about all he managed to stop besides the hound. The other man was still moving in his direction with all intent to strike. All Daud managed to do was buy himself a few extra seconds to free his right arm from the hound's clutches and ready himself for whoever this bastard was.

One of Teague's suspicions was confirmed. With it, was another.

The first one being if the Knife was truly marked by the Outsider just as he, the other that he was capable of playing with time. It was a silly speculation in a sense, as there was no other way a man would decapitate, butcher so many people and disappear from the scene before any of the bodies would hit the ground.

With his very own mark on the back of his hand, it was barely any inconvenience. However the moment Teague noticed Snow was affected, he's reached out to him with his left hand - the purple mark glowing brightly against the dull scene and in the blink of an eye the two switched their positions. Snow was now mid-air as he was when Daud shoved him off and Teague in his place up close with the Big Knife, slashing their blades together.

Daud was caught completely off guard when the dog and its owner switched places in the blink of an eye. Daud reacted fast, albeit staggering in place a bit and briefly losing his footing, by blocking the other's sword with his own, the sound of metal clashing with metal piercing his ears like gunfire. It forced him to refocus on what was happening.

They both had someone to lose in this fight, and Teague had no intention of having his companion and friend hurt just as Daud wouldn't let him land a blow on his assassin.

It was fine, he figured. Daud was the one he wanted anyway.

His body already felt weird in this time-capsule, without the voice of Snow in his head, without his ever-present companion by his side. The only times they were obscured from each other so were when the music boxes grit in their ears.

No, he wouldn't aim for the assassin. He would pay him no mind. Snow would take care of him if he'd dare try anything; he knew. This would be a fair fight.

This man was an Overseer, no doubt. He had the Abbey's insignia plastered all over him and carried their assortment of weapons. But he was also marked, and dressed way different than his brethren. Was he truly on the Abbey's beck and call? Or was this a mockery of their doctrine, a facade worn by a mercenary to tease and humiliate?

Daud grit his teeth and glared directly into the supposed Overseer's mismatching eyes, one as black as the void itself and the other a contrasting violet. He planted both feet firmly onto the cobblestone floor and pushed the man back just as time resumed and with it the roaring rainfall and the hound's pained cry.

The Whaler quickly got up on his feet and drew his sword despite his confusion. Daud ordered him home, but it was before they were assaulted; he figured Daud would forgive some slight misdemeanor if it was for a good cause. They were both on the same exact boat though.

Neither knew who this man was or why he wanted Daud's head on a stake so badly.

Teague took three steps back after being repelled, protecting Snow with his body while the wolfhound landed behind him and snarled. His fur was heavy from the rainwater like the fabric of Teague's trimmed uniform. His sword was raised on his shoulder level, tilted sideways while his left hand was on his hip's level, the glowing mark turned to face the two heretics.

Snow?

I'm alright...

The wolfhound licked at his bared teeth and gave a shake to his coat, though he got soaked once again almost immediately. The rain was loud, almost louder than Teague's heart beating in his ears as he scanned Daud with a quick glance.

He was taller than him, and possibly heavier too. But Teague was flexible, and a sword wasn't his favorite tool for battle - so he was more than ready to engage with just his body at the Knife. Sucking in the cold morning's air, the marked Overseer bent his knees ever so slightly, similarly to his tense wolfhound. His mark had a dim glow to it, and so did Snow's purple eye.

"You look a little shocked, my dear Daud."

Daud retained the same position as the Overseer did; ready, tense, defensive, but most importantly viciously protective of the Whaler behind him, similarly to how the Overseer shielded his hound with his body. Neither was willing to sacrifice their companion, human or not. Daud obviously didn't give it much thought at the moment and he probably wouldn't at all, but the Whaler was thankful. His Master - as calculating as he may be - often resorted to the bare fight-or-flight response comprised purely of instinct, and like a wolf, one of those instincts was to protect his pack.

The Whaler composed himself and glanced at his Master, tilting his head slightly while attempting to decypher Daud's expression. He did not dare speak, and simply waited to be given orders. For now, though, while the Knife remained silent, the Whaler stood still.

Daud on the other hand had his eyes transfixed onto the Overseer, hardly even acknowledging the hound. He studied the other's features, body language, attire; wracking his brain for the best assessment he could make at the moment in an attempt to understand what he was up against. The Overseer was slimmer and lighter in weight but he was agile. He worked in perfect coordination with his canine companion which Daud found to be bizarre; no matter how well you bonded with an animal it was still an animal, unable to understand you beyond some trained vocal cues. Daud had to acknowledge the hound now as a threat equal to the Overseer if they were so well-synchronized.

At long last the assassin spoke, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. "Who are you? I would have hoped to hear of a Void-touched Overseer before I got to meet him face to face."

Teague chuckled, but his expression remained unchanged. It almost appeared as the wolfhound by his side made a similar sound in reaction to Daud's words, before he was to shake his coat a second time and snarl.

The Abbey of the Everyman was trying to keep him hidden from the public eye for reasons quite obvious. It was not in their wish to flaunt with the weapon they have in their hands. Approved by the High Overseer or not, a heretic was a heretic and they didn't want to give anyone the wrong idea.

Back in Morley, his fellow Overseers have gotten used to him, Snow, and their complicated relationship. But here in Dunwall things were a little different - what with the rat plague, everyone was on edge more than the usual. In a way, he couldn't wait to be finished here and return to the place he could call home, along the people he could call family.

Those Overseers in Dunwall were twisted by something.

Maybe it was because of their closeness with the High Overseer...

"I like to keep to myself, unlike you. You're Daud, the Knife of Dunwall who no one else would survive an encounter with to tell the tale. It is quite the name you've made for yourself; I would like knowing I made this place safer once you perish and return to the black-eyed bastard."

Daud sneered and scoffed in response to the Overseer's taunts. Sure, he may be marked, but Daud was confident that he'll be the one leaving back home in one piece. He did so for decades after all. How would a marked Overseer be any different from his contracts? He was simply a target that could put up a fight, but a fight Daud would win. Or at least that's what he hoped for.

"Having a reputation helps, sometimes. Most people understand fear better than they'd understand respect." Daud didn't remove his gaze from the Overseer and kept glaring daggers at him as he spoke. "The Abbey of the Everyman is no different from me in that regard."

"Their time too will come." Teague immediately replied, twirling the blade in his hand. The Abbey and the High Overseer will be dealt with eventually, he knew. If not by him; then by the Spymaster and the Empress. Coming from Morley he heard his fair share of talk about Jessamine Kaldwin, and the first-ever official Spymaster on her side.

He might have been resentful for the Kaldwin family, but she was no fool. If the High Overseer was truly suspicious; she and her "Royals" would sniff him out eventually. Teague only had only one purpose currently, and it was to find the cause for the rat plague and eliminate it.

The man who held the city trembling in its place with a chain of faceless assassins would be a good gamble to begin with.

"If you were to assist me in my mission, I would perhaps look the other way - just today." He remained still and tense. "I've heard enough about you to know you're always hungry for knowledge."

"Oh, am I now." Daud made sure the cynicism in his voice was apparent and clear. The Whaler behind him had to muster all of his willpower to stifle his laughter. He only made a faint noise barely audible through the pouring rain, biting his lip beneath the mask. Daud only spared a fraction of a glance at his direction before refocusing on the Overseer.

If Daud understood correctly, he thought, then the strange man was the Abbey's secret weapon against people such as himself. Witches and heretics that were being publicly persecuted, sometimes through baseless accusations and mere cruelty or boredom. If the Abbey employed a so called heretic to flush out the others then they really were desperate. It made sense given the state Dunwall was in, but Daud couldn't help but wonder if the decision to fight fire with fire was made by the Empress herself or by the High Overseer, independently of Jessamine Kaldwin's decrees. Her so called Royal Spymaster could also have been involved in this.

What a disaster.

"You should have also heard, then, that I'm not exactly the Abbey's best friend." Daud added to his previous remark with a slight frown. "Why should I assist you or them? What's the catch?"

"I want to leave this wretched city and return and return to the place where I belong. Luckily for the both of us; that place isn't Gristol."

Teague didn't have an accent to him, and the Void altered his apperance enough to make him almost appear Tyvian, but in reality he didn't care if the Knife of Dunwall knew where he was from. He just needed to know that it's far.

What he didn't need to know, is that Teague planned on eliminating him whether he was tied to this mess. Just not now. The rat plague was killing more than Daud would, and unlike the Big Knife; the plague wasn't selective.

The plague took the good and the poor before it took the rich and cunning. It needed to be eliminated first.

"The sooner matters are taken care of, the earlier my departure would be - and so also your trouble with me. I cannot speak for the Abbey however, those fanatics are a hivemind as you probably know; I would truly hate to be responsible for them." He hissed, then clicked his tongue. "I know you have a rich taste for coin but I have none. Maybe knowing that your precious gentlemen won't drop like flies to the plague would be enough?"

"I'll take my chances." Daud snapped back at the Overseer almost as soon as he uttered the last syllable to his response. "If there will be no nobles left to kill in Dunwall then we will simply migrate elsewhere. There isn't a shortage of them - or coin - in places beyond this wretched city." The Knife's answer was definite and left no room for negotiation; he did not trust the Overseer no matter how much he cursed the Abbey. It might as well have been a script, or a bluff, that he rehearsed or made up on the spot to win Daud over. But it'll take much more than pretty words to convince him to work alongside an Overseer. Some of his men were former Overseers gone rogue, sure. But it took them way longer to earn Daud's trust than it took the rest.

As Daud was preparing himself for either battle or retreat, the Whaler behind him broke his silence for the first time in this conversation. He cleared his throat, as if to be polite, and crossed his hands behind his back. "I think it's worth considering his offer, Master. We're running short on medicine and food as it is, and the rat plague isn't making it any easier for us to find work, or even merchants to sell us those supplies, since they've been- well- dying one by one."

The Whaler spoke monotonously and didn't exhibit much emotion if any in his voice, but that jab at the end made Daud turn his glare onto his own disciple next. In a sense he was correct; they have been struggling to stay afloat ever since the plague hit, especially when their turf was now being swarmed with the afflicted- Weepers they called them- as well as infected rats and insects. Business wasn't exactly booming and it wouldn't be the first time he overheard his men complaining about his decision to remain rooted in Dunwall. This one simply did it directly.

Daud took a deep breath and filled his lungs with cold air, running his tongue over his teeth in slight irritation, but reconsidering his answer nonetheless. He looked back at the Overseer and rolled his shoulders restlessly, forming a tight fist with his marked hand before relaxing his muscles and opening it back up. He had to swallow at least some of his pride in order to give in, albeit only partially.

"Fine." Daud almost groaned his answer as if it physically pained him to speak it. "But I think we're both aware that you can't fully guarantee my men's safety, let alone their health."

Daud lowered his weapon but didn't sheath it. He wanted to show that he's willing to cease his hostility but not lower his guard.

"There are other ways you could repay me. Like stealing from the Abbey you claim to hate so much, perhaps." Daud shrugged. "Surely you wouldn't mind handing me coin that isn't necessarily yours, correct? You would be doing good by robbing them of their gold."

Teague, as if mimicking the taller man's behavior, slowly was too lowering his armed hand, the tip of his blade still pointed at Daud's chest. The dim glow coming from his mark ceased as he raised it to smooth his wet hair back, the mismatchcing eyes refusing to look away from the two targets.

"Of course, this would be a lovely idea. I'll consider it once I figure out where Campbell stashes his treasures." He was sarcastic, but also bitter. The High Overseer was supposed to be an example, and live as he preached. Instead he was pampered and treated like the Lord Protector himself; that was nothing the Abbey believed in. "But wouldn't they like to blame the heretic once things start disappearing?"

Teague tilted his head back to sweep his hair one more time, and then idly swayed his hip. The wet fabric only got tighter around his body with the weight of the rain, sticking to his inner thighs and exposing shiny pale skin.

His eyes turned momentarily to the Whaler mask before they were to return to Daud, and then to his side towards the music box resting on the still chest of his fellow Overseer. He stepped towards the horrible machine and raised a boot to step on it, to crush that thing to ensure it would neve be singing again.

"There's other things that could benefit you but coin, Daud. Stopping the plague seems like a hassle, but it could save you expenses, manpower, and eventually -" He grunted. That scrap metal was sturdy. "- We can talk about material goods as well."

Daud stepped away from the Overseer and the music box, wary of both. The Whaler followed suit, but he was admittedly less tense than his Master was. He didn't really care if he'd die of the plague or not; he would rather live, of course, but if he had to die while serving his Master, then he wouldn't put up resistance. He lowered his head and stared at the wet cobblestone paving the street. He hoped he didn't just get them in more trouble than they were already in.

When he was at a comfortable enough distance from the Overseer and his hound, Daud allowed himself to sheath his sword, and with his now free hands he crossed his arms over his chest. "I would take a day or two to reconsider whose side I should be on if I were you. I'm sure you know the Abbey only sees you as a tool. A means to an end." Daud spoke matter-of-factly but with no real concern for the Overseer's fate or wellbeing. Just because they were both marked didn't make them friends.

"All I'm saying's that I'd put my wages elsewhere."

It took some effort, but after having crushed the music box into the ground through the crushed ribs and spine of the Overseer below it Teague could be sure it wouldn't be used again. He turned his head to glance at Snow - which sat attached to his grounded leg - and turned to face Daud once again. His eyes went back to the Whaler moments later.

"I was born to be a tool to men, and so will I leave this world. I am a toy for the black-eyed boy, an object and weapon for the Abbey, and a sack of coin for the Knife of Dunwall." He snarled, almost if he were the dog inbetween the duo. "I'm not on their side. Blind, lunatic mutts, that's what they are - the Abbey long forgotten what it truly stood for and worshipped -" Teague cut himself off in the middle, scoffing. "But you don't care."

He shook his head and inhaled, the cold air soothing him.

"You're busy blindly following a dead boy, with blind followers of your own." He sneered. "Let's just stick to business and not try converting me."

Daud listened to the Overseer's rant stonefaced but he had to admit that he did feel sorry for the man. It seemed like he was completely aware of his predicament but accepted that he's powerless to do anything to change it, or, alternatively, figured that fighting back would be worse than simply gritting his teeth and letting things go as they do. Judging by the Overseer's clothes Daud could only imagine what other "uses" this man had and what other nuances the word "toy" carried. It made him nauseous. A good portion of his own men used to serve as slaves for such depravity until Daud either freed them or they begged to be taken in. But none of it showed on his features. He remained as still and stoic as before.

"The life my men were granted is far better than the one they had before joining my ranks." Daud said flatly. "You're free to criticize me all you want. Really, go ahead." He gestured at the Overseer with a theatrical wave of his hand. "But whatever it is you think you know about me better be laid to rest. You don't know jack shit."

Daud spat that last bit with venom in his voice. It made the Whaler raise his head and look at him once more. He was concerned, but knew better than to step in front of his Master's temper. He tensed up a little but still stood quiet.

"If this is how it's going to be then we really are better off just sticking to business." Daud turned on his heel to leave, and his Whaler remained rooted in place for a moment, stunned, but quickly followed after regaining his composure.

"I'll send one of my own to meet with you tomorrow and take you to a comfortable rendezvous point of my choosing. And for your sake I hope I'll see you both and not just one."

With that, Daud transversed out of the Overseer's sight, as did his Whaler. He had a feeling that tomorrow's going to be an even longer day endured on only a couple hours of fitful sleep.

