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jackactuallywrites · 3 months ago

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All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving part 4

Rating: Fine, no sex or explicit violence

Warnings: You get followed at night

Summary: You’re being stalked, but Ghost is innocent this time! Sort of.

Word count: 3,006

ao3 link

TNR was the fucking worst.

Trapping cats wasn’t so bad, and neutering them was grim, but releasing them absolutely sucked. You hated having to release them back into the streets. Yes, the shelter was full, yes, it was the responsible thing to do, but you just felt rotten. You still had haunting dreams about that big orange doofus that you’d never seen again. He’d never been brought into the shelter; you’d never seen him adopted or fostered, and it bothered you.

But it was the best you could do.

So, you were out in the cold, setting up cosy traps with straw- not blankets; they’d freeze- and covering them with tarps in the darkest, shadiest alleyways, which always seemed to be where you found yourself looking for cats. Last time you were in a place like this, you’d been accosted by a soldier pointing a gun at your heart, an experience you weren’t keen to repeat. Then again, you had gotten Soap out of the deal. Though there were some heavy strings attached to that cat.

Ghost.

That man always seemed to be nearby, just out of sight but never out of mind. The fucker really did live up to his name, constantly haunting you no matter where you were. You were fairly sure that he hadn’t broken into your apartment over the last few weeks, but you could never be sure. You’d done the classic spy trick of placing a hair over the door, and it hadn’t been moved, but you had an uneasy feeling that Ghost was clever enough to notice it and replace it.

No matter where you were, you always felt as though there was someone watching you. You were constantly looking over your shoulder, sleepless, with nightmares of Ghost breaking in, though you’d always startle awake before he killed you.

So, not only did you have the unease of being in a dingy alleyway, as well as the general upset that came with TNR, but now you had the further fear of Ghost being somewhere nearby, watching, waiting.

At least you were almost done, having set up the last trap, your fingers stiff from the cold. You shoved your hands back in your woolly mittens, said a silent prayer that you wouldn’t catch any rats, and then set off for home.

And there it was, that overwhelming feeling of being watched. You’d been wondering when Ghost would show up, when he’d make another grand entrance like a cartoon villain, and here he was. You couldn’t see him, of course, but you could feel an ominous presence, one that made all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you were fucking sick of it. You grabbed your phone, then pulled off one of your mittens with your teeth so you could actually type.

‘Subject: Stalker

STOP FUCKING FOLLOWING ME.’

You pressed send so aggressively that you almost dropped your phone, then shoved it back into your pocket, pulled your glove back on, folded your arms across your chest and shoved your numb hands into your armpits as you stomped down the streets. What was it about you that made Ghost so obsessed with you? What could you have possibly done to draw such attention? God, if only he would get hit by a bus. Or step on a landmine. Whatever it took to give you some peace.

Apparently, even the mere thought of peace was enough to magically summon the man, your phone vibrating in your pocket. You’d already predicted that you’d see the caller ID of ‘Ghost’ on your screen, and so you did. Infuriating. You clicked the lock button to reject the call, but the second it was rejected, it started up again. You could have blocked him, but you had a feeling that he had an endless supply of burner phones, so you picked up.

“What.” You were surprised to hear that level of venom in your own voice. On the other end of the phone, you could hear the slam of a car door and the rev of an engine. Then, there was that familiar voice. “Stop walking.” You hadn’t intended to do what he demanded, but you were so puzzled by his words that you stopped in your tracks. “I- what?” His voice was calm, “Listen.” “For what?” “Footsteps.” You huffed, “What the fuck are you on about now?” “Do it.” You’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted to throw your phone into the gutter, but you resisted the urge. You listened.

There was nothing at first, just the silence of the street with the noises of the city in the background, but then you heard it. The scuff of a shoe on pavement. You pursed your lips, leaning your weight on one foot, “So you wanted me to know that you’re following me? Great. Thanks.” “That’s not me.” “What?” “Listen carefully. Walk to the end of this alley, take one left, and then another left.” “Ghost-“ “Do it.” You could feel an uneasiness in your gut. If Ghost wasn’t the one stalking you, then you had a bigger problem.

Christ, you had one stalker already, and now there was another one? The fuck kind of vibes did you put off? Adrenaline crept through your veins, your muscles tensing, and you clutched your phone a little tighter as you sprung back into walking, trying not to look too much like you were fleeing, not wanting to trigger a chase you’d most likely lose, “Okay. Who is it?” “I don’t know.” “What do you mean you don’t know? How do you not know?” “Keep walking.” You chewed the inside of your cheek. How was it that your safety lay in the hands of the man who was stalking you? “Left.” “What?” “Turn left.”

As commanded, you took the left, dismayed to see that it was an empty street. This didn’t exactly feel any safer. You were hoping for a brightly lit, well-populated street. You swore that the footsteps were closer, and your heart had crept further up your chest until it was in your throat. There was nothing for you to do other than keep walking, so that’s what you did. You walked slowly as though you were having a casual chitchat with a friend, even though you knew it was obvious how uneasy you were by the tension in your body. “Left again.” At least this alleyway was a little brighter, though you couldn’t see what exactly was supposed to be any safer about this place.

“You see that CCTV?” You looked around the street, and your eyes landed on a bulky-looking street camera perched over a closed vape shop. “I see it.” “Now, repeat after me. ‘You can see me on the camera?’” You didn’t question him, obeying his command yet again. “Oh, you can see me on camera?” You upped the charade, waving at the camera, “Hi!”

You could hear an engine now. Thank fuck, you could hear an engine. That meant there would be a car, someone else in the street! Let them come closer. For the love of God, let them inexplicably turn down this dead-end street.

The headlights of the car illuminated the street you were on, and you had to resist the urge to leap up and down and scream for help. Instead, you just waited. The car was far too fast, doing at least 40 in what you were pretty sure was a 20 zone, and you began to wonder what kind of trouble had found you now because your luck seemed to be fucking awful as of late. Then it hit you. You knew who was in that car. There was no one else it could possibly be.

You weren’t surprised when Ghost got out of the car, dressed in black trousers and a dark jacket, that same skull balaclava on, but you were surprised when he pointed to his car. “Lock the doors.” He didn’t stay. Instead, he immediately stalked off into the dark, leaving you to contemplate what on earth had just happened. He knew you could drive, right? He had given you the keys to what was presumably his car and then fucked off. What was supposed to stop you from stealing his car?

Of course, you didn’t. You had immediately gotten into the passenger seat as directed, but you still questioned the sanity of Ghost’s actions.

What were you supposed to do in this situation? It felt like you’d jumped from the fire into the frying pan; you’d escaped whatever creep was following you in the streets, and now you were trapped in Ghost’s car. At least it was warm. It smelled surprisingly nice too, at least it was nice until you recognised the scent. It was the one you’d caught lingering in your hallway. Another mystery solved.

That settled it then; if Ghost was allowed to pry through your apartment, you were allowed to pry through his car. The centre console was bland enough, like every other car, it had a few pound coins in for the trolleys and a packet of gum. You took a piece, feeling a little vindictive as you did. Then, you went for the glovebox, curious to see what you’d find inside.

You should have known you’d find a gun in there. You’d never seen one before; it was like finding a rattlesnake in there; you didn’t even want to go near it. Was it even legal for him to carry it in public? Right beside the gun were more weapons, half a dozen throwing knives, scattered on top of the car manual. You were beginning to regret this; everything you found was just making you more uneasy; what was next, thumbscrews?

Thankfully, it wasn’t so terrifying; in fact, it was pedestrian- a plain black leather wallet. It would have served him right if you stole it from him. However, that wasn’t your style, so you contented yourself with nosing through it instead.

Ghost seemed to be a fan of physical currency; there wasn’t a single bank card in there, just notes and a lot of them. Apparently, the man was flush. There was one card in there, though. Rigid plastic, you could feel it through the leather. It had been neatly tucked in the card slot, so you hadn’t seen it at first. You were quite excited as you wiggled it out the slot; this could finally give you some information on the man, something other than the fact he was a fucking psycho in a military uniform.

You should have figured all the useful information on his ID would have been scratched off. His picture had been gone over so aggressively that there were deep indents in the plastic from whatever he’d used to scratch it away with. Ruined the point of identification, in your opinion. There was a shiny metal chip at the top, probably what he used to get around wherever he went; no doubt he was infamous enough that he didn’t need to show full ID. Yet, not all the details were gone. On the left-hand side, there was a veritable treasure trove of information. His birthday had been removed, but everything else was intact.

‘LT.

##/##/##

189cm

Riley’

You could practically feel the veil being pulled back; little by little, you were beginning to know the man. His height was no mystery to you; the man was huge, but now you had a name. ‘S. Riley’.

You were so engrossed in trying to figure out what the S stood for that you didn’t notice him until he was opening the driver-side door and getting in. You startled and dropped both wallet and ID, caught in the act of rifling through his things, the glovebox still wide open. Ghost was breathing heavily, as though he’d been running, slamming the car door behind him, and resting his hands on the steering wheel as he leaned back in the seat, his eyes closing as he rested it on the headrest, his chest rising and falling dramatically as he took off his gloves and tossed them into your footwell. You were still frozen on the spot, but your eyes darted to his hands, seeing the split skin on his knuckles.

“What the fuck did you do?”

The question spilt from your mouth without you meaning it to, but there was no catching it now. He grunted, flexing his fingers, “Wanted to know who was following you.” You shifted in your seat, eyes flicking back and forth between him and the contents of his wallet in the footwell, “I assume you found him?” “I did.” You chewed your lip, “You didn’t kill him, did you?” “‘Course not.” You looked at his knuckles again. You weren’t sure if you believed him or not.

“Had a good look?” You’d been hoping that question wouldn’t come up. You bent down to pick up his ID and wallet from the floor, tucking the ID back in the card slot, “Yeah.” He gestured to the glovebox, “Put it back then.” You carefully placed it next to the knives, then closed the glovebox, sealing its secrets within once more.