[lord-archon]

Ascension, Pt. 1, Chapter 1: Argus

Teleportation was never any trouble, with the right expenditure of energy you could travel any number of distances you could imagine! Whether it was from one end of a continent to another, across the road for a glass of Dalaran Red at your favorite corner Tavern, or even to the other side of the world! Shakiena always enjoyed that particular aspect in her prowess as an arcanist: the ability to traverse incredible distances in the same amount of time one could draw three long, drawn-out breaths. So long as the laws of teleportation were followed and you knew where to go to not get yourself stuck in a wall or a tree, the possibilities were endless! But.. this memory.. this.. dream of a bygone era not so long ago took Shakiena beyond anywhere she dared dream she could find herself among the cosmos. Even in her infinite confidence and resolve did she ever dare that she’d step into such a literal hellscape such as those she traversed on Argus.. the doomed home world of the Draenic Eredar, and base of operations for the then mighty Burning Legion.  Shakiena had no idea why this memory decided to rear its ugly visage to the forefront of her thoughts, but alas.. here it was. As her beloved wife and child slept, the Archon of the Violet Coven and Archmage of the Kirin Tor - Shakiena Stillwater - sat on the balcony overlooking the night skyline from the vantage point of their high rise apartment home; a half empty bottle of Dalaran Noir and a near empty glass with a mere few drops pooled in the basin. She reached for the bottle, and slowly began tipping it over with the mouth of the bottle drifting towards her crystal wine glass, creating a musical note as the carefully crafted bottle came into contact with the well used but still pristine and well cared for vessel of inebriation.. but she stopped.. just as the last bits of liquid remaining in the bottle neared the cusp of pouring. “Why stop yourself.. indulge.. drink your fill, drink the mana from their marrow..”  came another of the insidious whispers that plagued her mind on such occasions when she allowed herself a respite in the quietude of her own thoughts, such that were so rare in the days following her and Luella’s marriage, and the birth of their child, which was followed closely by the near death of the new mother herself.

The Archmage pinched the bridge of her nose, and silently seethed as she bolstered the barriers in her mind set in place to diminish the void’s intrusion, which always chose her quietest times to insert it’s invasive reminders that it was still very much a part of who she was, and always seemed to delight in reminding her of the tales surrounding her near free-fall into gibbering madness... Sometimes, she could still feel the gnawing maw of faceless horrors and haunted visions that carved their way through the crevices and crannies of her brain.. the fever dreams of the world crumbling away into an endless void of prying eyes and hungering creatures of darkness and devoid of any recognizable features. Such was the struggle of their kind, the Ren’dorei, combating that which gave them their power, always.. always was it a struggle for control, and it was one Shakiena won day in and day out, and it was one she was never intent on losing.

“Yoooooou.. tasted so.. so delightful.. ohhhhhh yeeeeeesssss..” came the slithering whispers again, stronger, in spite of the barriers in her mind set in place so expertly. Sometimes.. sometimes it found a way in.. and this time, it sounded so, so very happy with itself. Delving into her memories it wrought her unspoken past to the surface like an angry fist wrenching a heart from a chest, only to crush it into pulp that slipped through its fingers to remind her, as if she needed reminding, all that she’d lost, and all that she’d been forced to gain.

“Stillwater,” came the echoing and sepulchral distant memory, manifesting in her mind in full ravishing color, practically hurtling her mind back to when she was so ignorant and pure.. blessed with the cleanliness of the Quel’dorei blood in her veins, and her near platinum blonde hair as it hung in a long tail over her shoulder and down her front.. oh.. how she’d missed her hair then.. “Stillwater, are you present?” came the heavily accented voice of a Lightforged arcanist she’d been tasked to work alongside, along with a fair few other Kirin Tor magi and a retinue of forces from Azeroth intermingled with soldiers from the Armies of Light. “I am here, and at your service, for Azeroth!” she replied, and in this time in her life, she truly meant it with her whole heart. So full of vigor and ready to serve her world then was she, eager to explore another alien world! She’d been part of the Kirin Tor reinforcements sent to aid Khadgar and the heroes that had so bravely barreled through the Dark Portal when it had alighted anew, and the Iron Horde attempted to invade. “Good, gather your people, and tell them to meet us at Triumvirate’s End. The High Exarch has granted you what forces could be spared, and they await your arrival,” the Lightforged arcanist said, turning on her hoof and departing in the direction she’d come from, and then back up the stairs leading to where those leading the forces of Azeroth and the Army of the Light looked over from the viewing deck of the Vindicaar, including the enigmatic Prophet Velen, Illidan Stormrage, and the future voice of her ilk: Alleria Windrunner. Shakiena had known of her, heard the stories of her disappearance, but had never fully given the tales of her heroism the dues they deserved until now. Regardless, she’d not had to time to introduce herself to the fabled legend of her race, seeing as she had far more pressing matters on behalf of the particular task she’d been set forth on. It was a very, very typical mission imparted by the Kirin Tor when exploring anything and anywhere that belonged to magically potent peoples such as the ancient Eredar, and that was the finding and the cataloging of whatever magically inclined artifacts and items they came across, and to bring back to Dalaran whatever they could by any means necessary.  

“Vae, with me,” Shakiena said to one of her most seasoned allies and the closest thing she had to a friend, the adept Sin’dorei Pyromancer who served as her second both on Dalaran and here on Argus; whom she trusted with the safety of their cohorts on this expedition, including herself. “Round the boys up, make sure they didn’t tip too many bottles of noir before we hit the surface too, won’t you?” Shakiena said with a wry grin, the golden eyed Sin’dorei returning it as he playfully pushed the Archmage away, inciting a small chuckle from the ocean-blue eyed Quel’dorei that was the countenance of Shakiena’s past. “Oh, and give them the order that -no one- is to teleport or portal down to the surface! I want everyone to conserve their energy, and to use the transport on the upper deck!” she commanded, and in contrast to the lighter mood the two generated in their minor jests and jostles, quite sternly. The fiery maned Sin’dorei gave a curt nod, knowing that tone she used meant work was afoot, and that disobeying the order would result in Shakiena’s special branding of punishment, which had garnered her a relatively unsavory moniker: “Shackle.”

Shakiena then moved up the steps herself, donning the needlessly elaborate mask she’d grown quite fond of wearing whenever business of any sort was in order, shrouding a majority of her features from view save for her eyes and hints of her lightly freckled cheeks peeking just under them. So intently focused was her gaze that she’d unintentionally ignored several respectful nods in her direction by Anchorites and Brightlances of the Lightforged, driven by bundles of nerves she wasn’t terribly used to shouldering. But this.. this was Mac’Aree. The jewel of Eredar society on Argus, where what fragments untainted by the Legion’s influence remained to be explored, and delved through for hints of the expansive magical knowledge buried in tens of millenia worth of untouched ruins. As she approached the final platform where the means of their arrival to Mac’Aree’s surface, the Quel’dorei’s elven heart raced with anticipation.. fearful, but excited! As she should be of course! This was an opportunity undreamt of, and she was here. By no machination or manipulation, she’d earned her right to be among the Kirin Tor’s finest on Argus.. and very soon, she’d be among the others again, and their expedition would begin.

To Be Continued..

[linde06hawley-blog]

How you can Take Amazing Travel Photography

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[jaehyunpeachy]

i am you // you are me - yoonkook - 5k

some weird soulmate shit happens.

read: yoongi keeps running into this cute cashier boy. and they keep matching?

(music to listen: 1. belief - mabinc 2. i am you you are me - zico 3. soulmate - zico ft. iu)

man, seoul has a completely different atmosphere and air to it - way different than in daegu. literally, the air smells different here and yoongi thinks it’s not necessarily a bad thing, but the fact that he notices this small and random detail just makes him a little more depressed because he longs for his cozy home back in good ole d-town.

he’s lounging in a flimsy lawn chair on his apartment balcony and distastefully sniffs the stuffy seoul air again. his mind wanders back to old, familiar places - the bustling family restaurant, his mom’s soothing voice, his father beckoning him to taste the family’s famous galbi-jjim , his brother’s annoying method of showing affection via noogies when yoongi grudgingly accepts his chores for the day.

the fond memories in his head are juxtaposed with the outside sound and sight of the bustling nighttime atmosphere. everything in seoul is so,fast-paced , even the night life, which he can clearly see from his vantage point. he hasn’t really gotten used to it all, more like, barely tolerating it. he’s kinda stubbornly refusing to settle completely which serves to make him more homesick and then he’s stuck in this cycle of stubbornness and nostalgia and longing and stubbornness and nostalgia and longing.

yoongi breaks his nostalgic reverie when he stands up, the chair loudly scraping against the floor. if he’s going to drown himself in memories and be a sad, depressed sack he might as well do it right - with some alcohol.

he checks the fridge to grab a can of beer but fuck - he’s out. all that’s left is a pack of sliced turkey meat, a sad pile of lettuce, a lone half-empty gallon of milk, and a fully empty carton that used to hold eggs.

damn, his produce is mocking him.

just a few hours ago when he opened his fridge he saw the same turkey, lettuce, milk, and egg carton and the word minimalism smugly appeared in his head. yoongi prides himself on not being wasteful; he’s able to use each and every one of his ingredients until they’re completely gone, thank you very much.

but seeing as he’s in a less than ideal mood to be holed up at home and he has a dire need of alcohol, yoongi tears his eyes away from his sad produce, grabs his wallet and keys, and wrestles himself into a big sweater to combat the chilly night-time seoul air. he grumbles as he steps out of his apartment complex. daegu was always on the warmer side. who knows, maybe the seoul air will help clear his head. maybe.

yoongi finds himself deep in thought as he’s walking, a result of his melancholy mood and the atmosphere of night probably. as a result, he doesn’t realize that he’s actually not walking in the direction of the nearest 7-eleven. when he hears the distant sound of a car angrily honking five times - goddamn, chill - he’s shaken out of his thoughts and glances at his surroundings.

nice. he’s in a random alley.

well, way to go min yoongi. this night is just continually fucking with him and becoming more and more disappointing. he takes a minute to inwardly curse at himself for his obliviousness before he has the smart idea of grabbing his phone out his pocket. he googles the nearest convenience store. the top result is ten yards from his current location.

he rounds a corner and walks a few paces before he spots it. only a single neon sign that reads “ level” adorns its storefront and he assumes that’s what the store is called. yoongi power walks toward it, through the front door, and straight towards where he thinks they should be keeping the alcohol because dammit, he is a man on a mission.

somewhere on the other end of the store, which isn’t actually far from where yoongi stands now, the clock goes from 11:59 to 12:00.

yoongi surveys his surroundings. he’s bombarded with neon colors from every angle, which makes the store feel bigger than it actually is. from the outside, it looked cramped and dull and drab and not colorful. due to this very misleading outward appearance, yoongi immediately thinks that this is exactly the type of store that is empty seventy-five percent of the time and will most likely be out of business within the next month.

okay, it is midnight, but yoongi can tell when a store is being frequented or not, in this case: not. it’s the only possible explanation as to why his sneakers squeak so unusually loud on the unusually pristine tiles.

he strides towards the refrigerated area and for some reason, he feels a strange sense of familiarity, like he’s been here before; a type of vague awareness that comes from something like a dream.

actually, yoongi’s seen stores like this before. namjoon has a very cultured and particular sense of tumblr aesthetic and this store fits the bill perfectly.

yoongi chalks that niggling feeling as a latent reaction to all the posts he witnessed namjoon reblogging to his tumblr, as they sat on the couch on their respective phones. he’s suddenly bitter again because now, with his current situation and location , he can’t even call namjoon out for trying to be hipster because he’s too far away to even see namjoon or his stupid hipster-aesthetic-whatever tumblr in person.

yoongi spots the alcohol, finally, and grabs two - he hesitates and turns around - three bottles of the brand he likes and walks to the checkout station.

well fuck, he was hoping for a some sort of self-checkout machine - this is seoul, the largest metropolis of korea after all - but he should have known not to expect anything when he set foot inside.

god, he’s too impatient and drained and sad to deal with another human being but sucks up his feelings once again as he steps up to the counter. no one is actually there and yoongi spots a bell and rings it twice. a couple more times, more insistently, for good measure. suddenly he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. he checks and sees it’s from namjoon.

at that moment someone stumbles out of the ‘employees only’ door and utters a quick apology for making yoongi wait.

yoongi quickly glances up from the phone and sees that the cashier is a young twenty-something boy. all he sees is a mop of soft brown hair and just under it, a pair of soft brown eyes which he unwittingly makes eye contact with. but suddenly it is broken - the cashier beginning to ring up yoongi’s items, and yoongi looking back at his phone.

dance monster [12:10 am]

hyung

you’ll never guess wat happend today

me [12:10 am]

what

dance monster [12:11 am]

so u kno that tattoo i got a while back ????

me [12:11 am]

joon ur gonna have to be a little more specific

dance monster [12:11 am]

ok ok that one on my wrist !

the moon one !!1!1 !

me [12:11 am]

so...what

dance monster [12:11 am]

idek hyung like

ok fuck

this sounds so weird but like

for some reason i woke up this morning

me [12:11 am]

a goddamn miracle

dance monster [12:12 am]

shut up hyung

anyway i woke up

and now i have a new sun tattoo

me [12:12 am]

wait

what

dance monster [12:12 am]

idk !!! hyung idek wats goin on ajoer

i think it’d be better if u called me

asklejroijga

“excuse me?”

right, yoongi still needs to pay for his things. he jams his phone into his back pocket and fishes for his wallet. he awkwardly fumbles for some bills, “ah, sorry - here you go,” and all but flings them on the counter in his haste to get back to his conversation with namjoon and to go back home and avoid strangers altogether, let alone semi-attractive strangers.

it looks like his original plan of drowning in sorrow will have to be put on hold. nonetheless, he welcomes the new interruption in the form of his dear friend.

right as yoongi’s about to exit the store, the cashier calls out to him.

“um,” he pauses cutely, “nice sweater.”

yoongi looks down. it’s an old number, one that jimin got for him as a christmas present. it’s kinda not his style because it’s colorblocked - well, color in general - but it’s the first thing he found as he left his apartment and it’s oversized and it’s a gift. from jimin. so.

he looks up again and sees the exact same sweater on the cashier.

o-kay. what a coincidence.

at this moment, yoongi gets a really good look at the twenty-something cashier boy. well, as good of a look as he can seeing as half of cashier boy’s body is obscured by the counter.

the cashier is clearly taller and bigger than yoongi but the sweater still looks oversized and his fingers just barely peek out from under the sleeves. yoongi gets a good look at cashier boy’s doe eyes and button nose and his whole look just screams soft.   fuck semi-attractive. this guy is possibly the most attractive guy yoongi has ever seen. the most attractive person in seoul, by far. at least to yoongi’s standards. and this is only the visible half - yoongi gulps - doesn’t even want to think about anything lower than that.

he eloquently chokes out a word. “cool.”

real smooth, min yoongi.

well, time’s up. yoongi’s just about done with social interaction and he’s itching to get home and he wants to maybe forget this whole thing because goddamn, he’s awkward and the cashier is cute.

cashier boy blinks and fuck, yoongi can see his eyelashes from here. and then, cashier boy smiles , all twinkling eyes and soft lips, “have a nice evening, sir.”

yoongi bolts out of the door.

/

jungkook just barely managed to keep his fluster in check. he tried to not to stare at the strange man’s silvery hair, or at his sharp profile, or at his attractive piercings, three silver hoops on each ear - fuck, since when did jungkook find piercings on anyone but himself attractive?

but the thing that caught jungkook’s attention the most was the sweater. not the fact that it was so large that it swallowed the man’s entire frame but still made the entire fit scream effortless and attractive. not the fact that the color palette complimented his silver hair.

they had the same fucking sweater?

taehyung, who is privy to jungkook’s unique tastes, had carefully chosen the very sweater as a christmas present. he claims that he happened upon it in some random thrift store and thought it screamed jungkook and bought it even though christmas wasn't for another three months.

jungkook thinks otherwise. the sweater is just. so nice. taehyung probably bought it at a non thrift shop last minute, which would explain why jungkook ran into another person also wearing it. yeah. that would explain the coincidence. it’s definitely embarrassing, but people are bound to be caught wearing the same clothes, seeing as they’re mass produced for that reason - to be worn.

as he starts cleaning up, jungkook silently thanks himself for choosing the night shifts at level supermarket because 1. he likes staying up late 2. he gets to meet interesting and colorful characters like that one sweet ahjumma with cotton candy pink hair that comes in every day at 9:36 pm sharp to buy a bag of lollipops and nothing else, for example.

jungkook’s checking the inventory for the third time - it always helps to be extra thorough - but his mind begins to wander back to that silver-haired man.

a small - admittedly very small - part of him wants to never see that man again because he was a stranger, a very attractive stranger, and jungkook acted like such a freaking loser. god he’s blushing again. but the bigger- much bigger - part of him wants to see the silver-haired man again. like, he was fucking attractive. but also something about a frustrated looking man coming in a store at midnight that hardly anyone ever comes to just.

he’s like a novel jungkook is itching to read.

jungkook just wants to know.

jungkook wants to know. jungkook wants to know how this man likes his eggs cooked. does he have any tattoos? is he a morning person? okay, maybe not that because he’s up and about at midnight.

what is his opinion on soulmates? does he listen to dean? what does his smile look like? does he like smiling? is he a smiley person? is he doing okay?

because most of all, jungkook wants to tell him that things are going to be okay. something about this man seemed - lonely and jungkook has an urge to reach out and be like, me too, i understand, i hope you’re okay.

but. jungkook shakes his head to clear the thoughts. he’s doing it again. he’s getting ahead of himself and he’s doing that fantasizing thing he tends to do. at his core, jungkook is a very kind and empathetic person and the times he does feel good about himself he wants to meet people and reach out. back at his small hometown, the people were very friendly and accepting, and this made it easy for him. and with the town being so small, eventually jungkook knew everyone and everyone knew him and he was very comfortable with this.

however, this is seoul. and after making the difficult decision to leave the comfort of his town to pursue his dreams in the form of a dance degree, jungkook has learned that not everyone feels the same way in this city.

‘city people’   he thinks with distaste - but mostly - disappointment.

jungkook closes and locks the store’s front door, as well as his hopes for seeing the silver-haired man again. he’s no stranger to how this kind of thing works. nothing good happens when he gives into wishful thinking.

/

as soon as yoongi is back in the safety of his apartment he calls namjoon. “joon, what’s up?”

“okay, so. like. yeah. i don’t know, hyung!” yoongi goes to open a bottle of beer, his silence prompting namjoon to continue.

“i just woke up and now i have a new sun tattoo on my wrist! honestly, it looks pretty good paired with the one i already have of the crescent moon.”

“well, as long as you’re happy with it joon, i guess it’s cool.” yoongi takes a long gulp, “could’ve been worse. could’ve woken up with the word ‘penis’ tattooed in large letters instead.”

namjoon cackles heartily and yoongi smiles at the sound. “yeah, you’re right hyung.” he laughs again, “this is like some weird soulmate shit.

yoongi elegantly swallows some beer down the wrong airway. “yeah,” he coughs a few times to clear his throat, “come to think of it-,”

on second thought, maybe yoongi will keep cashier boy to himself. what happened earlier that night still felt - unreal. yoongi feels like he’ll break the enigmatic anonymity of the attractive cashier boy if he says anything.

“hyung?”

“no, nothing. nevermind,” yoongi changes the subject, “how’s that new track going?” and namjoon enthusiastically explains his progress.

/

the next day, yoongi finds himself slouched at his desk, pen tossed somewhere to the side. he’s looking down at what he can only call organized chaos atop his desk. this is usually how his song production process starts anyway. he scans some of the lyrics he just scribbled all over and he sees stuff like ‘ enigma and mystique ’ and ‘ eyes that hold stars ’ and ‘ deer in headlights... i’m struck by your beauty mystery loveliness- ’

uh-huh. yup.  okay. yoongi stands up and gathers all those loose leaf papers in a pile and goes to deposit them in the wastebin.

he pauses and throws them in a random drawer in his nightstand.

he needs to get out. he grabs his leather jacket draped across the back of his desk chair and power walks his way out of his apartment.

yoongi finds himself wandering the city again and wait. it’s that store again. what the fuck? did he just subconsciously make his way to back to the store and it’s attractive cashier-

shit. yoongi sees said cashier boy through the front windows, presumably stocking a shelf. he gets up and starts walking back to the counter, but as he’s doing that his body faces the front doors, which probably puts yoongi in his plain sight.

yoongi quickly backpedals, hoping he hasn’t been spotted.

he stands in place for a beat.

he refuses to acknowledge how hard his heart is hammering.

after much internal debate, yoongi decides that fuck it. he’s already here and he sees a huge jar of cheese puffs from where he’s standing and he might as well get that. because. he needs. inspiration.

he walks in, trying his best to put confidence in his steps and not looking at the cashier - who is now sitting at the counter with earphones and bobbing his head to a beat and is he humming?

yoongi walks down the chip aisle, deciding that he needs to have different flavors on hand when he gets tired of the cheese puffs.

over the top of the aisle, yoongi can see cashier boy stretching and fuck. his shoulders look good in that leather jacket too.

yoongi reaches the end of the aisle and is about to stroll into the next one, but almost trips on his shoelaces of his black converse. he kneels down and glances at the counter, seeing that the cashier is now standing. they make awkward eye contact and yoongi quickly goes back to tying his own shoelace, not before seeing a flash of black converses disappearing behind the counter.

when yoongi goes to pay for his items, cashier boy has taken off the leather jacket, leaving him in a simple white tee with a simple supreme logo. and now his incredibly toned biceps are out on display. wow. is it getting hot in here? yoongi sees the veins in cashier boy’s arms when they flex to hold the large container of cheese puffs. yoongi gulps.

it’s too hot - yoongi strips off his own leather jacket and slings it over an arm. eyes looking anywhere but the cashier, he taps his foot and waits for cashier boy to state the price and yoongi can pay and then he can leave.

except. cashier boy hasn’t said anything for a little while. yoongi chances a quick glance upwards. cashier boy is staring at - yoongi’s chest? fuck, did he wear his kumamon jammies out or something?

but like, if this boy has something against kumamon, yoongi has a serious bone to pick with him.

yoongi glances down at his own shirt. then back up at cashier boy. then back at his own shirt.

weird. yoongi’s wearing a supreme shirt. cashier boy’s wearing one too. cashier boy squints, like he’s suspicious of yoongi or something.

yoongi clears his throat, “uh - can i pay for my things?”

this seems to shake the cashier out of whatever stupor he’s in, “ah - sorry.”

yoongi pays for his things and goes to grab the bag the cashier is holding out for him to take. yoongi overshoots a little; okay, maybe he’s a little flustered and accidently knocks his hand against the cashier’s.

there’s a little clink as yoongi’s ring bumps against cashier boy’s.

okay. fuck. they’re wearing matching rings too?

they both face each other with similar looks of shock and confusion. before either of them have a chance to say anything, yoongi books it out of there real quick.

/

something weird is going on and jungkook doesn’t know what to do.

he’s just minding his own business, listening to offonoff’s new album while doing his math homework at the register to keep an eye on the store in case anyone does come in. it’s midnight but still.

then, jungkook sees movement in the corner of his eyes and realizes that someone has come in without him noticing.

it’s the silver-haired man again. and shit, he looks really good. he’s standing in front of the snack shelf, with his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and he’s wearing this large leather jacket.

jungkook does not salivate.

but wait. jungkook looks down at himself. how is he also wearing a leather jacket?

it must be another fluke. jungkook hurriedly stands up and takes his jacket off, pacing around for a bit.

he looks over at the silver-haired man again and sees him tying his right shoelace.

jungkook looks down at his shoes.

his left shoelace is untied.

a mixture of mild horror and panic starts thrumming through his body, but he refuses to tie his shoelaces and resumes his nervous pacing.

he turns around and jumps slightly. the silver haired man is right in front of him, fidgeting with his hair.

jungkook goes to ring up his purchases, which are all comprised of various family size chip bags. he goes to ring up the last item, a jumbo container of cheese puffs, and pauses. the silver-haired man has taken off his leather jacket and. why. is he wearing a supreme shirt. like jungkook.

jungkook stares dumbfoundedly at that stupid supreme logo and the man’s prominent collarbones before he clears his throat and asks for jungkook to ring up the total.

right. jungkook hurriedly bags everything and thrusts them towards the man, hoping he’ll leave quickly.

the man accidentally knocks his hand against jungkook’s and this time jungkook does not hide his shock.

you've got to be fucking kidding. they have matching rings. it's like they're a couple or something.

what. is happening.

/

the next night after his shift at the local coffee shop, yoongi actively seeks out level convenience store, as well as its resident attractive cashier. he’s wearing this ostentatious, bright yellow, furry thing. it’s so. loud. and lowkey ugly. hence the reason why he’s out at night.

however, yoongi swears his sweater is bright enough that he’s probably glowing in the dark.

but, yoongi also needs to prove a point. whatever cosmic fuckery is going on, whatever deity is fucking with him, yoongi just wants to prove to himself that this is all bullshit. running into a cute stranger repeatedly is enough, and yoongi doesn’t need any other unexplainable shit happening.

/

jungkook is tapping his foot, a habit of his that surfaces only when he’s nervous or anxious. jungkook is definitely focusing on math homework and definitely not looking out for a certain silver-haired stranger.

he rubs his nose with the sleeve of his sweater and almost sneezes. geez. jungkook had asked taehyung to lend him his craziest article of clothing at the moment, seeing as taehyung’s fashion style is overall - crazy. so, taehyung tossed him the first thing he laid eyes on in his closet, and it was this gucci sweater. gucci my ass, jungkook thinks. this sweater is just a very good excuse to cosplay as big bird.

jungkook just wants to figure out what is going on. like, he meets some cute stranger and-

holy shit. he sees said stranger standing outside on the sidewalk.

okay, somebody up there must hate jungkook because - he looks down at himself just to make sure - both of them are once again, matching.

like, how does the stranger still look striking in such an ugly sweater?

jungkook can only stare as the stranger swiftly turns around and bolts down the street.

/

yoongi slams the door of his apartment closed, breathing heavily. he looks through the peephole to make sure no one had followed him. he’s not taking any chances.

that’s it. something is up and yoongi’s solution is to - hole himself up in his apartment.

wait, can he do that? oh yeah, it’s friday. and he doesn’t have any shifts until monday.  fantastic. he can devote himself wholeheartedly to his unfinished tracks over the weekend.

yoongi wakes up saturday afternoon, but allows himself the luxury of lounging around in bed for a few more hours. this effectively brings the start of his day well into saturday evening. he fishes around for some spare instant ramen packets, and begins working as soon as he gives himself some salty sustenance.

his weekend goes by like this: immersing himself with writing lyrics and producing elementary beats for a few straight hours and then taking short naps in between. he eats if he remembers. or if namjoon reminds him.

all in all, he does a good job of not thinking about the weird stuff that’s been going on, and especially about the soft-looking cashier boy.

except.

yoongi stumbles out of his bedroom, finally succumbing to his stomach’s urges, as well as namjoon’s rapid texts.

he fumbles around for a cup of ramen - his last one, he’ll have to refill - and goes to find a scissor to cut off the plastic wrap.

his fingers slip and he ends up cutting himself.

he sighs as he looks down at his bleeding finger. he dabs at it lightly to try to clear away the blood, but it just keeps oozing out. he grabs a tissue and presses on the fresh wound, waiting for it to clot, but the blood just keeps coming.

what the heck? he didn’t cut himself that hard.

ah, shit. he doesn’t have any bandaids.

he checks his phone. 2:55 am. is there a store open at this hour-

there might be one.

before yoongi thinks about it too hard, he wraps a clean tissue around his finger and books it out of his apartment. he’s not about to hold a tissue around his finger for the rest of the night to keep it from getting infected.

as he fast-walks to level convenience store, yoongi thinks about cashier boy again for the first time in awhile (a couple days.) maybe whatever matchy-matchy curse or spell or shit is over, since yoongi hadn’t seen or even thought about the boy. wow. an achievement.

cashier boy probably isn’t even there, seeing as it’s so late.

whatever, yoongi just needs to grab some bandaids and then he’s out.

he heads into the store, notices that the register is unattended, and goes to grab a box of bandaids. while he’s at it, he stops by the ramen aisle to refill his stock.

as he makes his way to the register, he sees someone now sitting behind the counter. yoongi stops in his tracks. it’s cashier boy. he looks as stunning as ever. and he’s fiddling with one of his fingers, which happens to be bandaged. he looks up and only then does yoongi continue walking towards him.

none of them say anything as cashier boy rings up his items, but he does raise his eyebrows slightly when he notices the blood-soaked tissue around yoongi’s finger.

after he pays, yoongi doesn’t leave right away. instead, he rips open the box of bandaids and slaps one around his finger.

“how did you hurt yourself?”

holy shit, even cashier boy’s voice is attractive - what the fuck - with a soft, lilting tone to it.

“uh, i cut myself trying to get some ramen.” god he sounds stupid.

“wait, really?” cashier boy’s doe eyes widen - yoongi sees his eyelashes, - “me too! i was doing inventory and had to refill some ramen for the shelves and yeah.” he gesticulates with his injured finger.

yoongi is silent for a moment. they even have matching wounds.

“this shit is real, isn't it?”

cashier boy tilts his head. “oh. you mean the weird clothes thing-”

the lights in the store flicker and then suddenly fade out completely.

yoongi panics for a second as his eyes adjust to the darkness, but that initial shock instantly goes away as soon as he sees cashier boy’s big eyes reflecting the street lights outside.

he finishes cashier boy’s sentence. “...yeah. the weird clothes-matching thing.”

“well, my best explanation is that the universe continually derives pleasure from fucking with me.” cashier boy pauses, “n-not that it's always a negative thing! i mean, this time wasn't so bad!” he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, “i-you - sorry! i didn't mean to make that sound like an insult to you.”

yoongi chuckles, “hey, it's fine. the universe likes fucking with me too.”

cashier boy shyly ducks his head.

yoongi looks around the store, now shrouded in complete darkness. “should we maybe find the fuse box or something..?”

cashier boy sits down on his stool. “nah, it’s fine. this happens quite often, actually. i don’t even know why you bother coming here when there are plenty of 7-eleven’s,” he sighs, “this store is pretty shitty and rundown.”

“i don’t know. i kinda like the warm, colorful vibe.” yoongi thinks, also, it’s because you’re here.  