It was impossible to know whether he was angry with you or not; he always looked as though he was half a step away from murdering you, and the balaclava never helped you decode his emotions. With his eyes closed, there was even less for you to see, though now you could see that he did have annoyingly beautiful lashes. His eyes snapped open as he straightened up and reached for the keys, putting his seatbelt on, and you quickly averted your gaze back to the empty street as you buckled your own seatbelt.

Ghost turned the keys in the engine and started off down the street without another word to you. It was a stark contrast to the speed he’d come hurtling down the street, practically a crawl, even using his indicators as he rejoined the main road. It became quickly obvious that he was driving you home; of course, he would know the route, stalker that he was. You decided not to complain, instead quietly texting your colleagues to let them know that you were safely homeward bound.

The silence ensued until he pulled up outside your apartment block, pulling the handbrake and unbuckling himself, “Come on then.” Naturally, he would want to escort you back to your front door. It was really fucking weird, actually, the whole gentleman act, as though he hadn’t just beaten a man half to death in a dark alleyway. You didn’t voice these thoughts, of course, instead quietly getting out of his car and back into the cold night air.

He was silent until you reached your front door, leaning against the wall as you unlocked it, “You got that deadbolt?” You jiggled the keys a little, the lock stiff, no doubt from him using the picks too often, “You should know I haven’t.” “Why not?” The door finally opened, and you walked into your apartment, “Time, money, effort.” He followed you in, resting his arm on the doorframe as he watched you take your shoes off, “You install it, or I will.” You were too tired to argue with him, putting your shoes on the rack, “If you’re so concerned, you install it.” Soap had come over to greet you now, rubbing against your legs before doing the same to Ghost. “I’ll be here tomorrow night then.” “Fine.” If you were going to be stalked, you were at least going to get some free labour out of it.

With your coat off and on the rack, it was time for him to leave, and you turned to face him, arms folded over your chest, “Goodnight, then.” He tilted his head at you, “What, not going to ask any questions?” “About what?” “You don’t want to know what the S stands for?” You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, “Were you actually going to tell me?” His mask shifted around his mouth as he smiled, “No.” You rolled your eyes, “Right.” He shifted so his shoulder was against the doorframe, folding his own arms, “No thank you?” You grimaced, “Really?” “I was a knight in shining armour tonight.” It was strange; you were still scared of him, yet you didn’t fear bantering with him, “Go on then, give me the lecture about being safe and not going out at night and jog on.” Ghost snorted, “Like it was anything to do with you. Cunts like that will always find a reason to creep on a woman. Doesn’t matter what they’re doing.” He reached into his jacket pocket, and brought out a small canister, holding it out to you. You raised a brow as you took it, “Deep heat for muscle ache?” “You didn’t want a taser.” You frowned at the spray, “So you got me muscle spray?” “Perfectly legal to carry around. Y’know, for sudden muscle aches. I would advise against getting it in your eyes though. I imagine it would burn worse than pepper spray.”

It only took you a second to cotton on to his meaning. You looked at the spray again, “Worse than pepper spray, huh?” “Keep it on you at all times, yeah? Never know when you’ll have random pain.” He winked at you, which might have been more surprising than him giving you a weapon, then bent down to pet Soap, who was still noisily purring around his ankles, “Good to see ya, Johnny. Keep our girl safe.” There it was again, Johnny. The man was an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a murderous psychopath with a penchant for cats. He picked Soap up and handed him out to you, and you took the squirmy cat, holding him tight against your chest so he wouldn’t bound out into the hallway. Ghost turned to leave, but he leaned back to give you one last note.

“Simon.” “What?” “S is for Simon.”

#jack writes #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #cod #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #cod fic #simon ghost x reader

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bcdrawsandwrites · 10 months ago

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Day 9: Scar reveal / Interrogation / Presumed Dead Characters: Sheegor, Truman Warnings: References to abusive relationships, depictions of anxiety Summary: Sasha, it turns out, was not strictly allowed to hire people on the spot, and Sheegor realizes her employment must be cleared with the Grand Head of the Psychonauts. Which is... fine. She's not worried or anything. Or missing Mr. Pokeylope. It's fine.

Sheegor wished Mr. Pokeylope were here.

She also wished she could have done her hair better.

She hadn't exactly had the luxury of being able to do anything with her hair in a long while—it wasn't like they had a lot of usable hair products in the asylum, and it was a miracle she managed to keep it clean at all. Miss Vodello had offered to style her hair for her, but she'd refused—Miss Vodello had been more than kind enough to take her out shopping before they'd arrived (much too kind, and she didn't want to wear out that kindness so quickly), so she could get a nice, clean outfit and new gloves. (The gloves felt so nice—she loved her mittens, but she could move her hands more freely in these, and they felt so comfortable.)

Suddenly realizing she had been wiggling her fingers in her gloves again, she put her hands down firmly in her lap, sitting up as straight as she was able.

Meanwhile, Mr. Zanotto took a seat on the other side of the table, and straightened up some papers. "Soooo Miss... Delucca, is it?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed, only to cover he mouth when Mr. Zanotto leaned back in surprise. "I-I mean, yes, Mr. Zanotto! Um..." She wrung her hands anxiously, her gloves squeaking in the process. "Um... you can call me Penelope if you want, or... or Sheegor."

"Sheegor?" he repeated, brow knitting.

Feeling her stomach beginning to tie into knots, she shook her head. "I mean! You don't have to call me that! I mean—c-call me whatever you want!"

Mr. Zanotto frowned at her, and she winced. But he went on: "Well, Miss Delucca, as you know, Agent Nein is not technically supposed to hire people on the spot."

Sheegor shivered, nodding. Oh yes, Sasha had admitted such to her before they'd left, and she hadn't stopped thinking about it since.

"We're fortunate that I have to be the one conducting this interview rather than Hollis." The man chuckled, and Sheegor wasn't sure what that meant. "I'm sure she'd love this situation if she heard about it first."

"U-um..." Sheegor swallowed. "Wh... what did you need to know?"

Mr. Zanotto chuckled again, shaking his head. "Of course, I'm sure you don't want to waste too much time with this."

Wait—did she hear that right? Did he... think this was a waste of time? That she was a waste of time?

"So, let's get right into it!" Settling back into his chair, Mr. Zanotto held up the short stack of papers in front of him. "Let's see... So you're applying—or, well, Sasha offered you the job—for lab assistant." He looked up at her with a raised brow. "Why do you think you're qualified for this job?"

Sheegor gave a start—was that an interview question, or was he really questioning her? (Why couldn't Mr. Pokeylope be here...?! He would know what to do!) "I-I... I am qualified, sir! I really am!" she replied, gripping the edge of the table. "I can work really, really hard!"

"I'm... certain you can," Mr. Zanotto said, leaning back. "But could you give me some specifics?"

"Um—I—uh... I-I did a lot of work before! I'm really, really good with brains!" She tried to smile at the man, but quickly took note of his shocked look. "I-I mean—I don't have to do anything with brains! I'm not going to steal any! Oh—I mean, not that I've stolen brains before, that was just Dr. Loboto, but I don't work for him anymore, and um—I mean—!" The blood drained from her face, and she clamped her mouth shut.

"It's all right, Miss Delucca.” Though Mr. Zanotto's expression seemed to be very clear that it was not all right. "Perhaps you can tell me about some of your other previous work history?"

"Um... uh..." She wrung her hands, looking left and right as she tried to remember. Work history—she worked for Loboto for so long, but before that she'd worked... at the Asylum? But should she say that? Maybe he wouldn't want to know she'd worked at Thorney Towers—there was a reason it had closed down, after all. And before that she'd... been a patient there, and before that... she... she didn't remember, but she'd worked somewhere, probably, right?

It took her a moment to realize she was staring down at the floor, her hands gripping her head. Frantically she sat back up in her seat, looking Mr. Zanotto in the eyes, but he looked so horrified—of course he was, she couldn't even tell him her work history. This was a disaster��

"...Miss Delucca," Mr. Zanotto said slowly. "You should know that this is just a formality."

Sheegor took a shaky breath, trying to fight back the sobs that choked her throat. "Y-yes..." she squeaked with a little nod. "I understand..."

"There's no need to be—"

"I know, I know!" she cried. "There's no need for this..." Sniffling, she backed away from the table. "I'll tell Mr. Nein that I wasn't hired."

To her surprise, Mr. Zanotto stepped out from around the table, holding up a hand to stop her. "Wait," he said, and she stepped back. "Miss Delucca—or, would you prefer I call you a different name?"

Looking away, Sheegor wrung her hands. "I... um... you can call me whatever you like."

"But is there one you would like to be called?"

She couldn't wrap her head around why he was asking this, and the question itself made her head hurt. "I-I don't know. I think... I like..." Her voice went quiet. "...Sheegor?"

"Then that's what I'll call you." Mr. Zanotto went on: "Sheegor, when I say that this is just a formality, I mean you've already got the job. I trust Sasha's judgment—most of the time, anyway—and I just wanted to make sure we have all the paperwork, and that I can tell Hollis that we've conducted an interview so she'll be happy."

Sheegor blinked, looking back at Mr. Zanotto, who was staring at her with a look that was still definitely not happy—a look of... concern?

He sighed, glancing out the window and down at the atrium. "Sasha told me that you've been working for Dr. Loboto—"

"Not anymore!" she cried, shaking her head. "I never want to work for him ever again! I-I can't, anyway... now that—"

Mr. Zanotto held up his hands. "I know, I know. He told me about the hostage situation and that you'd had... a rough time under his employment."

"Y-yeah..." Sheegor admitted, looking down, only to stomp her foot. "He was so mean to Mr. Pokeylope! And to the patients, and to the brains, and—"

"And to you," Mr. Zanotto finished.

The rage Sheegor felt quickly drained, and she looked down at the floor. "I... um..."

"This will take some getting used to, I know, but here, you won't be treated the same way you were under his employment. We want you to be happy, as well as safe."

She looked at him again, and he looked so... serious. Like he really meant what he was saying. It was like... Mr. Pokeylope.

Were there really that many other people... like that?

Sheegor stared at Mr. Zanotto for another long moment before slowly nodding. "...Okay, Mr. Zanotto. I hope you're right."

He placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled. "Welcome to the Psychonauts, Sheegor."