“well, the longest the power’s been out was like, thirty minutes.” cashier boy unlocks his phone and begins scrolling through, “um - you’re free to leave..? i have everything under control.”

yoongi makes no move to leave and hops up to sit atop the counter. in doing so, he’s inevitably brought himself closer to cashier boy. when yoongi turns his head, he sees cashier boy up close, ensconced in moonlight, the contours of his face highlighted by shadows.

yoongi stares at cashier boy’s dark eyes, and at his eyelashes as they fan across his cheeks when he blinks slowly.

yoongi’s eyes are immediately drawn to his lips when he worries them between his teeth. if they begin leaning into each other’s orbit, none of them are the wiser.

suddenly, yoongi feels a sharp sting on his forearm. at the same time, cashier boy jerks away, hissing in pain.

something is etching itself into yoongi’s skin and he squeezes his arm to try to take away some of the pain.

his arm is still searing when the lights flicker back on.

“god, what the fuck was that-” yoongi looks down at his right arm, all red and puffy, and sees a tattoo.

it's a lock.

yoongi looks up in shock.

cashier boy has a similar look on his face. and on his left arm, is a tattoo of a key.

there's still specks of blood on cashier boy's fresh tattoo and yoongi grabs a nearby napkin and slowly dabs on it.

cashier boy flinches slightly, but yoongi places a hand on his upper arm to comfort him, to ground him. yoongi traces the boy’s tattoo lightly with his thumb and looks back at his own. a perfect match.

“i’m yoongi. min yoongi.”

cashier boy smiles softly. “jungkook.”

/

me [12:01 pm}

joon

quick question

so like

did anything weird happen

before ur tattoo appeared

dance monster [12:15 pm]

i mean

not that i can think of ??

hyung just cuz u and jungkook had some storybook soulmate romance doesn't mean smt like that happened to me

me [12:32 pm]

well what happened that day

dance monster [12:44 pm]

nothing really

i just had a study session with jin

me [12:49 pm]

‘study’

what exactly were u two studying

dance monster [12:50 pm]

hyung

need i remind u that jin is my metaphysics and epistemology tutor and wait wat were we studying ?

oh yea !!!

~metaphysics and epistemology~

me [1:00 pm]

you think he's cute, don't you

dance monster [1:05 pm]

im not answering that

me [1:06 pm]

im sensing a blush

dance monster [1:10 pm]

actually

now that i think about it

i came into that session late that day

as i was leaving my apartment i somehow

hit my knee on the doorframe

and fell

and dropped all my stuff

left a nasty bruise

also got a paper cut across my right palm as i was tryna pick up all the books in a hurry

me [1:16 pm]

you would

i fuckin bet smt like that happened to jin

hello

joon?

/

yoongi is rudely awakened by big bang’s ‘bang bang bang’ - why did he let his boyfriend pick his ringtone?

said boyfriend stirs in his sleep, burying his face deeper into yoongi’s shoulder and wrapping his arms tighter around yoongi’s waist. “mmph - hyung. make it stop. let’s nap more.”

yoongi turns his head and places a kiss atop jungkook’s forehead, “sorry baby. just let me take this real quick.”

he blindly grabs around for his cell phone and sees namjoon’s caller id lighting up.

“what.”

“hyung! what the fuck. what is happening.”

yoongi groans. “yes, what is happening. please enlighten me.”

“me and jin have matching bruises! even cuts and everything! i met up with him today and remember that cut i got on my palm? he had one too, and then we realized we have the same injuries!”

yoongi tries to process this information as fast as he can with a sleep-addled brain. “so, he’s a masochist?”

“no! god, no. he’s the one with the sun tattoo! remember how my sun tattoo appeared? well, he’s the one that had it, and he said that a moon tattoo appeared on him! like mine! hyung, we’re matching!”

“well, congratulations.” yoongi sounds grumpy, but he means it. “though i feel bad for jin. you’re a fucking klutz. don’t kill him before you ask him out officially.” he yawns. “i’m going back to sleep.”

with that, yoongi hangs up and turns back to wrap himself around jungkook.

“hyung, what was that about?” jungkook murmurs with his eyes still closed.

“nothing. just some weird soulmate shit.” he buries his nose in jungkook’s fragrant hair. “let’s go back to sleep.” ~

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun

Operation Move the Mummy gets underway, and Natasha meets a rather intriguing man on the train.

It was nearly a month later, towards the end of October with the weather unseasonably cold, when the CAAP gathered again at Folkestone.  They arrived in time to see the coffin of Sitamun loaded onto the train to go through the Chunnel.

There wasn’t very much to see.  When Nat and Allen had gone to the museum, the coffin had been on display inside a temperature-controlled glass case with guards on either side of it.  It was one of the most precious things in the entire collection, some thirty-five hundred years old and carved from a single enormous block of alabaster.  The hieroglyphics that decorated the outside were gilded and inlaid with semi-precious stones, and even in the dim lighting and surrounded by other priceless artefacts, it was breathtaking.

The mummy inside hadn’t fared as well as its container.  Princess Sitamun had been unwrapped at a Victorian party, and her various custodians over the years had kept her in attics, garden sheds, and even a smoking lounge before the museum finally got charge of her.  Rather than being black and leathery, like mummies were supposed to, she was grayish-brown and covered with frayed cracks, like fake leather that had been left out in the elements.  Conservators in Egypt were eager to have a look at her, hoping that their expertise and their country’s dry climate could stop her deteriorating any further.

None of this was visible from the train station in Folkestone, though.  Sitamun and her magnificent sarcophagus had been carefully packed up in an enormous crate that was now being lifted, very slowly and gently, by a crane.  A few reporters were taking pictures while more men waited nervously on the platform to guide the load into the cargo car.

“I wouldn’t like to be any of those guys,” Clint observed as they stood on a balcony to watch.  “The Post said the mummy’s insured for sixty million pounds.  No pressure, huh?”

“Does the insurance cover curses?” asked Sam.  “Or is that just how the company’s planning to get out of paying if anything happens?”

Sharon, always ready to look things up, was reading something on her phone.  “It better,” she said, “because according to Wikipedia this particular mummy is extremely cursed.”

“Really?”  Sam leaned to look over her shoulder.

“Yeah.  They’ve got a whole list of victims here,” Sharon said, her thumb flicking as she scrolled down.  “Okay, so after it was stolen from Egypt by Napoleon’s troops in 1799, the mummy was brought to England in the 1840’s by a guy called Nicolas Desrosiers.  He suddenly died a week later, and the mummy disappeared, but it turned up again in 1865 in the collection of a guy named Sir Richard Hart.  He announced he would be putting it on display, then fell from a horse and broke his neck the very next day.”

“It didn’t kill anybody in the twenty years in between,” Sam observed.

“Yeah, but then it made up for lost time,” said Sharon.  “Hart left the mummy to his daughter Evelyn, who died in childbirth the next year, along with her infant son.  It then belonged to her husband, who’s supposed to have choked to death on a grape.  He left it to his brother, who had a heart attack at the funeral, and his widow was so scared of it she immediately sold it to another collector, who developed a gambling addiction, bet the mummy and lost, and hanged himself.  The guy who won it from him supposedly had his house burn down and the coffin was the only thing that survived the fire.  By 1900 it was supposed to have killed over twenty people and its last owner donated it to the museum.  It didn’t do him any good, since he was mugged and shot the day after.”

“Yikes,” said Allen.

“How much of that is true?” Natasha asked.  Wikipedia, after all, was something anyone could edit.

“I have no idea,” said Sharon.  “A lot of these people have their own articles so they must have really existed, and it looks like none of them after Hart owned the mummy longer than ten years before something awful happened.”

“Life was short and dangerous back then,” Nat pointed out.

“It was indeed,” Sir Stephen agreed.  “Particularly for women.  The Abbess at Rogsey told me once that for a woman to bear a child required more courage than for a knight to go into battle, for the risk to her life was greater.”  Nobody else was looking in the right direction, but Natasha saw him put a hand on Sharon’s back.

“What about the museum?” asked Nat.  “It’s had her more than a century.  Did anything happen there?”

“Looks like no,” said Sharon.  “The list ends there.  So if there’s a curse, I guess it’s only invoked when the mummy is privately owned.”

“I guess I wouldn’t want anyone showing off my corpse, either,” said Sam.

Very slowly, the crane set the crate containing the coffin down on the train car.  Men moved in to strap it down.  The guy who’d been running the crane stepped down out of the cab, tottering as if he were about to fall over.  A co-worker clapped him on the back, shook his hand, and handed him a bottle of beer.

That was the CAAP’s cue to leave their vantage point and board the passenger cars.  They grabbed their coats and carry-ons, and headed down the stairs.

“Even if the mummy does decide to get up and cause trouble, it’ll have a hard time getting out of its coffin with all those crates and straps around it,” Sam observed as they descended.

“In movies mummies don’t tend to care about those things,” said Nat.  “I’d be more worried that if she tries she’ll just disintegrate.  She looked in pretty bad shape when Allen and I saw her.”

On the platform, the group split in two to board the train.  Sir Stephen, Sharon, and Sam went on the car behind the mummy, while Nat, Clint, and Allen were on the one in front.  Other than them, the cars were almost empty.  No commuters or vacation-goers were allowed on this train, just the mummy and a variety of specialists, guards, and conservators who were there to look after it, and a few reporters who’d gotten special permission from the museums in both London and Cairo to cover the move.

People weren’t normally allowed weapons of any sort on the Chunnel trains, but the guards had guns, and Sharon’s police revolver was in its holster under her jacket.  Clint had also brought his archery equipment, having upgraded from Robin Hood’s medieval longbow to a modern Hoyt Buffalo.  He settled down in a window seat, and put the bow and quiver next to him.

“New arrows,” Allen realized, pointing to them.  Clint used several different types all identifiable to the touch by the texture of the fletching.  Today there were several unfamiliar types.

“Yeah, I hit up those kids at Shrivenham for some more of the trick ones,” Clint said.  “At first I figured exploding arrows would take care of a mummy, no trouble, but then I remembered we’re gonna be in a tunnel under the ocean.  You don’t want a fire in there.  So instead, I got these.”  He pulled one out and held it up, showing a capsule of something in place of a head.  “Liquid nitrogen.  It’ll freeze the mummy solid, and we can just smash it.”

“Smart,” said Natasha, nodding.  “Although the Egyptians will never forgive us.”  She and Allen sat down in the row behind Clint.

“They’ll still get their coffin back,” said Clint.  “That’s the expensive part.  I also got this, for the boat ride.”  The mummy, train car and all, would be loaded on a cargo ship for the journey from Istanbul to Cairo.  Clint showed them an arrow with a fishhook tip.

“What’s that?” Nat asked.

“A fishing arrow, obviously!” said Clint.  “You fire it into the water, and when something bites, it’s got a line to reel it back in!”

Natasha laughed.  “You really think you’re gonna use that?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but it’s damn cool,” Clint replied, sliding it back into his quiver.

A couple more people got on board, including one man who came and took a seat right across the aisle from Natasha and Allen.  He was in his thirties, with blue eyes and short brown hair, and a bit of beard stubble.  He was wearing a blue jacket and carrying a sports bag, and he put both of them into the overhead compartment before sitting down and leaning across the aisle to talk to Natasha.

“You’re Dr. Jones, right?” he asked.  His accent was American.

“Yes, that’s me,” said Nat.

The man offered a hand.  “I’m Jim Barnes from the New York Times.  I’m covering the story.”

“Nice to meet you,” Natasha said guardedly.  Internally she was bracing herself.  Reporters who talked to her were interested in one of two things – either her past as a spy, or, in the last week or so, the story of Sitamun’s curse.

“They’re talking about this all the way to New York?” asked Allen.

“They sure are,” said Barnes.  “We’ve got a lot of Egyptian stuff in the Museum of Natural History and in the Met, and people are worried we’ll be expected to do the same kind of ‘gesture’ for Egypt as the Brits are.  The Bugle had a headline demanding to know if we’ll have to send back Cleopatra’s Needle next.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Natasha said.  “I’m an archaeologist, not a politician.”

“Mm-hm.”  Barnes pulled out a digital recorder.  “Well, would you mind telling me, as an archaeologist, who was Princess Sitamun and how she ended up in England?  I figure that’s a way more interesting and education angle on this than any of the curse stuff or the politics.”

Nat relaxed a little.  “Sure,” she said.   “Although I’m not an Egyptologist, so this is just what I’ve managed to learn from textbooks and the people at the V&A.”

“That’s all right,” said Barnes.  “Tell me.”

As the train pulled out of the station and headed into the yawning mouth of the Chunnel, Nat decided to begin at the beginning.  “Well,” she said, “Sitamun was the daughter of a pharaoh of the seventeenth dynasty, around 1580 BCE.  We don’t know very much about her.  She married her brother Ahmose, who was supposed to be next in line for the throne, but she died before he was crowned…”

Barnes seemed honestly interested in what she was telling him, asking questions and nodding along – but halfway through her impromptu lecture, she heard snoring, and looked over to see that Clint had fallen asleep.

“Am I that dull?” asked Nat.

“No, you’re not.”  Barnes touched her arm and smiled at her.  “Not at all.  Keep talking.”

As they rumbled along in the dark, Nat found herself wondering what Sir Stephen, Sharon, and Sam were doing or talking about in the car ahead.  Sir Stephen would probably be interested in the Chunnel – among the first things he’d commented on about the future was what ingenious engineers the people here were.  The idea of a tunnel under the English Channel was one he’d probably find both impressive and terrifying, since it theoretically left the islands open to invasion from the mainland.  That had been one of the main objections to building it, since the idea was first proposed in the nineteenth century.

“So if you don’t believe in mummy curses,” Barnes said, “what are you doing here?  Because that’s what all the tabloids are talking about – the UK government is so scared of the mummy’s curse they sent along the people who defeated Totenkopf.”

Nat sighed.  “We’re a precaution,” she said.  “They’re just trying to plan for everything.”

“Are you going all the way to Egypt?” Jim asked next.

“We’re planning to,” she said.  “All the way to meet Dr. Mostafa in Cairo.”

Barnes nodded.  “I’ve been to Cairo before, actually,” he said, giving her a cockeyed smile.  “I know a couple of places there.  Maybe once we arrive and you’re done with your mummy-sitting and I’m done with my article-writing, you could come and have a drink with me?”

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

X-Files Fic: What Was Taken, What Was Lost- Chapter Two

Chapter one is here.

The chill is what wakes Mulder, along with the sounds of the storm outside, much louder than they should be from inside the hotel room.  He sits up, shivering, and sees that across the room, the French doors to the balcony are standing ajar.  The blizzard is still going strong outside, and the wind is blowing snow into the room.  Mulder leaps out of bed and runs over, stubbing his toe on the leg of the bed and swearing loudly, and pushes the doors closed again, latching them securely.

Stepping back, he rubs his hands over his unclothed arms.  While the room is frigid, the carpet beneath his bare feet isn't very wet, which tells him that the doors couldn't have been open long, otherwise much more snow would have blown in.  The latch is a sturdy one, and an experimental jiggle of the handle reveals that it's not loose.  Did whoever closed it last not pull it completely shut, allowing the wind to blow it open?  He doesn't remember Scully opening it at any point since their arrival, and he knows that he hadn't opened it.  Maybe housekeeping had failed to latch it properly?

As he's standing there thinking, staring out into the whirling flakes, there's a soft snuffle from the bed, and he turns to look at Scully.  She's fast asleep, curled on her side facing outward, and the covers have slipped down to her waist.  She'll be cold, Mulder thinks to himself, and he tiptoes quietly to her side and pulls the blankets up over her shoulders, tucking them gently around her.  She sighs softly in her sleep, and he smiles.

 Thump.

He jumps at the sound, which he thinks came from the hallway.  It's not a particularly loud noise; it's as though something has been dropped on thick carpeting.  He wonders if another guest, wandering the halls at night, is out there... but he hears no footsteps.  Frowning, he crosses to the door and eases it open, sticking his head out into the hallway.

The hallway is dim, lit only by the flickering faux-candle light bulbs in their brass fixtures, casting an orange glow on the green walls below them.  Ten feet away, a framed painting lies upside-down in the middle of the mauve carpeting, as though something has knocked it off the wall.  He looks both ways, but the hallway is empty.  

Mulder glances back at Scully, making sure she's still fast asleep, and takes a tentative step out into the deserted hallway... only to be brought up short by a gust of wind that blows through their room's open door.  He whirls back, expecting to see the French doors standing open again, but they remain firmly closed and latched.  Suddenly, he feels the hairs along the back of his neck stand up.  Something about this is not right, and in his sleep-befuddled haze, it takes him a moment to realize: that cold blast of air came from the hallway, not from the window.  He jerks himself back through the door, slamming it behind him and whirling around, leaning his back against it, feeling his heart race in his chest.

A shadow moves across the mirror in the corner.  Mulder whips around to face it, but by the time he looks, there's nothing there.  He approaches the mirror on shaky legs, half-expecting something to leap out at him through the glass, but there's nothing... until the sound of rustling covers from the bed makes him turn.  Scully has shifted onto her back in her sleep, one arm thrown above her head on the pillow.

A black figure is bending over her.

It has the shape of a woman in a high-necked dress, her long hair blowing in an unseen breeze.  She seems to bleed at the edges, like black ink spilling into a pool of water, grey tendrils fading into the surrounding air.  Mulder freezes in place.  He wonders if he should shout, wake Scully up, demand that the figure back off... but she seems to only want to watch Scully sleep, and though it's difficult to make out the expression on her face as her features blur and shift, he senses no malevolence, no ill intent.  The woman seems almost tender as she leans down over Scully.

But then Mulder moves, and the woman straightens up and looks at him, and suddenly, she's nothing resembling tender.

The fine features of her face melt away, leaving behind flat, dead black stretched across her skull, her nose a rotten hole, her mouth a gaping chasm.  Her eyes burn red like glowing coals in their recessed sockets, radiating a hatred and fury so strong that he can feel it from across the room.  She advances on him, a strangled snarl ripping out of her throat, and Mulder stumbles back with a startled cry.  His back strikes the mirror, which rotates on its stand, the top of the frame striking the wall behind it with a loud thwack.  Mulder falls to the floor, his arms held protectively over his head as he lands hard on his hip, the bottom edge of the mirror striking him at the base of his skull.

The room is suddenly blindingly bright, and for a moment Mulder thinks it's because of the blow he's just taken to his head, until he hears Scully's voice, still muzzy with sleep and confusion.

"Mulder?"  She's sitting up in bed, squinting at him from across the room, her hand on the bedside lamp switch.  "What are you doing?"  He doesn't answer, looking around the room, panicked, but it's empty except for the two of them.  He tries to stand, but the world sways around him and he stumbles into the wall, clutching his head, moaning.  Scully's out of bed and by his side in seconds, helping him to sit back down on the floor.

"Mirror hit my head," he mumbles, his eyes still darting around the room, expecting the woman to reappear.  Scully begins to probe carefully at his head, her fingers digging through his hair, checking for injuries.  "Back there," he directs her, gesturing vaguely to the back of his head, where a steady, painful pounding has begun.  She gently coaxes him to lean forward, and he drops his head down as she runs her fingers along the bottom of his hairline.  His eyes are closed, and when she locates the spot where the mirror had struck him, he yelps and opens them to find Scully's breasts only inches from his face.

The pain is suddenly forgotten as Scully's unique scent fills his nostrils, calming him and soothing his nerves as it always does... or, at least, as it always did, before the night she had sat astride him on his motel room bed.  He'd had this exact same vantage point that night, except that then, there had been no pajama top between him and the source of that scent.  His mind is suddenly assaulted with the memory of her breasts bouncing tantalizingly in his face, and he inhales sharply.

"Yeah, I bet that does hurt," Scully says, mistaking his gasp of arousal for a sound of pain.  "You're gonna have a pretty good lump back there."  She rests back on her knees and pushes on his shoulders until he's sitting upright, leaning back against the wall, closing his eyes against the dizziness brought on by the change in position.  When he hears her chuckling, he squints at her, finding her looking down at his boxers, her eyebrows raised in amusement.  "Guess you can't be hurt that badly, if that particular reflex is intact," she says.  "What on earth happened?"  Her question immediately jogs his memory, and he tries, again, to climb to his feet, looking around the room in terror, nearly losing his balance again.  Scully ducks under his arm to support him, helping him across the room.

"I saw it, Scully," he says, once he's satisfied that the room is still empty, though it continues to spin as he staggers towards the bed.  Scully helps him sit down in the spot she'd vacated minutes earlier.

"Saw what?" she asks.

"The spirit.  The ghost."  He looks up at her, knowing exactly the expression that's going to greet his statement, and she does not disappoint.  She sighs and crosses her arms.

"Mulder, you withstood a pretty hard knock there," she says patiently.  "Hard enough that the noise woke me up.  It's not surprising that you might have hallucinated for a moment."  He shakes his head, but that's still painful, and he stops immediately.

"No, that's why I hit my head," he explains.  "It was right there, standing right where you are now.  It was- she was watching you sleep."

"Watching me sleep," Scully repeats, her tone flat, here eyebrow arched.  Mulder nods.

"It was exactly like the other guests said it was," he insists.  "The Farleys, and the Menendezes.  It was a woman.  Long hair.  Red eyes."  He shudders at the memory.  "Well, red when she was looking at me, anyway."

"But not when she was looking at me?"

“No," Mulder says.  "When she was watching you, she was just... a woman.  A spirit of some sort, obviously, but still just a woman."  He frowns, remembering the spirit's face.  "She looked almost sad while she was watching you.  Mournful."  He can't quite put it into words, the sorrow on the woman's face, the heartbreak that had been somehow familiar.  He wonders, briefly: is that what he's looked like, these past few weeks, when he's looked at her, when he's watched her trying to hide away her pain?

"And when she looked at you, she... changed?"

"Completely," Mulder confirms.  "I stepped towards the bed, and she turned towards me.  One minute, she was a woman, and the next... she was a monster."

"I can almost sympathize.  Sometimes you have the same effect on me, Mulder."  She turns away and digs into her bag atop the vanity, withdrawing a penlight, turning back to him, and switching it on.  "What were you doing on the other side of the room, anyway?" she asks, shining the light into his right eye, checking to make sure it dilates appropriately.  "Coming back from the bathroom?"

"No," he says, as she checks his left eye, then shuts off the light.  "I woke up because the balcony door was open."  

"That explains why it's so cold in here," Scully says.  She holds up a finger, moving it back and forth, and he follows it with his gaze without being told.  It's not the first, or even the fiftieth time she's had to do this for him, and he knows the routine by heart by now.  "So you closed it.  Then what?"  Mulder explains how he'd heard the noise in the hallway and seen the fallen painting, how he'd felt the strange wind that had had no obvious source, how he'd glimpsed the shadow in the mirror and had turned to see the woman hovering over Scully.

"And the second I stepped forward," he finishes, "she changed.  She came at me and made this... this sound... like a growl and a scream together, but not really, and I fell back into the mirror and woke you up."  Scully purses her lips thoughtfully.  She turns and puts the penlight away in her bag, then sits next to him on the bed.

"It sounds," she says, "as though the door blew open, which, understandably, woke you up... but not all the way.  You closed it, but you were still mostly asleep, and you thought you heard a noise- or maybe you did; there are other people in this hotel, after all- and you looked outside, and when you came back in, you-"

"I wasn't dreaming, Scully," Mulder insists, cutting her off.  "I know that's what you're going to say, and that's not what happened.  I was wide awake.  I saw her, and she looked exactly the way the witnesses described her."

"I think you saw her that way because that's what you expected to see, Mulder," says Scully.  "Your subconscious took the image you'd read in the case file and ran with it."  Mulder continues to shake his head emphatically.

"I promise you, Scully, I was wide awake.  I'm absolutely sure of what I saw."  Scully crosses her arms and purses her lips.  She glances at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

"Well, we can't go wandering off looking for it at almost three in the morning," she says with a sigh.  "Not if you have a head injury."

"I'm fine, Scully," Mulder says dismissively.  "No concussion, right?"

"It's unlikely, but I can't be certain," Scully says.  "One way or another, you're not going ghost-hunting right this second, and neither am I.  You're going to lie down and get some sleep, and I'm going to wake you every hour to make sure you're still responsive."  She pushes him gently, making him lie down in the space she'd vacated minutes before, pulling the quilt up over him.  She switches off the light, goes around to the other side of the bed, and climbs in.

"You won't need to," Mulder tells her.  "It's just a bump, Scully.  I didn't get hit that hard."

"It was hard enough to make you hallucinate," Scully says, and Mulder groans in frustration.

"I already told you, I fell and got hit by the mirror because of seeing the spirit.  Not the other way around.  Why can't you believe me?"  Scully sighs.

"Get to sleep, Mulder," she tells him wearily.  "I'll be waking you up before you know it."

"It'll be completely unnecessary," says Mulder, glancing across the room into the mirror, half-expecting to see a shadow flitting across it again.  "There's absolutely no way I'm getting back to sleep after seeing that."  He rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling, glowing pale blue in the dim light from the windows.  The bedclothes rustle to his left, and moments later, Scully is pressed against his side.  She slips one warm hand under his t-shirt.

"I think I might be able to help you get to sleep," she whispers, her lips brushing his ear, and a shiver runs through him.  He rolls on his side, reaching for her, sliding his hand along her neck, palming the back of her head, and brings her lips to his.  Scully slides her leg up and over his hip.  Mulder starts to roll her onto her back... and then stops.  Reluctantly, he breaks the kiss.

"What's wrong, Mulder?" Scully asks, frowning at him.  In the dim light, he can make out confusion- and no small amount of hurt- in her expression, as, gently, he removes her hand from under his shirt and holds it between both of his own.

"Scully," he says, "I don't want this to be just something we do when I want to talk about something and you don't."  She freezes, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

"What are you talking about?" she asks in a low voice.

"Right now, I want to tell you about what I saw, and you want to dismiss it."

"Mulder, just because I don't want to argue about the plausibility of the existence of spirits or ghosts or what have you at three in the morning does not mean that I-"

"And the last time," Mulder continues, talking over her, "you stopped me from asking-"

"Mulder, don't-"

"From asking you how you were coping-"

"Mulder, I'm warning you-"

"How you were coping with losing Emily."  Scully's eyes close, and she yanks her hand forcefully out of his grasp.

"You're suggesting that I'm using sex to shut you up," she accuses, and Mulder shakes his head.

"I'm not suggesting it, Scully," he says.  "I'm saying that it's exactly what you're doing.  And I don't want it to be that way between us."  He tries to recapture her hand, but she backs away.  "I feel like we could be more than that. So much more."  She rolls on her back, shaking her head.

"We don't have to be anything at all," she says.  "Not if that's how you see me."  Anger boils up in Mulder's chest.  He clenches his jaw, adding to the already-pounding headache leftover from his encounter with the mirror.  The words are leaving his lips before he can stop them.

"Fine," he says.  "Don't talk to me.  Keep on pretending you're totally alone in this."

"I'm not pretending, Mulder," Scully snaps.  "I am alone in this."

"If you really believe that, Scully," sighs Mulder, rolling away from her, "then I don't know what to tell you."

She's silent after that.  Mulder opens his mouth to speak once, twice, three times, but loses his nerve each time, and finally, Scully's breathing becomes deep and even.  When he's certain she's asleep, he rolls back over, being careful not to move the mattress, not to wake her, and curls up on his side, facing her.  The pillow he's lying on, where she had rested her head until he'd woken her up, still smells like her, and it comforts him, being surrounded by her essence as he watches her sleep.

He's never known how to convince her to let him in.  Even when she'd had cancer, when she'd been half a breath from the end of her life, she had preferred to suffer through it alone, never letting her stoic facade crack.  He's been trying for years to gain access to her heart, and while she's opened up to him somewhat, in the smallest of increments, she still snaps closed the moment grief begins to overwhelm her.

He watches her in the darkness, inhaling her sweet fragrance, fighting to keep his hands from stroking her cheek, her hair.  She'd set the alarm to wake her in one hour, to check on him, and when it rings, she opens her eyes as he's turning it off.  She rolls to face him and sees that he's awake.  They watch one another cautiously, saying nothing, until she reaches for his hand.  Wordlessly they intertwine their fingers, and they lie still gazing at one another until she drifts back to sleep.

 -------------------------

 "We should split up for a little while after breakfast," Scully suggests as Mulder steps out of the bathroom.  "Talk to some guests, talk to some employees, see what we can find out.  We'll cover more ground that way."  Mulder nods his agreement.  They're slightly tense after the previous night, but as always, they've reached an unspoken agreement not to talk about it.  She straightens her hair at the vanity as he buttons up his shirt, and when they're both dressed, he extends his hand to her with a smile.

"Ready, Honey?" he asks, and she rolls her eyes, but consents to holding his hand as they walk downstairs.  Their server this morning is a young woman named Valerie, but the dining room is far too busy for her to linger by their table long enough for them to ask her any questions.  And in any case, Mulder points out, the daytime employees are less likely to have seen anything strange, since most of the reported activity seems to occur at night.

"I'm going to go mingle with the other guests," says Scully as they leave the dining room, nodding towards the enormous common area to the left of the lobby.  There's a fire roaring in the hearth, and numerous couples are sitting in groups around tables all over the room, talking, playing board games, and relaxing, watching the storm continuing to batter the grounds outside.

"Sounds good," Mulder agrees.  "I'm gonna go bother the guy at the reception desk.  Even if he doesn't work nights, he might have heard something from someone who does... or at least he can point me in the right direction."  He bends to kiss Scully on the cheek before she can object, and with an expression that says all to clearly that she's just barely suppressing a roll of her eyes, she leaves for the common room.

The young man at the front desk smiles as Mulder approaches.  

"Can I help you with something, Sir?" he asks.  His name tag reads "Evan," and like nearly every other employee here, he looks to be in his early twenties.

"Yeah, actually," says Mulder, leaning on the counter.  "I'm real interested in the history of this hotel.  My wife and I have heard some pretty strange rumors."  Evan's smile falters slightly, but he recovers immediately.

"Oh, all hotels have their rumors," he says genially.  It's almost the exact same thing that Damon had said at dinner the night before, and Mulder suspects that this is what all of the hotel employees have been told to say whenever guests reference the strange goings-on.

"Sure, sure," Mulder says with a wave of his hand.  "But not all hotels have ghosts, do they?"

"I've never seen a ghost here," Evan says, chuckling.  "But, then, I only work a few mornings a week, and only at the reception desk, and I've never heard of a ghost that checks in at the front desk before haunting a hotel!"  Mulder laughs.

"No, I guess that if there were a ghost, it wouldn't be likely to show up first thing in the morning, huh?"  He shakes his head.  "But how about the night clerks?  Any of them ever see anything weird?"

"I wouldn't know anything about that, Sir," says Evan.  "The guy I replace in the mornings is always in a big hurry to get home, but I would be, too, if I'd been here all night and only had a few hours to sleep before my afternoon classes."