#sheegor #truman zanotto #psychonauts #my writing #fanfic #have another one of these #(it's an interview rather than an interrogation)#(but poor Sheegor FEELS like it's an interrogation)#i still have like 17 more of these to post #plus multiple more polished oneshots

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zombiemother · 10 months ago

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regressor!sanzu haruchiyo headcanons

need 2 baby him. he is just a little sweet boy :( also for the record I hate the term impure regression... vent regressing sounds weird and idk what other term to use

baby, baby boy! usually regressed from 1-7

haruchiyo experiences involuntarily and voluntary regression, as well as 'impure'/vent regression

he leans towards fem caregivers! since his relationship with his own older brother is so... empty to say the least. he left to fend on his own after the scar incident.

the only masc/male carer he allows is rindou, who happened to pop in on sanzu having a breakdown and ended up impurely regressing. Big bro Rin managed to calm him dow. and now knows about his regression.

Haruchiyo is also the type to push limits and how far he can 'act out'. he wants to know he's still loves and wanted despite bad behavior. (tell him you still want to care for him and love him)

will frequently ask or hint that he wants you to compliment him. he's been called a handful of names.

loves loves loves comics! his favorite characters are batman, harlequins and bane (who reminds him of mucho)

struggles with eating! things that tend to help him are; eating with other people, being watched while he's eating, pre-prepped meals, and divided kids plates (he thinks they're cute)

+ his usual meals consist of redbull and leftover noodles. he tends to be a leftover fiend. whatever he can find in the fridge he will find and ingest. though, his eating habits can also expand to not eating for like 2-3 days at a time.

wears mittens/gloves when he goes to sleep or happens to be intoxicated while regressing. he has a bad skin picking issue and gloves can help when he's already sleepy or distracted. can and will pull them off if he's to conscious to think about it.

sanzu loves when you play with his hair, whether it's a gentle act as brushing it and fixing his bangs out of his eyes or washing it as well as a deep conditioner that keep it soft for the next 7 weeks.

also prone to tantrums. he gets fuzzy when he doesn't know how to express himself. he quiets up, loosing speech as he probably tucks himself in the corner.

ddlg/abdl/nsfw/variants dni! add any of ur own headcanons in the comments or reblogs ! post belongs to me ☆

#.drowsy writes #agere tokyo revengers #agere tokyo rev #tokyo rev agere #tokyo revengers agere #fandom agere #agere headcanons #agere fanfiction

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arctic-shard · 2 years ago

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Outer Child, chapter 2

( I figure I’ll change the title at some point, but I had to call it something. Anyway, this is the one where an unknown SCP object turns 035 and 049 into toddlers and Dr West is stuck dealing with it. )

Outer Child, chapter 2

Warnings: none

Words: 1000~

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Victoria swapped out her metal mittens for plain cloth gloves - the Doctor and 035's anomalous effects might have been made harmless when they were transformed, but Victoria still had a death-touch. The Doctor would be immune to it - it was the same as his own - and while the mask was inorganic and immune, its body wasn't.

Combs opened up the testing chamber for her, the dividing wall vanishing into the floor so Victoria could interact with both entities at once. Combs remained in the observation room.

When Victoria entered the testing chamber, both entities looked over warily. Other researchers had tested their new condition for days, and probably none too gently. The Doctor and 035 had caused the Foundation enough deaths and damage over the years that they wouldn't receive much sympathy, even if they'd been transformed into toddlers.

Uncertain of how to deal with children, let alone nervous ones, Victoria approached the two slowly and held out one hand. "Do you remember me? I'm Victoria." Could they even understand her? They looked like three-year-olds, was that old enough to understand words? Victoria had no idea. It had been forty years since she'd been three.

035 approached first. The transformation had affected it much more than it had the Doctor. The Doctor just looked like a child version of himself, but then he was human, probably. 035 had acquired an Alagaddan body some months ago, slim and humanoid. 035's child-body had six arms, the way it preferred to look in Alagadda. It was also wearing Alagaddan clothing - the Foundation didn't have tiny jumpsuits with six arms on hand.

The part that worried Victoria was the mask. 035's mask, it's self, had changed, no longer the long, angular comedy/tragedy mask but small and rounded like a toddler's face. Whatever the object was that had transformed it, it was powerful enough to alter a Lord of Alagadda at a fundamental level.

The small mask had changed to tragedy when Victoria had entered, but possibly still telepathic enough to recognise Victoria as Not A Threat, 035 slipped one of its hands into Victoria's gloved one.

The mask changed to comedy. "Victoria!" it cheered.

"Do you remember me?" Victoria asked.

The mask flickered briefly to tragedy as 035 concentrated, then back to comedy. "No," it conceded. The small, cool hand squeezed her fingers. "Victoria is mine," it stated, matter-of-fact.

The Black Lord's brand was still on Victoria's arm, she'd double-checked when she changed her gloves. 035 might not remember who she was but the bond was still there.

During this, the Doctor had got to his feet and crept up quietly. If the Alagaddan bond still connected her and 035, then it connected 035 and the Doctor. She reached out her other hand to him. The Doctor took it.

Victoria was a short woman but the two entities barely reached her hips. Unused to looking down to talk to people, she sat down cross-legged on the floor - the chamber had no furniture. 035 immediately climbed into her lap. The Doctor looked a bit upset, so Victoria hoisted 035 to one side to make room for the Doctor. Small as they were, they were still heavy little beings, and Victoria was glad of her enhanced strength.

Okay. We've established that 035 recognises me on some level and the Doctor at least accepts that I'm safe and here to be comforting. The last three days would have been hard on them, all the tests without understanding why. Or maybe there was still some memory there.

She turned her attention on the Doctor, who had snuggled into her side. She patted his hood to get his attention. "What's your name?"

Wide gray eyes looked up at her, then widened, beginning to tear up. "You don't know?" she asked.

"Non, madame."

French was the Doctor's first language, hopefully he was just reverting out of nervousness or else Victoria would need a translator. He understood English, at least. But it did underline that this wasn't a reversion to childhood - the Doctor wasn't in his childhood memories if he didn't know his original name. Victoria patted his back. "Is there anything you'd like to be called? How about 'Doctor'?"

He blinked away his tears, nodding emphatically. Transformed as he was, he still identified as the Doctor.

Problem Two was 035. Victoria couldn't ask its real name, not unless she wanted a cognitohazard migraine at best. She usually called it 'friend' since the Doctor did, but right now would that confuse the Doctor in his current state? Would he get upset thinking that Victoria only considered 035 'friend'?

Instead she asked, "What should I call you?"

It thought for a moment. "Amica."

Italian for 'friend'? I'm pretty sure that's what the Doctor said 'friend' was in Italian. Something like that. "All right - Amica and the Doctor."

Then Victoria was at a loss what to do next. She'd learned she couldn't interview them - they were mind-muddled toddlers.

However, she knew what she wasn't going to do. She shifted 035 and the Doctor off her lap, stood, and took their hands again. She looked up at the mirror she knew Combs was behind. "I'm taking them back to my containment, Combs. I'll be better able to observe them in more relaxed surroundings," said Victoria, not a request. "Have some blocks or crayons or whatever kids do sent up. And snacks." As long as she was making demands, she might as well make them all.

There was a sigh. "They've accepted you, I agree that they should stay with you. I just don't know how many enrichment requests I'll be able to fulfill. Those two aren't exactly popular among the staff."

"I know." She relented a little, because Combs was a decent man and didn't deserve her anger. "The important thing is they stay with me - I'm not leaving them alone while they're helpless. Any further enrichment is a bonus. I'll figure something out."

#scp-035 #scp-049 #scp oc #dr victoria west #scpfic: outer child

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sunspray-peak · 1 year ago

Text

Ch. 56: The Festival of Ice

MONDAY - WINTER 8

“Have to say, I’m a little surprised to see you out and about.”

Achilles bit back a frown and dusted his gloved hands after shooting Leah a small wince. “You were the one who texted me to come here to help, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, true. Wasn’t sure if you’d come through, though.”

“Right. I appreciate your faith…” Achilles rolled his eyes as he squatted to the ground. “Now come on. One, two, three…”

With a grunt, Achilles and Leah lifted her ice sculpture onto a metal cart. It creaked under the weight, but held steady after a slight wobble or two.

“She’s beautiful,” he said with a nod at the figure looming above. The mermaid had been exquisitely carved in a nearly six foot tall block of ice, and no detail had been left unturned. Each individual scale had been etched with care, every flowing ringlet of hair, every crease in her smiling face.

“So impermanent, though… especially today.” Leah swiped her finger along the already-glistening tail fin, scrutinizing the water droplets that came away with a furrowed brow and a long sigh. “But I guess that makes the art better in a way, don’t you think? More meaningful…”

“Sure.”

“So, are you gonna come to the festival or nah?” Leah leaned against the handrails of her cart. “You sort of look like you could use a nap, no offense.”

“Thank you for that,” Achilles said drily, pinching his nose. Damn, did he really look that rough? He had blowdried his hair this morning and everything. “No, I’m going, at least for a little. I was going to return this to Elliott, I finished this morning.” He patted his messenger bag where Elliott’s novel was stored.

“O ho!” With a clap of her mittened hands, Leah began to push the cart towards Pelican Town, Achilles by her side. “Finally. He’ll be excited—well, he’ll be excited to see you no matter what, he was getting worried—hey, what did you think? He won’t let me read it yet.”

“It was good.”

“Was it actually? I won’t snitch if you say it was terrible.”

“No, it was good.” Achilles felt his wan smile strengthen as he repeated his response.

“Hmm, he was thinking of doing a book reading this week. Nothing fancy, maybe in the saloon… He hasn’t gotten round to planning it, you know how he is. Takes him damn forever to do anything… ope!”

The cart gave a small lurch as it rolled over a stray rock, but Achilles was quick to hold the mermaid steady.