"This place has only been a hotel for a few years, am I right?" Mulder asks, and Evan nods.  "And before that it was a home for Catholic girls, and before that it was some sort of hospital."

"That's correct, Sir," Evan says.  "I take it you've read our brochure?"

"I have," says Mulder.  "And it seems to me that if there were a ghost haunting the halls here, it probably would have come from some time before the building became a hotel, wouldn't it?"

"I guess that makes sense," Evan concedes.  "But I'm afraid I don't know too much about the building's history, beyond what's in the brochure.  You'd have to have a look at our library for that."  Mulder brightens at this.

"You've got a library?" he asks.  "With stuff on the building's history?"

"Oh, yeah," says Evan, glad to have a question he can answer without worrying about getting in trouble with his boss.  "It's got all kinds of stuff that Mr. Pekarcik saved when he bought the building.  Guest books from when it was a health retreat, account ledgers, delivery records, the admissions records the men from the archdiocese left behind.  It's all organized, really easy to navigate.  Mr. Pekarcik is really big on the building's history."

"I'd really like to see that," says Mulder.  "Where can I find this library?"

"It's a room just to the left of the stairs on the second floor," says Evan.  "It's got glass double doors.  You can't miss it."  Mulder smiles.

"Evan, you've been a huge help," he says, and Evan smiles happily, clearly relieved that Mulder has not continued to pump him for rumors.

"Glad to have been of service," he says, and Mulder goes to find Scully.

She's sitting on a love seat near the fire, across from a middle-aged couple relaxing on a sofa.  She smiles up at him as he approached.

"There you are, Eric," she says, patting the empty space beside her.  He sits, sliding an arm around her shoulders and pulling her flush against himself, kissing her temple, taking the opportunity to touch her and love her while he can, while he's expected to.  Scully turns to the couple sitting across from her.  "This is my husband, Eric.  Eric, this is Amy and Stephen Thibodeau.  They were just telling me that they've spent a week here every year since the hotel opened."  Mulder’s face lights up.

“Nice to meet you!” he says, shaking hands with the couple.

“Likewise,” says Stephen.  “Danielle was saying that this is your first time here?”

“That’s right,” says Mulder, giving Scully a squeeze and a beaming smile.  “We thought about going somewhere tropical on our honeymoon, you know, to escape the winter weather, but then we thought: what could be more romantic than curling up together in front of the fire while a snowstorm rages outside?”

“That’s exactly how we feel,” says Amy, gazing up at her husband. “Our friends pay an arm and a leg to go on a cruise or a beach vacation every few years, and for a fraction of that cost, we come up here every winter and have a lovely time.”

“So you guys must have all the dirt on this place, huh?” Mulder asks, getting right to the point.  “I was just trying to get the clerk at the front desk to dish, and he wouldn’t do it. Gave me the same line our waiter gave us at dinner last night.”

“Let me guess,” says Stephen. “’Every hotel has its rumors.’ Right?”

“Word for word,” says Mulder, and Scully nods her agreement.  “But I heard, from a co-worker who stayed here once and recommended the place, that it’s haunted.”  Stephen and Amy exchange a look.  “Have you guys ever seen anything weird?”

“Well, no, not exactly,” says Stephen.  “We’ve heard all kinds of stories about the ghost, of course, even if we haven’t ever seen anything ourselves.  But we were staying here when a freak accident took place, two years ago.”

“Really?” Scully asks, leaning forward.  “What sort of accident?”

“A guy burned to death in the hotel kitchen,” says Stephen.  Mulder and Scully both manage a convincing gasp of horror.

“How awful,” says Scully.  “Was it a cooking fire?”

“No, it wasn’t,” says Amy.  “And that’s the weird thing: it wasn’t one of the chefs or the servers. It wasn’t even an employee.”

“A guest died in a kitchen fire?” asks Mulder, and Amy and Stephen nod.

“That’s what made it so bizarre,” says Amy.  “Nobody has any idea what he was doing in there.  It was the middle of the night, and the kitchen door should have been locked.  And there was no food out or anything, so he didn’t wake up hungry and try to cook himself a meal.  As far as they could tell, he turned on the burners on one of the stoves and just… leaned over too far.”

“His wife didn’t even know he’d gotten out of bed until the fire alarm went off,” Stephen says.  “We were all outside in our pajamas, waiting for the fire department to arrive, and she was rushing all over, screaming his name, trying to find him.”

“It was horrific,” says Amy.  “Especially when the EMTs arrived and they brought him out. He died on the way to the hospital, but when they wheeled him out to the ambulance, he was still screaming.  Totally incoherent, yelling about red eyes, eyes on fire, something like that.  Made no sense.”  Mulder’s pulse quickens in excitement, and he glances down at Scully, who is frowning.

“He was yelling that his eyes are on fire?” she asks, and Stephen and Amy shake their heads.

“He was screaming that he’d seen someone with red eyes,” says Stephen.  “Which fits in with the rumors, of course.  Everyone who claims to have seen the ghost describes it one of two ways.”

“How’s that?” asks Mulder eagerly.

“Either as a woman in a black dress, with a mournful expression,” says Stephen, “or as a black phantom with glowing red eyes.”  Mulder just barely manages to contain his smile of triumph as he glances down at Scully, who is still looking skeptical.

“And a lot of people have seen it?  Or her, or whatever they think it is?” she asks.

“We hear from someone who’s seen her every year,” says Amy.  “I’m glad we haven’t seen the red-eyed version, because that sounds absolutely terrifying- most of the people who see that seem to cut their trip short and check out early- but I’ll admit, I’d kinda like to see the lady in the black dress.”  She looks a little sheepish.  “I’m really into ghost stories, the paranormal, that sort of thing.” Her husband smiles down at her affectionately.

“So is Eric,” says Scully, laying a hand on his thigh (making him shiver at the unexpected touch) and grinning up at him.  “Some of our friends thought that we might cancel our trip when my colleague told Eric that this place might be haunted, but really, that just made him want to extend our stay!”  She and Stephen exchange a smile of solidarity, then Stephen turns to his wife.

“Well, Sweetie, what do you say we go get our breakfast before the kitchen closes?” he asks Amy, standing and holding out his hand, which Amy takes as she rises.

“It was very nice to meet you,” she says, as Stephen slides an arm around her waist.  “You guys are here for a week?”

“Until next Sunday,” says Mulder.  “Unless, of course, I catch a glimpse of this supposed ghost, in which case, we’re staying another week.”  Scully doesn’t hold back on rolling her eyes this time as Amy and Stephen laugh.

“We’ll see you around, then,” says Stephen, and he escorts Amy back out to the lobby.  Mulder turns to Scully with a smug smile.

“Red eyes, Scully,” he says, keeping his voice low.

“Danielle,” she hisses.  “And it proves nothing.  All it takes is one person to claim they’ve seen something, and hysteria kicks in. Put a suggestible person in an unfamiliar environment, tell them a scary story about a ghost with red eyes, and there’s every chance they’ll think they’ve seen it before the night is over.”

“And how about seen the woman with the mournful expression?” Mulder demands.  “We’d heard about the red eyes before we got here.  But the report said nothing about an unhappy-looking woman… and yet, I saw her. How do you explain that?”

“I can’t,” Scully admits.  “But I’m still not going to accept it as fact unless I see it with my own eyes.  You know that.”

“Yeah, I do,” says Mulder.  “Maybe tonight will be the night.”

“Maybe,” Scully concedes.  “But until then, what do you want to do?”

“Well,” says Mulder, standing and pulling Scully to her feet, “I think I might know where to go to find you a little of that hard evidence you love so much.”  Scully raises her eyebrows.

“Oh?”  Wrapping an arm around her waist, Mulder leads her back to the lobby.

“Yeah,” he says.  “I got a tip from the desk clerk.  I say before we do anything else, we find out all we can about the history of this place.”

[coeurdastronaute]

Giant: Ch. 2

I wish that I had known in That first minute we met The unpayable debt That I owed you.

Previously on Giant

Hovering, Kara flopped down on the water tower, her body achy from the robbery she stopped. She didn’t know how to fight, but she could overpower anyone. The problem came with guns. The little ones left a bruise. A shotgun, she learned, that could knock the wind right out of her at close range, though they were getting easier to handle, like a muscle that needed flexed. Just a few days ago, she found herself able to deflect armor piercing rounds, which was cool, to say the least.

Another sweatshirt ruined, though.

The sneaking around, the lying to her mother and sister. It was a lot, it weighed her down, but Kara felt the most like herself than she’d ever been before. Operating under a mask, she was the most Kara that ever existed.

With a groan, she sat up, the cold of the winter weather soaked tower easing her bruises. It was still early, and soon she would take a warm shower and sleep. She planned on sleeping all day the following day. That was how a weekend should work.

Back in the distance, Kara thought she heard something, something familiar, but she yawned and stretched out her arm. It took a few seconds for her brain to catch up.

“Lena,” she swallowed, the chill coming from fear, not from the cold.

Faster than lightning, she was off, frantically searching until she saw the car, swerving down the interstate, speeding and veering. From her vantage point, she x-rayed the car and saw cut wires, saw the driver stamping his foot on brakes that wouldn’t work.

Kara slammed herself down in front of the speeding car, rooting both of her hands in the bumper. The wheels kept turning, kept churning. Her ears picked up Lena’s heartbeat and Kara smashed the hood, punching a hole in the engine so it stopped. It took a few more feet for the car to skid to a stop, and quickly, Kara pulled up her hood and made sure her mask was in place before walking around the side.

The car door was ripped off. Kara hadn’t meant to do that, but it happened. She let it drop after looking at it, slightly confused at why.

“You okay?” she barked, trying to disguise her voice. The hand that came out trembled. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe now.”

“Tha-- Thank. Thank you,” Lena managed, surveying the damage as the driver pulled himself out. “Who are you?”

“Just a good samaritan.”

For a moment, the way the eyes stared at her, she was certain Lena knew. Green eyes bore into her own, searching for words, not believing it. Kara looked away and finally took a few steps before disappearing with a flash, leaving Lena suddenly confused in her wake.

After the accident, Lionel upped security. He didn’t have concrete answers for his daughter, but she knew it had something to do with all of his meetings in DC and the new defense contracts. He doted on her more than usual, offering to cut her hours at work so she could have an easy summer, the guilt wearing him down. He was proud when Lena declined, happy to work, even if it was mailroom and assistant work. Her brother did it before, and he would take over the company. She did it so she could feel like a Luthor, because she was a Luthor, and she got power from the name by giving it power.

She didn’t tell anyone about the weird, mask wearing thing that saved her, except for Kara, who listened intently and fretted over if she was alright or not.

“You aren’t even pretending to study,” Lena half-heartedly complained as she looked over top of her book at the girl in her yard. 

“I’m not taking college classes,” Kara grunted, smiling as she looked at the girl on the chair, carefully concentrating on her balance as she did a handstand in the grass. 

“You’re distracting.”

“You’re boring.” 

“Fuck me,” Lena moaned and tossed her book on the chair beside her. Kara collapsed on the ground a second after the noise. “I’m so sick of studying.” 

“I can’t believe they let you into Kingsmont with a mouth like that,” she grunted, wincing as she tried to catch her breath. 

Spreading her arm wide, pressing herself into the grass, Kara tried to get the memory of that noise out of her head. It echoed between her  ears though.

“Kara, my head is going to explode.” 

“We can’t have that, can we?” she asked, squinting her eyes and cocking her head as she peered up at the studious one of the bunch. “Come on.”

“What?” 

“Come on. You need some dirt time in your life.” 

“I have to study.” 

“Listen, you’re one of my favorite people in the world, and I can’t have your head exploding.”

Sitting up on the ground, Kara patted it and stood again. Hands on her hips, she stood tall and demanding. Lena complained, though she relented by heaving herself off the chair. 

“My mom said that burning off energy is the best way to focus,” Kara explained, toeing the spare soccer ball that rested near a shrub. 

“You’re going to break your neck,” Lena objected as her friend attempted to juggle. “I’ve seen you fall walking on a flat surface.” 

“If you’re so good, then take it,” she taunted, kicking it from side to side. 

“Seriously?” 

All Kara had to do was quirk her eyebrow and shrug. It was not difficult to distract a Luthor, and she knew her’s very well. Not even a full minute later, did Lena succeed in taking the ball back. Like the show-off she was, she juggled it a bit until she rested a foot on top of it, waiting for Kara to do her worst. 

“That’s cheating!” Lena yelped, laughing too hard as Kara picked her up and swung her back so she could steal the ball. 

“Says you,” she teased, trotting across the yard. 

All too quickly, Lena was back on her, laughing in her ear. Kara did more than she could admit to hear a laugh like that. Even when they were in school, or with other people, it was a different laugh. This one was her’s, and she kept it to herself, happy to have it. 

“Your arms are too long!”

“You’re tickling me!” Kara giggled, still failing at keeping away the person who actually knew what she was doing. “Cheater.” 

“Says you,” she returned, sticking out her tongue. 

“Give it back.” 

“Nope.” 

The game wasn’t much, was simple, had no rules at all, but simply happened. Lena chased and showed off, while Kara cheated and heaved Lena over her shoulder. The evening came in without them noticing. The lightning bugs came out and lazily drifted through the field. 

She came under the pretense of study, though Kara never any intention of doing that. She just wanted to escape her mom’s cheery wake and her sister’s grumpy, over-protective streak. She just wanted to feel like she had some kind of anchor while everything swirled around. Between the paper, and school, and family and a boyfriend, Kara was missing the simplicity. Lena had that. Lena kept it for her. 

“Now you’re definitely cheating,” Lena laughed, holding her chest as Kara tickled her to the ground in a heap. 

“Me? No way. You started it.” 

“I did not!” 

Before Kara could register, she felt herself roll slightly as Lena hovered too close. 

“Admit that I’m the best.” 

“Best what?” 

Kara pretended to struggle against Lena’s hands. She was in no particular rush to get back to physics. She was quite alright in the grass with the lightning bugs and Lena’s weight on top of her. 

“Best friend slash genius slash soccer star you know.” 

“You’re the best Lena I know.” 

“Yeah?” 

Kind of surprised by the answer, Lena found herself leaning closer. She was maddeningly beautiful on a bad day, entirely too astounding at her worst, and currently, stuck to the ground, Kara was perfect. 

She wasn’t sure how it happened, just that it did. Where Kara licked her lips as she stared too long at Lena bitting her own. 

With the excruciating kind of effort Kara survived only by tilting her head up slightly and met nothing. Lena pulled away and quickly dropped her hands, brushing herself with the dirt. 

“Best Lena, huh?” 

“Something like that,” Kara shrugged. 

She remained lying in the dirt, feeling the grass that was almost warm from the almost summer day. As the night came in, the breeze picked up and the stagnant warmth disappeared with the sun. Kara didn’t mind. She just stayed there and tried to find stars that first appeared. 

At first Lena thought of getting up, though it proved unappetizing. Instead, she rested her head on Kara’s hip and looked up at the same sky, both perpendicular and both locked into the moment that never happened. Because if it happened, they wouldn’t have this any more, and both needed it. 

Kara toyed with Lena’s hair who just sighed and stared at the stars. 

Summer settled into a familiar kind of rhythm. Lena worked a few days per week, spent the rest lounging around with Kara, trying to train with a few girls from soccer for their prospective colleges. It was spent on days at the beach trying not to stare at her friend in a bikini. With abs. Her friend with abs. Her friend who kissed the quarterback and held his hand. Her friend. It would be selfish to think anything more. Dangerous and selfish.

Not even that was enough of a damper on the summer though. Lena had the entire world at her fingertips, and she felt great.

The crickets sang in the night as she opened the door to her balcony and toweled her hair after a particularly rewarding shower after a particularly rewarding run with another girl from her team who was going to Kingsmont. Lena felt her legs ache, that delicious kind of feeling of hard work that was rarely manifested in lingering ways.

She checked her phone, hoping to hear from Kara about plans to go see the Hawks play that weekend, though she was disappointed to see nothing there, yet again.

With a small sigh, Lena picked up a book she’d been meaning to finish and flopped on the couch. For once, she was almost mad she got out of the gala her parents and brother were going to back in the city. The house was too empty, and she was too lonely.

But a night with a good book, that wasn’t a night wasted. Lena trained herself to be alone, always taking to heart what her father said about surrounding herself with worthwhile people. She would rather there be just a few, than to fill her time with sycophants.

The slow rumble of thunder grumbled outside as a summer storm blew in from the ocean. Not a chapter later, the sky let loose and the rain whooshed to the ground, creating a quiet kind of orchestra, clacking on the railing of the balcony, plopping in the pool, tapping on leaves and window panes in rhythm.

Thunder and the storm and occasionally lightning raged outside while Lena turned her music down slightly to accommodate the new arrangement. In her opinion it was the perfect summer night.

“Lena?” Kara’s voice came like a whisper, and at first, Lena thought she dreamt it, returning to her book, until it came again, with a small tap at her window. “Lena? Can I come in?”

“What the-- how did you get out here?” Lena jumped up, tossing her book to the ground in her movement.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” her friend offered weakly, knitting her fingers together, still not entering the room, but letting the rain fall on her, weight down her clothes. “I tried calling, but I just… my phone broke.”

“Come in, hurry up, it’s storming like crazy,” her friend rushed her inside, tugging her arm and closing the door behind her as the rain kept up. “How did you get on my balcony?”

“Um, I… well. No one was answering the door…”

“You’re soaking wet, and you’re… Kara, you’re crying,” Lena observed, running her thumb along her cheek, under red eyes that was almost hidden by the weather. “What happened?”

She got sorrowful blue eyes, searching for words and unable to find or say them. Instead of them, Lena got arms hugging her tightly and a quiet kind of grief against her neck.

“If it was Jack, I swear to God, I’ll end him,” she swore, protectively wrapping her up. “Just tell me who. You don’t have to worry.”

“I just want to remember when everything was perfect.”

“Okay,” she soothed, rubbing Kara’s back. “We can do that.”

The cold of the wet clothes sunk into Lena’s, and yet she let Kara hold her as long as she needed, until they were both a shivering mess, half-dry and half-wet and unsure how it all happened. The thunder purred and rolled along, just as unaware of what was happening as Lena.

“What was that?” Lena whispered as Kara sniffled.

“My dad,” she shook her head. “They… he… we… they came to our house today…”

“What happened?”

“Ambush, he… he was… I should have… I could have… He was trying to save them… and a bomb…” Kara shook her head and Lena held her tighter again.

The thunder rolled and Kara cleared her throat before pulling away, wiping her cheek and pushing up her glasses. Someone who looked like that and enjoyed helping people that much should never look like that.

“I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t… I should get back home.”

“Let’s get you dried up,” Lena offered. “Maybe some dinner.You can tell me what’s going on, and I can--”

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have to get home. Mom is laying down, Alex isn’t talking. I just needed a moment to not be… strong for them. I’m sorry I bothered you. I didn’t mean--”

“What can I do, Kara?” she pled.

“Nothing. I’m fine. I’ll be okay.”

“Do you want me to come--”

“I’m fine,” Kara promised again, taking a deep breath. For a moment, Lena almost believed her friend’s entire world wasn’t crumbling. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“I have to go,” she said again.

“Do you want Cal to--”

“I need to walk. The air is nice out right now.”

“Kara…” Lena tried as Kara held the doorknob to go back onto the patio. “I am so very sorry for what happened to your father.”

“He would have liked you,” Kara decided with a sad smile. “He liked smart girls.”

“Then he was over the moon for you.”

“I just wanted to remember when things were perfect. They can be perfect again, right?”

“A different kind of perfect, yeah,” Lena promised. “Nothing will ever happen that would make it impossible to feel that way again. It doesn’t seem like it now.”

There wasn’t anything she could think of saying, as much as she desperately wanted words to come out, to keep Kara there, and safe, and even if it was sad, smiling as she tried to through it. Lena just watched as Kara walked out into the storm and disappeared.

As soon as she was gone, Lena called her own father, to tell him she loved him. Her lungs constricted until he picked up.

Five days after the storm, after the news, after it all, Kara somehow found herself sitting outside, under softly swaying branches, as the sun whined and made everyone sweat in their black and grief.

She eyed the empty casket and felt her mother’s hand squeeze her own. The world smelled like dirt, just pure dirt and salt.

The service was quick enough, the wake was too long. Kara kept quiet, helped her mother, tried to be as gracious as she could. She had to, because her sister was gone, completely useless and grieving, and her mother was forgetful, distracted and upset. Normally, it was her father that kept them together, kept spirits high. Kara felt that sense of duty to wear the burden. It didn’t fit quite right on her shoulders.

“It was a nice service,” Lena offered, pausing in the doorway as Kara stood in the middle of her own room and stared at nothing in particular.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Kara shook her head, quite lost and unsure.

So different than the normally joyful puppy, Lena was unsure how to approach such a sad, grieving thing. Sometimes it was so easy to forget that this was the same girl that buried her parents already at the age of eight, that still was so full of life after an arguably terrible childhood. Even then, at the deepest, darkest point, with the only other father she knew dead, Kara was still beautiful and full of life, perhaps more than ever before.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“Alex won’t talk. She’s… And Mom… how am I supposed to go to school and leave her here alone?”

“Those are tomorrow’s problems, Kara.”

“Thank you for coming today,” she remembered her manners, her own tangential thinking taking her far away to many regrets. “It meant a lot.”

“You couldn’t think I was going to let you do this alone.”

“I haven’t been able to think of much, actually.”

“Why don’t we change, and just… not think for a while? I’ll go steal some of those snacks you like, because you have to eat, and we can watch happy movies.”

“You don’t have to stick around. I’m alright.”

“I know you’re not, and that’s okay. You don’t have to pretend around me, Kara.”

“It feels like I’ll never be happy again,” she finally confessed.

“I didn’t know your dad, but I can tell you one thing, he would never want that, and you’re Kara. You are happy by nature.”

“I don’t know about that either.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Lena promised. “You’re taking the night off of babysitting your family.”

It took a little work, but finally, Lena was able to get her to change from her funeral attire, and it took a little more work, but she snagged a few trays and actually got Kara to eat. They curled up in bed and quietly watched movies. Lena texted her parents and told them she was staying the night. There was no real choice in the matter. Kara held her hips so tightly with her head against Lena’s stomach, that there was no way to escape the sleeping girl.

And so she didn’t.

The bitter taste of death was unshakeable, no matter what Kara did. She was removed, distant, unable to pay attention to much, unable to control herself.

Her fist connected again with the car thief’s jaw. Battered and bruise, his face was a pulp and blood covered her hands and shirt, but Kara couldn’t make herself stop until she heard sirens and looked down at what she’d done.

Unaccustomed to such monstrosities, Kara stood and stared at her fists, at the man who passed out long ago.

In an instant she was gone, and as she scrubbed her hands at home, turning the pristine white sink this soapy red and brown tint, she watched them shake and became slightly afraid of what she was capable of being.

High atop the city, two pairs of legs kicked through the railing and looked out at the world that had become their kingdom. Summer groaned and waned, ready to come to an end as schools started and an exodus of recent graduates headed off to their universities and colleges. From the water tower, the city looked so much smaller that they remembered it.

“Are you sure?” Lena asked again, taking a swig from the flask she filled from the party they bailed on to come up there.

Their final night before heading off to school, and neither wanted the sun to come up for some reason. So they chased a the night like dogs chasing cars, ambling through streets, thinking and talking about nothing and everything. It’d been a long, amazing, hard year, and they needed to catch their breath.

“I can’t leave her. I’ll just take a few classes at Tech downtown, and transfer next year,” Kara shrugged. “Alex… she…”

“Still no word from her?”

“Just that she’s back at school. Nothing else. I never thought she’d be… leave. I… we needed her, and she just…”

“Yeah,” Lena nodded, sighing slightly and watching Kara watch the word.

The liquor made her smile and stare at Kara’s profile longer than polite, made it so she couldn’t stop once she realized it.

“You can always come visit, you know?”

“You can count on it,” Kara grinned and took a swig of the drink offered to her.

“A year ago, I didn’t know you existed, now look at us.”

“One heck of a year.”

“Can’t you swear just once, Danvers?” Lena shook her head and laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone never swear.”

“I can… I sw-- I’ve sworn.”

“What, when you said darn it instead of dang it?”

“I can… what should I say then, wise guy?”

“Hmm... say fuck.”

“Lena!”

“You’re right. That’s too hardcore,” she nodded before taking another swig. “Say damn.”

“D- Damn,” Kara breathed, taking a drink from the flask and earning a slight applause from her friend.

“How much did that hurt?”

“So much,” she confessed with a laugh

From their seats on the water tower, both leaned their chins against the railing and watched the world happen without them, as if they were spectators on the universe, as if they could control anything at all.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” Lena remembered after a quiet stretch. “I just got here, and now I’m leaving.”

“That’s how it goes. A place is a place,” Kara reminded her. “Someone told me that once.”

“Yeah, that’s how it always felt, but this place feels the most like home.”

“The best thing about homes is, they’re always there, no matter what, even if they explode.”

“What?”

“Metaphorically,” Kara quickly added. “I don’t know. I’m drunk.” It was a lie, but still, she took another sip of the flask and handed it back to her friend. “You’ll come back, won’t you?”

“Without a doubt,” Lena nodded. “And I’ll be sitting right here, this day next year, and we’ll both be heading off to National City.”

“That sounds nice.”

“We don’t have to leave this place, do we?”

“The water tower? Yes. We could get arrested.”

“Oh.”

“You’re drunk,” Kara giggled as Lena moped at the news.

“I just… I know it’s not perfect yet, like it was, but this moment, between all of the other stuff, it’s kind of perfect, right?”

Big, green eyes like forests after the rain, Kara decided, stared at her and asked so innocently, she was sure she hadn’t ever heard Lena’s voice sound like that, almost unsure and more hopeful than she was surely accustomed.

“It’s kind of perfect,” Kara promised.

Kara watched her bite her lip and she swallowed hard at the image which would surely star in many, many flashbacks over the year to come. The smell of vodka lingered on her lips, but was masked by this distinct kind of fragrance that Kara could only attribute to her. Soft and delicate, it was warm, like lavender petals left in the sun, or even a little cinnamon thrown into baking bread. It was always there, always distracting and intoxicating.

Lena’s brow furrowed, and Kara shifted slightly as fingertips moved to her cheeks. Softly, they moved along her jaw, as Lena’s eyes followed the journey. So intense was the stare, that Kara was unsure if any had ever seen her like that before, or if anyone ever would again. Tenderly, thumbs ran over her lips and she gulped.

“Perfect,” Lena whispered, almost lost to even the super-hearing.

It was her other senses that took over in that moment. Kara couldn’t hear a thing other than her heartbeat, couldn’t smell anything except that summer smell of vodka and suntan lotion and baked skin, couldn’t feel anything but tiny shivers at the base of her back.

It took a minute after, for Jack’s name to flash in her head, but Kara dismissed it with super speed. As soon as Lena’s lips touched her own, she dug her hands into the metal of the walkway they sat on, leaving handprints on the edge to keep herself from floating away.

It was tentative at first, brazen a second later, fueled by drinking and sunshine and summer and endings and beginnings. Hand slipped into her hair and Kara sighed when Lena pulled away instead of deepening it as her body betrayed that she wanted.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Lena smiled and let her hands drop. “Just to see how it felt.”

“Yeah?” Kara gulped and watched her friend turn her head and rest her chin on the palm of her hand before gazing out over the streetlights and streets, the headlights that glided along half-lit roads. Her smile was lazy and filled with booze, but it was victorious all the same.

“I have a boyfriend…” she finally began to ramble in the quiet. “I- I didn’t-- We. You’re my best--”

“Kara, just… let it be perfect, okay? Just for tonight, just for this one minute. Sixty seconds of perfect. Don’t have an aneurism.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” Lena sighed and rested her head on her friend’s shoulder once more with a sigh. It was heavy and filled with the knowledge that it was worse than she thought, it wasn’t just a crush. Even worse still, she never could do anything about it.

NEXT

[j-and-b-walkabout-blog]

WEEK EIGHT (Dec 22 - Dec 28)

SYDNEY, NSW, AUS  //  MELBOURNE, VIC, AUS

As if we hadn't walked enough the previous day, the six of us hopped on the M50 bus to Coogee Beach, just southeast of Sydney, to walk along the 6km coastal trail to Bondi Beach. The walk took us through various small coves, bays, and beaches, all the while providing gorgeous views of the Australian coastline. We passed through Dolphin's Point, Gordon's Bay, Bronte Beach, Tamarama Beach, and the beautiful Waverly Cemetery. Roughly three hours later when we finally arrived at Bondi Beach, we celebrated with victory beers at Bondi Iceberg's Club. We sat on a balcony overlooking the bay, and watched surfers from our high vantage point. All that walking gave us quite the appetite, so we made tracks over to the Corner House to take advantage of their $15 Thursday pizza specials. Luckily for us, the 333 bus stopped quite close to the restaurant, so it was no hassle getting back to the apartment for a good night's rest.

The next two days were spent driving in our van from Sydney to Melbourne. We left a day earlier than Jed's family, since we had to drive with all of our luggage. The drive between the two cities reminded us a lot of California, with lots of farmland and golden rolling hillsides. To cut the long drive in half, we stopped at a free camp spot in Gundagai, near a river and some train tracks. We arrived right before sunset to the local firefighters wishing everybody a "Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas" from their truck's loudspeakers. Despite the fact that there were heaps of squawking parrots and cockatoos in the trees all around us, we were able to get a decent nights rest and start out early the next day before it got too hot. Upon arriving in Melbourne, we stopped by a Woolworth's to buy groceries for a Christmas picnic because we knew that all the shops would be closed on Christmas day. In true Australian fashion, we purchased prawns, cold ham and turkey for sandwiches, salad fixings, beer, wine, and a small salted carmel cake. After the long drive we were looking to just relax a bit, so while we waited for Jed's family to arrive from the Melbourne airport, we watched the only Christmas movie our TV had access to… A Very Harold and Kumar Christmas in 3D. Around 1am, we received a call that everyone else had finally arrived at the apartment, so we met them downstairs, helped with their bags, and went to sleep.

Merry Christmas everyone! On Christmas morning, we opened presents and listened to a playlist of holiday classics. We even learned a few Christmas songs on guitar and ukelele, and sang/played for our families (Brittany's via FaceTime). We packed our picnic supplies, deck of playing cards, and a couple Santa Hats, and decided to have our holiday lunch at the Melbourne Botanic Gardens. It was around 100°F that day, so we ate our lunch in the shade of a large tree. After a few hours had flown by, we dropped everything off back at the apartment, and decided to stroll along the Melbourne River Walk to look for a place to eat dinner. In traditional American Christmas fashion, we ultimately settled on having Chinese food at the Red Emperor.