“Thanks.” With a heave, Leah pushed the cart forward again through the inch of slush on the ground and they continued on their way through Cindersap. “Eh, can’t criticize him too much, though, or I’d be a real dirty hypocrite… wanted to tell you, took me forever, but I’ve finally gotten around to posting on those social media accounts or whatever they’re called that you set up for me way back when. The website, too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s been good. Really good, actually, I’ve even started making prints, too, as a bit of extra quick income… there’s a Mr. K in Zuzu who keeps buying my candles… I’m 98% sure it’s Kel, but hey, can’t complain, if he wants to keep giving me his money, I’m all for it… the power of the Internet. Who’d have thought.” Leah surprised him with a little pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, Achilles. I’m glad you persuaded this here old lady to do it…”

*****

Elliott, as Leah predicted, was overjoyed to see Achilles, embracing him with his usual bone-splintering squeeze before receiving the now-marked up copy of his novel with both hands and a solemn bow. He had graciously waved aside Achilles’ apologies for the delay, but had been more than eager to accept his offer to organize his book reading as recompense, nodding earnestly, wide-eyed like a puppy, as Achilles shared his thoughts aloud.

“—we can still have catering, but the museum’s going to be significantly more atmospheric a venue than the saloon, I’ll speak to Gunther—”

Then something slammed into him from behind.

Achilles’ arms were suddenly pinned to his sides—breathless, he had been lifted straight off the ground. Alarm bells began to ring furiously in his head, his vision began to cloud, and Achilles found himself reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. But in looking down for a hilt, he saw instead a pair of hands squeezed tight around his chest.

What the—

A flurry of laughter—so close, why was it so close, get out of my mind—managed to break through the sharp ringing between his ears, and then a voice exclaimed, “I did it!”

Nearly gasping for breath now, Achilles managed to twist himself around, only to see Alex beaming brightly, his face mere inches away.

“Wh—What?”

“I did it!”

“You did what—wait—” Desperate to quickly calm himself and refocus, Achilles shook his head to disperse the sirens currently ringing between his ears. “You—you got the job!?”

“Oh! No, no I didn’t. Or at least, not yet.” Alex nose wrinkled for just a second as he glanced down at the ground in thought. But he was quick to return, bright-eyed, to his usual grinning self. “No, I just did my interview, just got back.”

“Ahhh,” Achilles nodded as his heart beat continued to return to normal—or perhaps, just a bit faster than normal, for as his panic cleared, he was now dully aware of the arms still wrapped around his waist, even though his feet were now resting firmly on semi-solid slush. “Ho-how was it?”

“Great! Or, at least, I think it was pretty good.”

“I’m sure it was.” Achilles attempted to take a small step back. He was too close, much too close. It was liking looking at the sun.

Alex took the hint and, without missing a beat, relinquished his grip, taking an unconcerned step back of his own. Achilles already missed the warmth of his touch, but it lasted only for a second as Alex swung his arm around his shoulder and began to march him towards the drinks table where Elliott and Leah had both rather speedily and stealthily scampered to.

“Yeah, they actually asked a lot of similar questions to what we prepped! Used a lot of the stuff we practiced. It was good. I felt good!”

“Good.” Why was his voice coming out so high? What was he, 12? And Yoba, for goodness sake, was he capable of anything more than one word answers today? “Great! I’m… glad it was helpful. Fingers crossed, yeah? When do you find out? How do you feel now?”

“They said it’d be real soon… but I figure, why stress about it, right? It’s outta my hands now.”Alex poured two glasses of sparkling cider, handing one to Achilles. “My first real job interview! Worth celebrating, you think?”

“Hmm? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course—”

But Alex cut him off with a hearty, self-aware laugh, swinging his arm around Achilles’ shoulders again as they made their way through the small crowd to the sad field of snowmen. It had been a rather warm Festival of the Ice this year, even by Achilles’ east coast standards. The town had woken this morning to only a light inch or so of snow now that had since already begun to rapidly melt. The ice fishing competition, to the dismay of Willy, had had to be canceled.

He glanced to his left and caught a glimpse of green eyes glimmering under the fierce Winter sun. The sight alone was enough to send his stomach swooping.

God. He’d do it right now. He would tell Alex. He had to tell Alex. He’d decided it the night before—

What makes you happy, Achilles? What makes you feel better? What do you want?

What? Or who?

Achilles stopped before a funky snowman with pinecone eyes. Took a deep breath and turned to Alex, who was now waving merrily to Penny two snowmen over. “Al, I was wondering—“

“Young man.”

A soft crunch of well-trod snow followed the curt interruption. Achilles recovered somewhat smoothly from both his surprise and his irritation and turned to greet George. Had he been following them? Alex’s grandpa was alone as he wheeled closer to the pair. Evelyn was still over by the rather sad and drippy igloo that had been erected that morning, handing out little bags of cookies—it was strange; Achilles had rarely seen the two separated during festivals.

“I’d like to talk to Achilles in private, please, Alexander.” George gave his grandson a sharp nod. Confusion crinkled his brow, but Alex had never been one to ask too many questions—something Achilles had been grateful for, at least until this moment—and with only a shrug, jogged towards where a few folks had gathered by the river.

For a beat, the two watched as Alex tackled an unsuspecting Sam into a bush.

It was Achilles who finally broke the silence. “How can I help you, George?”

George glanced around for folks nearby before wheeling closer. In a low tone, he said, “Yes, yes. We’ll just cut to it, shall we? I would like you to refrain from sharing your… unnatural habits with my grandson.”

Achilles’ stomach began to churn. “Pardon?”

“You’re a nice young man, Achilles. But I don’t want Alex to be taught against our values.”

“Oh, I do apologize, I didn’t realize mock interviews were against your values, I’ll be sure to—”

“Don’t play dumb with me, young man,” George snapped. But the old man seemed to regret his tone, and, after coughing lightly into his fist, reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small square he then offered to Achilles. “I found this on Alex’s dresser.”

Nosy bastard…

But Achilles played it cool, offering a quick glance at the photograph from Spirit’s Eve, his face impassive even as it warmed at the sight of Alex’s lips upon his cheek. “I’m afraid I’m not quite sure what your point is exactly, George.”

“I understand this is who you are—and let me assure you, I have no problem with your choices, young man. But Alex is better than this, and I do not want him to be involved with that lifestyle—”

“It was Spirit’s Eve, George.” Allowing himself to look slightly exasperated now, Achilles handed the photograph back. “We were recreating something from the comic books.”

George, however, continued to stare stonily, his thin lips pressed hard into a thinner line than usual.

“Look, what is it specifically you want me to do? Stop talking to him? We’re friends, George.”

“And I understand that. I simply ask that you keep your predilections and preferences to yourself. You shouldn’t be teaching Alex these behaviors—”

Teaching Alex behaviors? Fuck you, do you think I’m fucking blowing your grandson in my living room—

Achilles managed to restrain himself from delivering a retort as graphic as that, though he still managed to snark, “Noted. I see now—I apologize, I’ll be sure to put a stop to the ‘How to Be a Raging Homosexual’ powerpoint presentations—”

“This is not a joke, young man—”

Achilles flushed. He took a step back, digging his boots into the snow, and in a heightened voice, said, “Why are you coming to me? You don’t trust Alex to make his own decisions—”

“That boy has had a very difficult childhood, he doesn’t know what’s best for him, and he needs guidance in the right direction—”

Perhaps the Achilles of yesteryear would have fought back. Perhaps he should’ve fought back. But the Achilles of now recognized this was not a battle he would win today, and in a flat tone, he simply said, “This is an incredibly disrespectful conversation that I’m afraid I really don’t have the energy or patience to entertain any further. I’m going to leave now. Have a nice day, George.”

*****

Fuck George. Fuck all of it. The fucking audacity of it all…

Alex was a grown ass man, he could make his own fucking decisions.

He stomped towards the river, the remaining chunks of snow crunching underfoot with each step. Alex was up ahead, his arms slung each around Sam and Sebastian as they all laughed at something Abigail was saying…

George couldn’t stop him. He’d ask for a private word, maybe pull Alex to the side—or maybe, he’d do it in plain view of George, make a point of it, that would really rile the bastard up…

“Hey there!” Alex gave him a little wave and stepped to the side, making space for Achilles to join the circle next to him. “You okay?”

“Fine. Just… tired.”

“You look it,” Abigail sassed, blissfully ignoring both the withering, darkly-rimmed glare with which Achilles returned her guffaw and the exasperated, somewhat pleading look Alex shot her.

“What’d my grandpa want to talk to you about?”

“Oh, just…” Achilles glanced at the expectant faces around him. Perhaps now wasn’t the best time to chew out Alex’s grandpa—although from what Alex had told him previously, Sebastian would be sure to empathize, having apparently been on the receiving end of one of these little chats himself… “He was just saying… well apparently, I’m a really thorough teacher. Who’d have thought? Someone tell the Zuzu school board, put in a good word.” He ignored Alex’s puzzled look to flash Penny a smile.

Alex lowered his voice as the group resumed their previous conversation and tilted his head ever so slightly closer to Achilles’. “You sure everything’s okay? It sort of looked like you two were… arguing.”

Why don’t you ask him about it, Alex?

But that wouldn’t be fair, would it?

Achilles began fiddling with the end of his scarf. “Yeah, no, he just wasn’t… particularly happy about what I’ve been… ‘teaching’ you.” Not a lie. Not technically. George’s own words.

“Oh. Really?” Something small tugged at Alex’s lips. “He seemed pretty excited when I told him I thought the interview went well, though… I was hoping maybe they’d be excited for me, or… proud, maybe. Is he mad? I just… I just don’t want to upset them, you know? Or be a burden anymore…”

It was Alex’s little sigh that got him. The disappointment in his eyes, the small droop in his shoulders, the biting of the lip. In that moment, Achilles knew what he had to do.

“Nah, that’s not what George was talking about, man.” He gave Alex a swift pat on the back. “He’s really excited for you. No, he was talking about… something else, something stupid, it wasn’t important, don’t you worry about it…”

*****

“Well! I do declare, I thought young Alexander looked quite happy today, if I may say so myself.”

Achilles had joined Elliott and Leah after the Festival of Ice had (prematurely) ended in its damp, dripping glory. Rumor had it Lewis was on the warpath, cursing the skies, cursing the governor, cursing even Yoba for the day’s temperature, though it could be said the weather cared little to be called an “uncooperative member of the community.”