Brittany had been fighting off a cold the previous couple days, and finally decided that she'd need a full days rest to get better. She stayed home while Jed and his family went on a free walking tour of Melbourne. The informative tour, followed a path through most of Melbourne's iconic sites and buildings, and included Chinatown, Melbourne CBD, Flinders Street Station, Carlton Gardens, and the Victoria State Library. That night back at the apartment consisted of salad, "Oh My Goodness" pizza, and a movie.

The following day, we all had a pleasant wander through the CBD to the Victoria State Library to see their exhibition on the infamous Australian bushranger (aka outlaw), Ned Kelly. A Robin Hood of sorts, Kelly was known for stealing from the Victorian government until he was finally captured in a homemade suit of armor and hung in Melbourne Gaol in 1880. The library building itself included several stories of permanent exhibition spaces, as well as a research commons, and reading dome. After lunch, the group split up for a few hours, and we killed some time going t to Hoyt's Cinema to watch Rogue One: A Star Wars Story. We all reconvened on Lygon Street, known as Melbourne's "Little Italy", for a late dinner, and then home.

All of Jed's visiting family really wanted to have a look at some indigenous Australian animals, and since many can be difficult to spot in the cities, we headed to Melbourne Zoo on the 55 Tram. We were all really impressed with the Zoo's layout and landscaping, which reminded us of being at Disneyland. The planners did a fantastic job of grouping the animals together by continent, and then making guests feel as if they were actually visiting that particular region. We were able to witness koalas, kangaroos, a lively platypus, tasmanian devils, wombats, elephants, orangutans, lions, meerkats, giraffes, zebras, etc. Lunch was eaten on a viewpoint overlooking the giraffe enclosure, and then we set off to St. Kilda beach. When the record heatwave became too much for us, we sought refuge in a restaurant called Abbey Road for some pre-dinner drinks. For Allie's birthday, we celebrated with tacos from Radio Mexico before walking the length of St. Kilda pier to see the wild Little (aka Fairy) Penguins return home to the breakwater. The penguins usually wait until sundown before swimming back to their nests. After a spectacular sunset at 8:45pm, we watched in anticipation, along with hundreds of others, for their imminent return. After waiting for over an hour, we finally saw just one little penguin, and then caught the 12 trolley back to the apartment for birthday cake and fresh fruit.

[stumpie456]

6 Daredevil Photographers on the Secrets of Urban Exploration

There’s more to urban exploration than hidden alleys and abandoned buildings. Dive behind-the-scenes with these six daring photographers as they seek out and shoot the secret corners of major cities.

“Urbex” is an abbreviation of “urban exploration,” the practice of exploring the undiscovered areas o f metropolises around the world. Within the urbex community, there are several niches. There are those who seek out abandoned houses and industrial structures, those who prefer systems of underground tunnels, and those who climb rooftops for an unexpected city view. They are all united by a shared passion for the unknown, and they almost always bring their cameras. To give you a sense of the scope of this particular trend, Instagram hosts over five million photographs tagged #urbex.

While viewers recognize urban explorers for their daring feats, this kind of photography is about more than the adrenaline rush. Great urbex photography carries a message about our history and its preservation. When others turn their lenses to the “next big thing,” a few courageous individuals seek out the forgotten, the invisible, the derelict, or the overlooked. Without some of these artists, records of certain areas simply wouldn’t exist. In that sense, urbex is a kind of visual love letter to our cities and a reminder of our past.

For that reason, we asked six urbex photographers of all sorts to give us a behind-the-scenes look at some of their adventures. Time and again, they stressed the importance of safety, and they also explained the rules associated with the urbex community. If we are to preserve these places, we must respect them, so throughout this article, you’ll also find variations on the popular urbex saying, “Take nothing but photographs; leave nothing but footprints.” So, read on to learn more.

1. “I like adventure, but I always stay within certain limits.”

Cristian Lipovan

Image by Cristian Lipovan. Gear: Canon 5D Mark III camera, Canon 16-35mm f/2.8 lens. Settings: Focal length 16mm; f10; ISO 100 (this frame is made of 5 exposures: -6, -3, 0, +3, +6).

What’s the story behind this photo?

This photo is one of my favorites. The first time I found this place on the Internet, I knew I wanted to explore it. I made a big effort to get there, and I had great expectations. This is a mansion on the outskirts of Paris in a wealthy neighborhood. Getting inside was an adventure. I had to climb a two-meter wall, walk through the yard to the building, and then climb the facade to the balcony, where I managed to get inside.

Image by Cristian Lipovan.

Pro Tip

I find locations from my travels and explorations all over the world, and I also find some during my many hours on the Internet, where I look for all sorts of clues and information. Additionally, I have a few virtual friends, and we share locations with one another because we trust each other not to destroy or take anything from those locations.

In most places, I can get in without asking for someone else’s approval, but it’s very important to remember the saying, “Leave nothing but footprints, take nothing but photos!” I always respect this rule, without exception.

Be appropriately equipped, and always be careful when shooting in places that are in serious degradation because most are in the process of collapsing. Many of the places I photograph are pretty risky, so I’m very careful about where I’m going. I like adventure, but I always stay within certain limits.

Instagram | Facebook

2. “Make sure you know exactly where you’re going and how safe the location is.”

Benjamin Beech

Image by Benjamin Beech. Gear: Canon 5D Mark III camera, 28mm lens. Settings: Exposure 1/90 sec; f8; ISO 400.

What’s the story behind this photo?

I am interested in abandoned places, or haikyo in Japanese (I live in Japan). It has been my hobby to explore and photograph abandoned places for the past five years, mainly in Japan but occasionally in other countries too.

This is an abandoned Iron Smelting Factory in rural Japan. It was first built in the 1880s, and it was used for over a hundred years before finally closing its doors in the year 2000. It has sat abandoned and unused ever since. I visited this place two years ago on a cold, wet late-autumn day as a storm was moving into the region.

The imminent storm with the moody skies overhead and the deep red autumnal colors created an amazing atmosphere, which made for some great photographing. Inside the building were rooms of belongings and work offices untouched for almost two decades. This has to be one of my favorite explorations to date.

Benjamin Beech

Benjamin Beech

Benjamin Beech

Pictured: [1] Benjamin Beech [2] Benjamin Beech [3] Benjamin Beech

Pro Tip

Plan your trips well. Make sure you know exactly where you’re going and how safe the location is. Be well prepared with face masks, torches, tripods, and a smartphone. Always go with a friend, or, at the very least, let somebody know where you are going. A lot of these places are extremely old and dangerous; accidents can and do happen. Covering all of the above steps should be standard practice.

I tend to find the locations I visit through online research, and occasionally by accident when I’m out exploring another place. There’s an unwritten rule in the haikyo world that locations cannot be shared online, so if you really want to visit a particular place, you need to look for clues online as to where the location is. You might also spend hours looking at sites like Google Maps to pinpoint its exact location. Once you have found the location and successfully photographed it, go ahead and share the images, but don’t post the location details online!

One other unwritten rule that people within the haikyo community take very seriously is “Take nothing but photos, leave nothing but footprints.” I can’t stress enough how important this is. All too often, these locations are ruined by people who don’t respect these rules and either take items from inside the locations or leave their mark there by either vandalizing or damaging the area.

Instagram | Website

3. “Be careful, and do not approach the edges of tall buildings.”

Marianna Ianovska

Image by Marianna Ianovska. Gear: Nikon D7200 camera, Sigma 8-16mm f/4-5.6 lens. Settings: Focal length 8mm; exposure 15 sec; f18.0; ISO 100.

What’s the story behind this photo?

Cities are not only about streets, cafes, and houses. So many interesting things are hidden from the eyes of ordinary passersby. My urbex work includes pictures shot from both high-rise roofs and underground mines. I made this particular shot this winter in Panama, where there are no observation decks at all. I found a roof, but the door was locked. So, I had to climb through a window in the engine room, and from there, I climbed two more floors on a ladder to get to the very top of the roof. I spent several hours standing on a dangerous parapet to make this photo.

Pro Tip

Look up to find higher ground. Or look down to find small, hidden doors that lead to historic catacombs. When you pass by buildings that seem abandoned, look carefully, and perhaps you’ll find something unique. Shooting from towers and roofs is not always safe. Be careful, and do not approach the edges of tall buildings. Test out the reliability of any stairs before climbing, and refrain from shooting in windy weather. And keep in mind that entering some of these places might be prohibited. In many countries, however, you can negotiate with the guard or the owner of the building.

Image by Marianna Ianovska. Gear: Nikon D3100 camera, Sigma 10-20 mm f/4-5.6 lens. Settings: Exposure 30 sec; f8.0; ISO 200.

As for shooting underground, remember that tunnels and mines are often old and delicate. I took the image above in a gypsum mine in the Donetsk region of Ukraine. Watch your step, and be careful. Take a good lantern, comfortable shoes, and gloves. When I’m shooting in underground mines, I use an amateur Nikon 3100 and 5100 camera. Taking expensive devices underground always poses a risk due to their bulky size and the damp and dusty conditions. Different lighting sources are also an important part of my kit since there is no light underground! Any powerful LED lamps will work, along with filters and lenses of different colors. Additional light sources can include carbide lamps, gas lamps, and candles.

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4. “Timing can be everything.”

Sherman Cahal

Image by Sherman Cahal. Gear: Nikon D810 camera, Nikon 14-24mm f/2.8 lens. Settings: Focal length 14mm; exposures 1.3s, 2.5s, 5s, 10s, 20s sec (5 merged shots); f13; ISO 64.

What’s the story behind this photo?

I have traveled the Middle West and Appalachia, photographing residential, industrial, and commercial buildings that exist in various states of disrepair and decay, creating a visual record that invokes the peculiar appeal of old and worn. This is one of my favorite photos. It comes from St. Joseph’s Church in Albany, New York, an example of stunning Gothic Revival architecture with an interior that is immaculate, even after over twenty years of closure.

Church bell towers are always difficult to photograph, partly because of their tight quarters and partly because of neglect. You have to deal with shaky stairs and ladders, a massive amount of hazardous bird dung, poor air quality, and nearly impossible vantage points for shooting. These church bells were not as difficult to access as others, owing to fairly routine maintenance of the stairs and the tower by the church and then by the city.

Image by Sherman Cahal.

Pro Tip

It’s now easier than ever to use topographic maps and cross-reference them with aerials to locate structures. For instance, many abandoned industrial areas are located along railroad tracks, so I spend many hours tracing active and abandoned lines, where I have discovered anything from mammoth power plants to coal and limestone mines. Timing can be everything. There are many places that I would have loved to visit but came upon just a bit too late; by the time I arrived, they were either demolished or under renovation.

Most of the time, the only safety gear that I bring along is a full MSA face mask with a combination cartridge to protect my lungs from particulate and gaseous contaminants. Many of these old hospitals and industrial sites are riddled with asbestos, mold, and bird droppings, all of which can present health obstacles either in the short term or long term. I am thankful that I have not had serious injuries other than pulled muscles from carrying around my camera backpack!

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5. “Take nothing but pictures, and leave nothing but footprints.”

R. Wellen Photography

Image by R. Wellen Photography. Gear: Canon 6D camera, 17-40mm L series lens. Settings: Unknown.

What’s the story behind this photo?

This is an old factory in the Southeast. These large machines were just left there to sit and rot. They have this cool steampunk feel to them, and I hope someday at least one of them gets put into a museum for industry.

Pro Tip

Safety comes first. These places are often located on the outskirts of nowhere. Always be aware of your surroundings. Never park your car on the property you intend to explore if it can be avoided. If you run into the police, I believe your vehicle can be impounded if it’s on the property with you. If you have to park on the property, try to obscure your car as best you can.

Bring a heavy-duty flashlight, one of the large metal ones you often see security guards using. It gives good light and can also act as a weapon if you run into serious trouble. Assuming we are talking about real exploring and not a tourist attraction that looks abandoned, an explorer is entering a sort of no man’s land. There’s no telling who or what may be inside. It’s always better to go with others, as empty buildings make all sorts of weird noises. If you go it alone, remember to keep breathing. Keep your head on a swivel, and don’t ever get too comfortable.

Pants are better than shorts, but keep in mind these places have no temperature controls, so they get hotter in summer and colder in winter than the outside temperature might suggest. Gloves are good but not necessary. Bring shoes you don’t mind getting dirty. And always bring a tripod. Be prepared to navigate thick vegetation. If you’re in snake country, try to sweep the grass in front of you.

R. Wellen Photography

R. Wellen Photography

R. Wellen Photography

Pictured: [1] R. Wellen Photography [2] R. Wellen Photography [3] R. Wellen Photography

In terms of finding places, don’t ask others. It’s considered bad form to ask and to tell. Sound impossible? It’s definitely getting harder. Here’s where you can find some information: If you see a video of an explorer on YouTube, there’s usually someone in the comments spilling the beans on the location. Also, keep an eye out for any street signs or recognizable landmarks. Even an old sign can be enough for Google. Use Google Maps, and follow the train tracks.

Most small towns got their start supporting some sort of industry that eventually got shipped overseas. The buildings they operated out of got left behind. It can take a while, and it can be frustrating, but the research is half the game. Driving is also key. Pick an obscure town on the map, and take any back roads you can find to get there. It’s a good way to find abandoned houses. Stay off major freeways; you won’t find much of anything there, other than maybe an abandoned restaurant.

Access is different for every spot. Personally, I only go after the ones that don’t require superhuman physical feats. But I’m old. If you don’t mind climbing a fence, then you’ll find more opportunities. If you can, drive around a property. There’s almost always a better way in than the first one you see. Sometimes it isn’t obvious. I’ve had to walk back through the woods behind a location or down train tracks to find a hole in a fence.

Finally, it’s been said a million times but always rings true. Take nothing but pictures, and leave nothing but footprints.

Instagram

6. “Read up on the spot first, especially in cases of industrial archeology sites.”

Maurizio Sartoretto

Image by Maurizio Sartoretto. Gear: Canon EOS-1DX Mark II camera, Canon EF 16-35 mm / 2.8L III USM lens. Settings: Focal length 18mm; exposure 1/125 sec; f11; ISO 100.

What’s the story behind this photo?

Urbex is about rediscovering forgotten places. Photography and documentation are essential elements of this activity. This sugar mill has been abandoned since 2001. It is one of the many examples of industrial archeology in Italy.

Maurizio Sartoretto

Maurizio Sartoretto

Pictured: [1] Maurizio Sartoretto [2] Maurizio Sartoretto

Pro Tip

Abandoned places can found through internet searches, exchanges of information between urbexers, and following urbex groups on social networks. The urbexer’s motto is: “Leave only footprints, and take only emotions.” When you are at these sites, touch nothing and take nothing away. Practicing this kind of exploration involves several risk factors, from the actual physical dangers to the possibility of breaking the law. It is worth taking precautions and following some rules:

Never go alone.

Read up on the spot first, especially in cases of industrial archeology sites. It is better to know which products the place used to avoid unpleasant surprises. There is always the risk of running into potentially toxic processing residues.

In crumbling buildings, look where you put your feet, and watch what’s above your head. Carefully evaluate any stairs. It’s better to avoid wooden ones if the humidity is significant.

Do not park your car near the places you explore. Inside, stay away from windows and openings so as not to be noticed from the outside.

Beware of possible unwelcome guests.

When in doubt, do not enter or follow unsafe passages.

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Top Image by Marianna Ianovska.

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