They sat scattered among the limited seating in Elliott’s seaside cabin. In fact, Achilles had chosen a seat on the floor against the frame of the bed, while Leah lay supine above him atop the quilt.

“Eh. I don’t think I’ve ever seen ‘young Alexander’ look unhappy.” Leah popped her gum as she took the mug of freshly brewed tea their host was offering to her. “Confused, maybe. But unhappy? Nah. Man’s got a resting happy face, like those funky marsupials. Quokkas?”

“All the same, I found his enthusiasm much elevated upon his encounter with—”

“Weren’t you going to ask him out?” Leah swung her legs over the edge of the bed and abruptly squatted down next to Achilles who nearly choked on the lollipop he’d taken from Elliott’s leftover Spirit’s Eve stash. “I thought you said you were going to ask him out.”

“I—I was.” Achilles grimaced as Leah’s sudden movement sent his own tea splashing onto his hand. “I was going to. I came very close, actually, but…”

“But…” Elliott leaned down from the piano bench he had dragged over, one eyebrow cocked expectantly.

“Please don’t tell me you’re afraid he’ll turn you down, you coward. After everything Elliott and I have witnessed—”

“No. No, that’s not it—”

“Yoba, so what are you afraid of?”

“Please, let the man speak, Leah!” Elliott cried, jumping from the bench to join them on the floor.

“Yes, let the man speak, Leah. Sheesh.” Achilles set down his mug. His hands itched for a pen and paper to help organize his thoughts, but he had left his usual notebook at home, and so began to trace invisible lines along the hardwood with his finger instead. “Now, look I’m not afraid of anything—it’s just—okay, three scenarios: first, he’s straight. Not interested. That’s fine. Second, he’s not straight, but also not interested. Also fine—”

“Is it though?” Leah gave him an aggressive poke in the neck.

Achilles scooted an inch to his right.

“Third scenario. He’s not straight and he’s interested.”

Leah clapped her hands. “Incredible. Amazing. Perfection. You ask him out, he says yes, boom, boom, done, happily ever after. You know, I’m actually ordained—”

“No.” Achilles shot her an impatient glare “Look, I’ve thought about it and… well, at the risk of sounding like a narcissist—”

“Buddy, we left that station long ago—”

“—I think he might… like me, too.”

God, it felt so arrogant to say aloud. Not to mention embarrassing—in all likelihood, Achilles was simply projecting. Simply reading too much into each and every one of their interactions, his smiles, his touches, his care. Except—

“And I as well, my dear friend!”

There it was. Elliott’s validation. And Leah’s, too—surely it couldn’t all be in Achilles’ head if both of his friends had picked up on something as well, right? Or were they merely projecting alongside him? Wishful thinking… what were the chances?

And yet… George today. After Achilles had managed to calm himself down, their little snit of a conversation had got him thinking. Why had George accosted him? Was it purely due to the photo from Spirit’s Eve, or was there something more to it? Had Alex said something at home? Something indicating a… possible interest in Achilles? As much as he had hated the conversation, and as much as that conversation was fueling this difficult decision he had now made, he couldn't help but feel somewhat… hopeful.

Too many possibilities. Too many questions and not enough answers, but Elliott could always be counted on more morale support. He took Achilles hand and continued to voice his thoughts.“Now, is that not what I’ve been saying these past few weeks? Young Alexander has surely been by shot by the arrows of Cu—”

But it was Leah’s turn to shush. “There’s a big ‘ole ’but,’ here, Ell. Come on. Let’s hear it.”

“Right. Well, I just… if that is the case, that he, you know, is interested, I just…” Achilles drew his knees close to his chest and traced the rim of his mug, searching for the right words. “Well, we all know Alex. He… he cares a lot, you know?

“And I don’t him to feel… torn. Between me and George. You all know how George feels about… well, you’ve all heard him call me ‘unnatural,’ right? The old fuck…” He forced a dry laugh that neither Elliott nor Leah returned. “Alex cares so much about his grandparents and their approval… he just wants them to be happy, and it just… wouldn’t be fair to force him to choose.

“Even if I tell him that it’s fine, that I understand, that we don’t have to do anything or be anything, that we can just stay friends, he’s going to feel… guilty. That he can’t give me what I want without also… I don’t know, disappointing George.” Pissing him off, more likely…

Leah stirred. “I mean… but would George have to know? If you guys got together? I had plenty of secret girlfriends back in the day…”

But Achilles shook his head, having already thought this through. “That’d be even worse. He tells them everything. It’d be wrong to expect him to keep something like this a secret, it’d drive him mad…

“So I’ve decided I’m going to… let him take the lead. If he feels… the same way about me as I feel about him… I want him to come out on his own terms. When he’s ready. I want to give him time, and let him decide on his own—without any unnecessary stress or any unnecessary guilt—what he wants, and if he thinks that it’s worth going after.

“As I said, if he’s not interested, telling him how I feel would be fine. But if he is, I just feel like confessing would be… selfish. Like would I be doing it for me or would I be doing it for… us?”

Elliott had been nodding somberly to his right as he spoke, and as he finished his words, now took his hand again, giving it a warm squeeze.

Leah, on the other hand, only popped her gum before saying, “So you’re going to wait?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“For forever.” Achilles laughed and blew a pretend smoke ring from his lollipop. “No, just until someone else comes along for me, I guess…” But words rang hollow in his heart. Could anyone else ever make him feel a fraction of the way Alex did? There you go, always thinking of yourself… “Or whenever he… inevitably finds someone else.” He thought of Tanya. “I won’t sit around and pine.”

“And if no one else ever comes along? For either of you? Worst case hopeless romantic scenario.”

“I don’t know.” A sudden thought inspired a brief snort. “Then until George dies.”

Elliott gasped, reaching to clutch invisible pearls. “Achilles!”

“That’s the spirit, probably won’t even have to wait too long—”

“Leah, please! My goodness, the both of you…”

They laughed at Elliott’s dismayed shake of his head, but amidst the minute of tension-breaking mirth and levity, Leah placed a callused hand to his knee.

“And how do you feel about your plan? All this waiting around? I have to say, it’s not very you.”

“I mean… it hurts. A lot.” Achilles shrugged and took a sip from his tea, rolling the lukewarm water around his mouth. “I’m in love with him. I really am, I think.” It didn’t feel strange to say it aloud, though this was the first time he had—he was neither ashamed nor embarrassed. And that’s how he knew what he said was true.

Leah smiled. Gave his knee an encouraging pat.

“I’ve learned… so much from him this past year. Not that I’ve put much of it into practice,” Achilles laughed, “Hell, he probably doesn’t even know. But what he’s shown me, literally just by existing, it’s… changed how I think. How I see things. How I see myself.

“He’s just got such a sense of life, you now? And he’s kind and caringand optimistic and genuine in a way that I will never be, but even so, I like the way he makes me feel about myself and he makes me… want to be better. He makes me feel like I can be better. And I know that even if I failed at everything, even if I was no one,he would still be happy to just… be there. With me. Not even as a partner, but just… as a friend.”

Achilles chucked the stick of his lollipop into his now-empty mug and kicked his legs out in a V in front of him.

“Also… I mean, let’s be real, come on guys—Leah, I know you disagree—but he’s really fucking hot.”

It wasn’t particularly funny, but the three of them erupted in shared, goodnatured laughter, and he found himself warmed with his appreciation for this duo of friends. Their own support and love for him.

He concluded his laughter with a long sigh, swirling his lollipop stick as he stared at the ground. “But if nothing ends up happening, well… it’ll pass. It always does. I’ll learn to get over it in time.”

You’ll be getting over it your whole life.

The thought, for some strange reason, made him smile. Yes, perhaps he’d never get over it. But that’s just how it was sometimes. And he would be fine.

“I would like to propose one modification to your noble plan, my dear friend. If you are willing to hear it.” Elliott’s voice was tentative.

“Sure.”

“Have you considered meeting him halfway? I do not propose a full confession, but perhaps… a lingering touch of the hand. A gaze held a beat too long. Oh! Perhaps you could invite him on a charming Winter walk, offer him your scarf —”

“Ho ho, sorry Ell, did you say you were a romance author?”

“Do you disagree? I suggest this only because—”

“—You’re shit at flirting.” Leah accompanied her second interruption with a sudden, hearty slap of Achilles’ knee. “I’d have never known you were in love with him if you hadn’t told us.”

“Woman, I can flirt when I want to, I have simply been actively choosing not to—”

Elliott sighed as the two bickered. He was generous enough to give them a minute or so, massaging his temples all the while before raising his mellow voice the barest degree.

“Assuming young Alex does indeed share your feelings, then this is likely a new experience for him, Achilles. And as you’ve suggested, one fraught with a multitude of potential complications, trials, and tribulations. A most confusing medley, don’t you think?

“Alex, as we know, is most generous with his amity, and seems to find much assurance in physical touch, even among his friends. I do not say that you are standoffish—the contrary, my dear friend—but I do not believe it would be detrimental to be more explicit with your affection—either as a potential partner or simply as a friend. But if he is indeed considering romance, I believe it could be beneficial to allow yourself this opportunity to better affirm his hopes, so that if he does so choose to make his move, he will know for sure that he will find love and support, if not from his grandfather, then in you.”

#llnks #stardew valley fanfiction #stardew valley fanfic #stardew valley fic #my fic #sdv farmer #farmer x alex #stardew alex #sdv alex #sdv elliott #sdv leah #sdv oc

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theoldaeroplane · 1 year ago

Text

Intercessor

Behold, a hyperfixation-fueled day-in-the-life of my new Apocalypse World character! His name is Fray and he definitely isn't 85% just BotW Link. This was written mostly for my GM and fellow party members, so the brief rundown is that we're in an eternal magic winter, surviving in pockets of tolerable cold, with steampunk/Victorian-esque tech.

4.3k, no content warnings. I put his character sheet under the cut at the bottom as a bonus :)

---

“Fray! Saint Fray!”

Hold on.

Saint?

Fray’s not sure when that started happening.

He’s heard hero and gallant and even champion—all of them kind of feel like too much—but saint is new. Sainthood seems really excessive.

He was not consulted on this. But then, he never is.

Fray stops in his tracks, peering over a heavily-obscured shoulder to see who’s calling. His new scarf, all wool and possum fur, feels like sitting in a sauna, but it’s terribly bulky, especially with his pack in the mix. It might be too big. He doesn’t cut an impressive figure in it. But then, he never does.

Behind him, squeezing between frozen-over remains of archaic vehicles in the narrow alleyway with all the grace of a puppy, comes—ah. Of course.

Andrei.

Fray turns, eyebrows cocked as Andrei halts his bulk bare inches in front of him. Fray is short, but Andrei’s ridiculous. Six and a half feet, top-heavy, all muscle he’s never done a thing to earn as far as Fray can tell. Deep pockets and a deeper voice. Sort of cute with his gold hair and dimples, but not Fray’s type. Still, he’s nice enough. If nothing else he’s bought his way into Fray’s good graces with beer after beer at the Manufacturing. “You’re so fast,” Andrei complains, leaning on his knees. “Gimme a second.”

So: Fray shoves his hands in his pockets and thinks through his agenda. He’s not in a rush. The tailor’s doesn’t close for hours yet. The yotes that have apparently found a way to worm their frozen bodies under the wardings and onto the Merchants’ land won’t come out until the shifts change. He’ll work dinner into the middle somewhere. He’s got time for whatever this is.

There’s another thing about Andrei that Fray likes. When Fray tugs off his top pair of mittens to free the thin-gloved fingers underneath and signs S-A-I-N-T?, he can see Andrei focus on his hands, lips jutting out in his concentration. Andrei is nowhere near fluent, probably will never be, but being able to sort-of read what feels like Fray’s first language goes a long way in endearing Andrei to him.

“Um,” Andrei says. “Are you not? That’s what they’re calling you.”

Fray squints at him. Signs: T-H-E-Y?

“The Children?”

It always takes Fray a moment to realize people usually say Children with a capital “C” around here. His face twists up in a grimace, and he shakes his head no emphatically. W-H-Y?

“Don’t know,” Andrei says, guileless as always. “I won’t say it no more, if you like.” At Fray’s resigned, bewildered shrug, he goes on, “Well, but, I’m glad I caught you!” With this he claps a huge hand on Fray’s shoulder, the blow barely cushioned by the thick layers of wool. Fray staggers instantly, unprepared knees almost buckling. Andrei yelps and helps him regain his feet. “Sorry! Sorry! Here, this is it, this is all, look, my sister got these and I thought to myself, you know who’d love that? Fray, that’s who! Lucky thing we crossed paths!”

The thing he shoves in Fray’s face smells like heaven. He starts salivating like a damn dog. It locks Fray in place momentarily, trying to piece together where he knows it from. What it reminds him of. It’s there somewhere, on the edge of things, but—

“It’s doughnuts,” Andrei tells him, conspiratorial. “Like at the market that time. You know?”

Fray remembers. A wagon on the merchant circuit pulled by four aurochs. The overpowering smell of fried dough drawing him nearly straight from his house. Standing in line for thirty minutes when Andrei pulled him in. Finally being handed the paper bag, translucent with oil and steaming hot, and looking into it to see not just the miniature doughnuts, but for the first time he can remember in—a long time—sugar.

It had been physically painful for him to keep himself from cramming the whole thing into his mouth. Instead he forced himself to savor it. That had almost been worse, it turned out, because now his memory of it was such that he does not think anything will ever near its equal.

Andrei had said they were pretty good doughnuts.

Fray stares at the oil-soaked paper that Andrei holds level with his eyes, and before he can quite stop himself he looks from bag to man with naked want on his face. He points at himself with a disbelief that is exaggerated both to be clear enough for Andrei to pick up on, and as a show of his genuine surprise and delight. He probably does look like a dog, waiting for a treat. That’s fine. Fray knows what he is about.

Andrei, generous enough to overlook how Fray is practically vibrating, pushes the bag into his hands with a lopsided grin. “You bet! I remembered how much you liked them—oh, no, no,” he cuts himself off when he sees Fray pull out his wallet. “It’s a gift!”

Fray looks at the bag again, to Andrei again, to the bag once more. He gets it settled in his off-hand so he can use the other. W-H-Y?

“Well, because we’re friends, twerp,” Andrei says with the kind of smile that Fray can only read as knew you’d say that. Because this has happened before.

Because Fray kind of doesn’t … do friends.

Not on purpose. He’d rather if he did have friends. It just seems like it never quite sticks. It’s not unusual for him to be hailed in the street by someone grateful for some favor or other he’s gone and done for them months ago, something he’s already forgotten. But those aren’t friends. Or at least, he’s pretty sure they aren’t. Lots of people ask him for favors after what happened.

There just seems to be something about him that keeps people from wanting to stay too long.

Except Andrei, apparently.

Fray pulls the bag closer to his chest and lets the fried smell warm him inside and out. He works his face into something he hopes looks appropriately sheepish. “Thanks,” he signs, because he’s pretty sure Andrei knows that one. (He does, by the way he beams.) Fray adds, afterwards, F-A-V-O-R-I-T-E.

“Hell, Fray, you’re my favorite too,” Andrei says with amusement. Before Fray can correct him—tell him he meant the doughnuts—Andrei straightens and sticks his hands into his armpits against the cold. “Hoo! Bad as witch piss out here. I’ve got to be getting. See you at Manufacturing tomorrow night? I hear there’s going to new music!”

Fray nods, giving up on the favorite comment. Sure, Andrei might as well be his favorite person. He likes him well enough. It’s not like there’s anyone else, not really. The thought stings a little more than it used to.

---

He doesn’t get swarmed just trying to cross the dome anymore, at least. That had been a problem last year. Far Haven has a scant few hundred souls to its name, and Fray is sure every single one of them has talked to him at one point or another by now. It drove him into hiding for a while, nerves shot with so much attention. The flocks of opinionated strangers only died off with time, as memories and emotions faded and what he’d done drifted out of the city’s mind.

Saving the lives of every one of those few hundred souls takes some time to drift.

These days he’ll only get a few hangers-ons, most of them children who want to see the sword. The children do not get to see the sword. Fray tries to prevent anyone from seeing the sword in general. This has never deterred them, and he cannot bring himself to frighten off kids. It’s not uncommon to see Fray making his steadfast way through snow and slush with three or four ragamuffins tailing him, telling each other stories of the thing their parents say he did. Fray never confirms (or denies) anything.

That’s happening now, as a matter of fact.

“I heard you’s killed the thieves dead!” says a gap-toothed girl at least ten years younger than him, but nearly as tall. She reminds him of someone, he thinks as he eats the doughnuts. He wonders who. “I heard there was forty of ’em!”

“Nuh-uh! It was three! But they were big and scary and frostbitted!” This from a blond-haired boy with huge glasses and a mouth entombed by a scarf.

“You jokers gotta get your stories straight,” says that absolute goblin of a red-head girl with the false arm. Her voice is like a vulture croaking. “Short stuff, hey! Mr. Hero! You were there, weren’tcha? Cough up the details!”

She’s all but dog-piled by the other two. “Mr. Fray can’t talk!” protests the boy. “Because he got hit in the throat by the frostbitted!”

“Horseshit, I see him talk. Came saw my dad about maps and shit last week, didn’t he? He talks. Not a lot, maybe. You guys think he’s too stupid to say much or just stuck-up?”

“Definitely stupid,” says Fray in the painful scrape of his rusted-over voice, loud enough to catch all three of them off guard. There’s a shocked silence until he looks back at them and winks, and then giggles send up after him like a train of bubbles.

They peel off when he’s about a block from the tailor’s. Just as well. Fray pauses in the dark overhang of the tailor’s doorstep to pull his scarf down and palm his throat. The heat from his hand does little against the stain of discolored skin, blanched pale and blue against his dusky skin. It bleeds down his neck like a port-wine stain, a slashed jugular bleeding ice.

Fray thinks he is maybe supposed to be dead, with the way that ice-white blemish hugs his neck. The skin is cold and hard, and it glitters at him whenever he looks at it in the mirror, like crusted snow.

Well. Nothing to be done. Fray fixes his scarf and pushes his way into the relative heat of the tailor’s.

Warm air licks at his face. He sighs in relief, stopping for a moment to relish it as it caresses his ears and cheeks. The shuffle of fabric and leather draws him out of his reverie for but a moment, long enough to cast a glance toward where Elle’s apprentice sticks her head out from the back. “Oh! Mr. Fray! Got more?”

Fray gives her an apologetic nod, unshouldering his pack to pull it open. From within he produces no less than five shirts, all of them damaged in exactly the same place and exactly the same way. Each one is black—he learned that lesson a long time ago, not to wear anything but black against his skin—and each one has perfectly round holes burned into the same spot on the forearms. They’re as big as eggs, two on each arm. One of the shirts has similar burned holes in a long row down the spine, all identical and evenly spaced. Elle’s apprentice looks the garments over and tuts. “There won’t be much of these left to repair at this rate, you know,” she scolds. “One day I’m going to refuse you until you at least tell me how you keep getting them.”

Fray nods and has the decency to look embarrassed.

She scoots him out posthaste, telling him to return in two days. He should really learn how to repair his own clothes. It’d be a way to pass the time if nothing else. And to avoid awkward questions.

That’s all Fray has in front of him for the rest of the day: passing the time. He meanders. He picks up and loses more trails of children, none of whom get to see the sword. He finds lunch in the form of beaver steak and turnips at that place that has a jester on its sign. He pings back and forth slowly between shop after shop, recognized at each one, buying nothing.

Mostly he thinks, stopping at a mirror in one store to surreptitiously peek beneath his scarf again: this frost thing would have looked cooler if it had gone over my heart.

Because Fray’s kind of … done everything around here. A couple times. Often with encouragement and enabling from strangers who see his bright eyes and dull hair and go oh! Fray! Come in! He’s done everything, including worry about the cold-dead magic stuck to his throat, but nothing’s changed. Now he just thinks it’s ironic he got a neck wound only after his voice skedaddled.

If the frost-rot weapon had connected with his heart instead of his neck, Fray muses, he would probably be dead. That seems like a more vulnerable part of him. Which—that might have been interesting, to see what happened if he died. But that would come at the cost of him probably not being alive anymore.

Which itself probably hinges on whether or not he counts as alive.

He gets a snack as he makes for the Merchants’ territory. The doughnuts are gone. The sausages he buys aren’t nearly as good as he wants them to be. He’s nearly out of the market when he’s waylaid by a tall, dark woman with wide eyes, the most visible thing in her bundled-up face. “Aren’t you the one who saved the city?” she says, breathless. “From that break-in?”

This is one of those questions where the answer makes him feel like a jackass, no matter how factual it is. But he nods anyway, meekly. The vibes on this woman aren’t great. He’s not sure how much he wants to admit to her.

Her wide eyes go wider, until Fray thinks they might eclipse the rest of her face. “Saint,” she breathes, all awe and devotion. Fray almost cringes. “The Children are with you.”

He doesn’t know how to react until he remembers to capitalize that “C”. Oh. One of them. One of those cuckoos that worships the arcane frost that sits outside their little dome waiting to kill anyone it can. Fray gives her a weak smile and hopes it’s not very encouraging. “I would walk with you, Saint,” the woman says, catching up his left hand as she slips to his side. “Allow me to feel your presence.”

Oh, son of a bitch.

There are people you do not want to piss off, and those people are the Children of the Frost. They’re a religion? Cult? Club? Something. They’re fans of the cold nightmare outside this pocket of survivability. Really into Frostbitten, he thinks. Most of them seem a little moonblinked. Unfortunately for him and everyone else, they’ve wormed their way into the council seats. They run half of Far Haven.

She starts walking before Fray can pull back, and as she is nearly as tall as Andrei, she does a marvelous job of pulling Fray along like one of those toy ducks on wheels. She’s power walking, even. They’re still headed where he needs to go, to the outer bounds of the dome, but there are fewer and fewer people here as witnesses. Fray does not love that. Fray’s of the belief that the Children need babysitters.

There’s just one person left in sight when Fray finally locks his knees and digs his heels in. He pulls his hand away and the woman rounds on him with alarming speed. “Something the matter?” she asks sweetly, looming.

Fray puts his hands up and shakes his head, then throws a thumb over his shoulder. I need to go that way. He could get to the Merchants’ from here, yes, but he could get there from a couple streets over, too, and those streets have lights. And people. It’s not that he feels in danger—Fray very rarely feels like he’s in danger from anything—but something about this is making his skin crawl.

The woman watches him with eyes that seem much too large for her skull. “Oh, of course,” she says, as if in a daze. “But, brother in the snow, would you grant me one favor?”

Well. He’s the favor guy. It would probably not go over well if he turned down what is evidently such a big fan. He makes a point of not actually nodding, but he does pause and wait to hear her request.

The woman says, “May I see it?” Her voice trembles. “Your kiss?”

Fray mouths the words what the fuck? before he can stop himself.

“Your mark?” the woman tries again, grabbing the plush fabric of his coat when he tries to back away. “The gift the frost left you. Grant me this, let me gaze upon it, Saint Fray of the Frost.”

Before he can think better of it Fray pulls her hands off with a firm grasp, and squares his shoulders before he shakes his head. To emphasize his point he crosses his arms in front of him, the universal gesture for no. No on several levels. No on the levels of stop-calling-me-that and who-the-fuck-are-you-anyway. (And perhaps most importantly, no-one-gets-to-see-that.)

“I understand,” the woman says after a long pause. She sounds a million miles away. Her hand lifts again, drawn toward his scarf as if it was magnetized. “At least then allow me to fix your wardrobe.” Her fingertips brush the very edge of the scarf. The hair on the back of Fray’s neck prickles and shivers, and that’s his signal to leave.

By rights he should have been out of there before she could manage anything. He would have been, except his foot slips on the iced-over cobbles when he tries to retreat. The woman’s fingers sink into his scarf and it tears away in her hand as he pratfalls hard. The cold air strikes like a serpent at his exposed throat, and he swears he actually sees the glitter under his own chin as the uncloaked moon falls upon him.

The woman is agape. She falls to her knees in fervent prayer. Fray wonders if all the Children are actually fucking insane, or if he lucked out. For now he snatches back his scarf and sprints back up the road. Not as fast as he can go, nowhere near, but more than enough to put a few blocks between himself and the Child. He weaves through a few other snow-crushed buildings and through the edge of the red-light district just to be sure he’s not followed.

God. That probably won’t lead to anything good. But there��s nothing to be done about it now.

Fray shakes himself and sighs and politely waves off the folk pulling double shifts on the world’s oldest profession. He tugs the scarf tighter against his neck. There’s nothing for him here, either, not until he figures this frostrot thing out.

---

It’s dark, the borders of the pasture empty of lights or people. The yotes shine dull white, glossed with blue icicles melting off their fur outside the embrace of the permafrost. They snarl and yap at him with eyes as pale and empty as the moon. He is between them and the Merchants’ wool flock. If these creatures get loose among the merinos, not only will Fray not get paid, but will probably not go a week before someone tries to assassinate him. The goodwill he’s won does not, he suspect, apply to the pragmatic Merchants.

And then he’d have to kill the assassin, and it would just be messy and he doesn’t want to piss off the Merchants.

But he’s not worried about that.

They’re not enormous, the yotes, but their skinny bodies are lithe and fast and hard to predict. There’s six of them. They have claws and superior weight. They have greater numbers. They have those ice-bound teeth that shatter into frostrot the moment they hit blood.

Fray has the sword.

The yotes mouth at each other, excited and riled. Only two of them seem to stop long enough to notice that Fray has set his arms before him as if he held a shield and a blade. For a moment he looks idiotic. In the next, he looks inhuman.

The shield ripples out of nothing across his arm, held there only with the humming of the gold-tinted implants set into his flesh. The air fills with the smell of singed cotton, the superheated elements too much for the fabric to resist. In his opposite hand the implant on his wrist makes a dull thrum, and suddenly the pretend sword in his fingers is not pretend at all. It is, instead (as Fray thought the first time he saw it), a fucking knight’s broadsword. The blade is made of light, and it sits easy in his practiced hand. Both armaments glow and roil like molten gold, not adorned with any boss but a constantly shifting pattern of faint hexagons. He knows from experience it’s not just them: his eyes are lit up, too, glowing gold, those hexagons mirrored by his pupils. Fray checks his grip on the sword, raises the shield, and charges.

There would be no point in detailing the fight. It lasts around seventeen seconds.

The yotes on the ground, now mostly divested from their heads or guts, lay still. Fray approaches one, ever on guard, and nudges its crazed face with the flat of the blade. It’s already dissolving into that sludgy, slushy substance so many frost-touched creatures return to if they perish outside their domain. It’s gross. He wipes the blade off on the clean snow to its side, despite not needing too, and then the blade dissolves from sight. The shield follows, and not long after the dull hum of the implants dies down and goes back to matching his heartbeat. (He hopes it’s a heart he’s got in there.)

Well. That’s his job finished, then. Nothing more to be done here.

Fray stands there for a long time, watching the corrupted bodies melt into the snow.

---

It’s not that the drop in his mood is unexpected so much as Fray doesn’t know how to mitigate it. Right now, curled on the nest of blankets he calls a bed, he feels like he’s in free-fall and he does not know why. It’s always worse if it’s a culling job like this one. He’s developed a sick kind of sympathy for the creatures he cuts down. They aren’t normal animals. Most of them were once, a pack of wolves, a flock of ravens, things the frost struck down before reshaping into its own kind of native inhabitant. They don’t eat. They don’t even kill, some of them. They just carry the frost with them, trying to bring it into the places the Chasm has not yet fully swallowed. There’s no understanding in their white marble eyes. They don’t know what they’re doing.

Fray tries to remember how he got here, to Far Haven. He’d been journeying, he thinks. He’d just done something he was grimly, blackly satisfied with. He could feel the stain of its gratification on his soul. He has no idea what it was, but he thinks he knew once, and he knows it was—

… he knows it was worth what he had to sacrifice. It has to have been.

Only, he wishes he knew which part of him had been used to pay for it. His voice? His memory? The flesh that had been excised from his arms and the golden implants set in their place? All of it, or a combination?

Does it matter?

No, is the answer he arrives on again, trying to sink further into the warmth of his bed. It doesn’t. He’s here now, he’s helping people, he’s doing what it feels like he’s supposed to be doing. That should be enough.

In his dream, Fray is again in the underground chamber that keeps the entire city warm enough to survive. The implants’ roar as they form the golden sword shakes him down to his teeth. The thieves are very annoyed that he’s here. In front of him they argue about who betrayed their plan to extract the generator’s heart and let Far Haven freeze to death, a few hundred miserable lives less valuable than their payout will be. Fray does nothing but keep an eye on the young woman that’s accompanied them, the one who looks fraught and sick with guilt. She barely looks past girlhood.

They fight. It gives him more trouble than it feels like it should. After one of the men shoves a strange gauntlet against his throat and squeezes, after the glittering death of frostrot embeds itself in his neck—after Fray cuts him down and rushes to recover the ancient battery and shove it back into the squealing generator—he remembers the girl.

He finds her clinging to the edge of the magic runoff and its mile-long drop into a red-tinted black, her arms bloody and slipping against the steep concrete. I’m sorry, she wails as he runs to her, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to do this, please help me, please, please. I won’t tell anyone what you are.

He stops in the middle of reaching for her hand, startled stiff by her last words. Just for a moment. Just long enough that when her weakening arms seize and fail her, his dive to grab her is just that little bit too late.

She falls, and Fray watches in horror. In his dream, he can see her panicked face right until the very end. When she hits the ground impact shocks him awake, and he staggers off to the washroom to vomit up greasy doughnut batter and undigested sausages. In the mirror, the inert embrace of the arcane frost—the kiss of death—glitters in the candlelight, clutching his throat like a lover. The implants start to hum as his heart speeds up.

Fray wishes he knew her name. He wishes she could have told him what he is.

But there’s nothing to be done about that now.

---

Thank you for reading!!! as promised, Fray's character sheet. We're playing a hack of AW called Burned Over, and I'm playing a class called The Weaponized, which is what led to me calling Fray "RoboCop Link" until I settled on his name.

#saint fray #corgiwrites!#apocalypse world #northern echoes #writing

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jay-does-crochet · 1 year ago

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Here's part 2 to my 2023 crochet recap!

Mittens I made for someone's baby sister. I made similar ones in blue for the kid I babysit sometimes

May? I think may.

~ • ~

My first ever actual clothing item, a crochet shrug! (Yes it's on my matress.)

This was made around the end of May for my best friend, and she loved it (she looks amazing in it)

~ • ~

Cat ear beanie with ruffled brim rather than folded, for the same friend that the shrug was for. One of her favourites ^^

July-August, I believe, but I'm really not positive

~ • ~

A maple leaf because, fun fact, I love maple leaves, and have been wanting to make one for ages, and finally got the thread yarn to make it. It didn't turn out exactly how I'd hoped, but I still think it's cute ^^

About August timeframe

~ • ~

Potholders, hot pads, whatever you call them, things that you can put a hot pan on so it doesn't burn your table. I made three colour variations of circles and squares

June-July

~ • ~

Keychains! My first time actually making keychains, and they turned out pretty well! The jellyfish was a commission (they loved it!) And the mushrooms were based off of me and my best friend, because my hair was split dyed, and she wanted one that would be pink because part of her hair is pink

All made in July-August

~ • ~

Two pairs of dragon scale fingerless gloves. I'd shared the colourful ones before, but not the gray ones, but both pairs have scales on only one side so that they're still usable.

January-February?

~ • ~

I made a bunch of these, mesh bucket hats, while I was at a camp, intending on selling them and having them be cheaper since they're mesh. They didn't sell, but they look pretty cool!

July ^^

I'm gonna have to make another part oh goodness I'm so sorry

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frostcorpsclub · 2 years ago

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'Keep it together Cryssy, you just gotta deal with little miss gremlin twat for a couple hours'

The frozen woman sighed as she set the cookies Jack had made onto a plate. How she wished her husband were here right now but of course today had to be hunting day with the boys and Claudia.

Crystal didn't like Suzy. She would have liked to get to know her, talk to her since they are both married to variants of Jack, but.... differences got in the way. Not for Crystal, but for Suzy. It seemed everything about Crystal was wrong in Suzy's eyes, and Crystal really really really didn't want to deal with her today but hey, she had to.

She looked towards the portal that rested in the living room every now and then, taking a bite out of a cookie herself. It tasted of blood, fat, and white chocolate chips. Nice. Maybe some blood will cool her down while she waited.

They were for the kids, but she knew Didi wouldn't mind if she took one. She was sweeter than a cake made of rainbows. Which was also why the play-date was happening. The little princess inviting a new friend.

"MAMA!"

Speaking of-

"Are they coming yet? I've got the kool-aid in the tea pot and turned Just Dance on!" The little Di-Di grinned, gesturing towards the living room where said things were indeed showing.

Crystal smiled at her young daughter's excitement. "Any second honey."

Hopefully.

Suzy clutched the edge of her vanity so hard there was claw marks on the surface, despite the fact she was wearing gloves.

She had done things that would make hardened detectives cower in a pool of their own vomit but this time reality was going to have to take her kicking and screaming.

A play date at those people's house.

Normally she was the type of mother that made other parents feel like they were just bad at their jobs but today she truly struggled. Maybe Jane would simply...get over it? She handed out lies to her children like they were cookies all the time.

She told herself that it wasn't a matter of personal pettiness. As a mother it was her job to raise her children with the right decorum and values, going into a home where there was no clear hierarchy in sight just wouldn't do. The man of the house just did whatever that woman told him to do. On top of it that was somehow an alternate version of her husband. She wasn't sure whether the idea made her want to laugh or made her stomach turn with rage.

As her mind tumbled down the spiral staircase of her thoughts she stared at herself in the mirror, the rest of the world falling away.

"Mommy? Is everything alright Mommy?"

A soft voice called out, the feeling of a mitten like hand patting her leg pulling her back. There stood her daughter, almost as tall as her already. Suzy immediately began to pat Jane's sides, pulling here prodding there, making the plaid coat she wore as tidy as possible.

"May I bring these with me Mommy? I think she would quite like them."

Suzy looked to the collection of books that Jane held, the titles beyond her ages normal reading level making her beam with pride. This smile stayed as she studied the rest of the girls face, her meek voice and expression matching the fragile form it came from.

Suzette began to ponder if this would do Jane some good. Crystal's children were quite, how would she put it kindly, generic. Perhaps Jane wouldn't feel as pressured to perform and come put of her shell. Even further, Suzy herself saw her as much grander than her own mother, perhaps Crystal's children could come to impress her. It was almost complimentary.

However, it came out as...

"Yes you may Jane darling, I would wager that your new friend is a tad behind as one might say."

She waltzed out of the bedroom and took a stop at the kitchen to pick up a little something she was going to bring with her. No matter what she felt about Crystal, today she was hostess and Suzy was guest.

----------------

On the other end of the portal Suzy stood like a statue, holding the tupperware to her chest and staring into Crystal's eyes. Her smile almost stretched off of her face, not a nerve or wrinkle or a tearduct twitching.

It was almost like she was just Jane's accessory.

Jane rolled forward and curtseyed using the edges of her coat.

"Hello Mrs. Frost. How are you today? You have a lovely home. My name is Jane! May I please play with your daughter?"

#StepfordKnives #suzy snowflake #suzysnowflake #suzy frost #suzette schneeflocke #suzetteschneeflocke #crystal cleopatra winters #crystal winters #crystal frost #crystal cleopatra frost

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iamacyborglunarprincess · 8 months ago

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heat tips (qualifications: I've lived and worked outdoors in pretty much every region of the Continental US except the South, w/ and w/out AC):

- drink lots of water! put whatever in you have to in order to encourage yourself to and if you know you're going to be in hot conditions try to pre-hydrate

- make sure you're eating enough! heat can decrease appetite and you need to make sure you get enough salts and water absorbs much better when it's paired with food

- if you have dark hair a light colored hat it great when working outside (and you can get it wet and cool your head a little)

- you're gonna want to have as much ventilation as possible and fans wherever you can. window fan + ceiling fan = almost as good as ac (sometimes just as good as). window fans aren't too expensive and use way less energy to run so you can kind of keep them constantly running. unfortunately they don't fit into all windows.

- an alternative strategy for places that have larger day/night temp differentials (dryer places) is to run as many fans as you can at night and then seal up the house as soon as you wake up to trap the heat inside until the evening cools off

- to reduce AC costs, do as best you can to seal/insulate. it's harder if you are renting but some orgs will give you a free insulation audit and then may even help you fix some insulation. "energy efficiency assistance" is probabaly what to look for. try to hold out on turning on the AC (using above strategies) until a last resort. sealing off a specific room might also work better than trying to heat a whole space (if you don't have central ac.) if you have a thermostat, try to keep the temp as high as you can be comfortable. this is harder if you work somewhere with ac, but keeping yourself acclimated to a high temperature makes it less jarring when you do go out in the heat

- taking a coolish shower and do wonders for bring the body temp down pretty quick after doing something in the heat

cold: (grew up in Iowa)

- you're gonna eat more bc you have to burn more energy keeping yourself warm. let yourself. (make sure to drink enough water though)

- people always talk about layers, but what does this look like? this is the kind of max layers I would do from head to toe (I haven't had to deal with super extreme cold though), adjust to time spent outside and temperature:

- fleece lined hat that securely covers the ears + hood(s) over that, cinched as tight as possible

- scarf, long enough to wrap around you twice, with a tight weave, covering cheeks and nose

- tight tank top + long sleeve T-shirt + hoodie/sweatshirt or sweater (wear the hood over the hat) + thick winter coat that ideally goes to about your knees, hood over hat (I've tried the lighter down ones but they eventually compress and become less effective over time)

- waterproof, fleece lined ski gloves (sometimes you can fit thin knit gloves often called magic gloves I think? under these too) OR thin knit gloves + mittens

- leggings/long underwear + thick sweatpants (snow pants are nice but probably excessive unless you're skiing or something, make sure you have a waterproof/water resistant top later if you're gonna be interacting with snow)

- thin socks + thick wool socks + waterproof (snow) boots

- all of this is pretty heavy. also, my order for getting this stuff on is clothes > hat > boots > gloves > coat > scarf. do this at the last possible moment to prevent what I call "heat panic" when you are stuck inside with all your winter gear and risking getting sweaty.

- if you are moving at all, you will probably want to be able to take off layers. walking heats you up a surprising amount. better to remove and prevent sweating. shoveling also takes a lot of energy so you'll need less clothes than you think.

- if you are moving somewhere with a lot of snow and you have a big driveway and can afford it, snowblowers are worth it. otherwise try to find the lightest snow shovel you can buy + a metal one for scraping up the compacted snow. use salt (lightly) only on places that have been shoveled. prioritize places you will actually be walking and try to do it as soon as you can after it stops snowing so it doesn't freeze and become harder to remove.

- I love a scarf, to the point that sometimes I turn to wearing one even before I get a hat. they're very easy to adjust to various temperatures. beware of fogging the glasses though.

- don't let your hands get cold - it'll be harder to warm them up than prevent them from getting cold, so wear gloves before you think you need them

- moisturize!

- humidifiers are great (help to prevent nosebleeds)

- if you have to drive, make sure to give yourself an extra 5-10 minutes to heat up the car AND account for it taking longer to drive on snowy/icy conditions. (the only way to get better at winter driving is practice but give yourself more time to stop and go slower than usual. if you have AWD use it.) my car heating process is this: turn on the car and crank the heat all the way up including the front and back defrosters, then go outside and brush off any snow, then scrape away any ice. if you don't have a scraper/brusher, don't try to improvise, just wait longer with the heater and use the windshield wipers once you can see it actively melting. (budget more time).

- walking on the street where it's been plowed is a good way to avoid slipping on ice.

- heating is also expensive so see above for insulation tips. close any storm windows.

#are stores not open late bc can only go after work?

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