#the magician murder

[romances-not-tragedies]

Lt. Sadi Ratan: And you will be brought to trial for lying to me, a police officer!

Atty. Edilberto Alcantara: (bursting into Jo Gar's office) "Lying to me"? Who the fuck do you think Jo Gar is, your wayward husband?

[wait-a-minute-lassie]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Jo Gar Series - Ramon Decolta Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Jo Gar - Character, Sadi Ratan Additional Tags: Original Character(s), The Magician Murder, The Magician Murder AU, Abuse of Authority, not-quite accurate depiction of legal processes in pre-Revised Penal Code era, mixed opinions on American-era occupation, it's set during the American occupation of the Philippines (duh!), no beta we die like every murder victim of every Jo Gar story ever, sadi sounds more like a spurned lover fight me Summary:

“And you will be brought to trial for lying to me, a police officer!” Edilberto heard Lieutenant Ratan fiercely threaten Jo Gar. “‘Lying to me?’” he repeated the words mockingly as a greeting to the lieutenant. He closed the door behind him a little too strongly and raised a brow at the lieutenant. “Who the fuck do you think Jo Gar is, your wayward husband?”

When a chat about the case of the murdered magician goes ugly, one of Jo Gar's longtime acquaintances walks up into the scene and chooses figurative violence against the lieutenant of the Manila Police Station who thinks he is right in accusing an innocent man of a murder he may not commit. Or "The Magician Murder" AU in which someone puts Sadi Ratan in his place. Title from Taylor Swift's "Karma".

[upthelagan]

Jason Hughes as Ben Jones in Midsomer Murders. The Magician's Nephew.

[dungeon-meshi-tournament]

Masterpost

[rokhal]

ANGR Magical Girl AU: Wrong Universe

The Robbie I usually write wakes up in the Ghost Rider Magical Girl AU.

I figured that in Magical Girl AU, Robbie is likely to go to Lisa to ask for help walking in heels (assuming Johnny's tips are less than useful) and Lisa gets so excited at the prospect of Robbie participating in drag and he denies that's what he's doing but refuses to explain so in her desire to be supportive she ends up stalking him so she can cheer for him at his show and ends up finding out that he's a magical girl which somehow makes a lot more sense. She becomes a valuable member of the team because she has social skills. Of a sort.

If anything here contradicts any other ideas anyone else has in the works, MULTIVERSE BAYBEE it's noncanon :) The Sharpie thing is purely a case of Great Minds Think Alike though. I saw that in Moose's fic and was like, twins!

This is way too long 😭

As Robbie scrubbed the brake cleaner off his hands, the axle grease wiped away and so did the black Sharpie he’d hastily scribbled onto his fingernails that morning. His bright pink fingernails. If it was nail polish, the brake cleaner should be taking that off, too; he scrubbed hopefully at his thumbnail but this was as useless as the acetone he’d tried before resorting to Sharpie.

He’d woken up feeling more normal than he had in a long time. The pleasant sensation of a full night’s rest had faded as he’d gotten dressed and made Gabe breakfast. His bad eye was mysteriously back to normal and the scar on his forehead was completely gone, but his goatee was shaved off, he had some kind of jewel embedded in his chest, his fingernails were pink, and. And Gabe wasn’t his Gabe. It was Gabe’s face, and Gabe’s smile, but instead of cartoon and comic book heroes filling his shelves and plastered all over his door, it was sparkly anime girls and Japanese motorcycle riders; he was happier, stronger legs and steadier hands, and he didn’t second-guess Robbie’s every expression and movement or double-check his identity after every time Robbie left his sight. Robbie spent half an hour tossing the bathroom looking for his epilepsy meds before he checked the app on his phone where he tracked expenses and found that this Gabe had been off them for an entire year.

The apartment was mostly the same; same view across Hillrock Lane out the apartment window, same pile of automotive magazines on the coffee table—now with manga mixed in—same thrifted art on the walls. Robbie had wondered if he was still asleep, and dreaming, or better, if the last two years had been a long and vivid nightmare, until he noticed the time and realized that he’d missed Gabe’s bus and was about to be late to work. He’d stuffed a stale tortilla in his mouth and gnawed on it while grabbing a pair of coveralls and helping Gabe into the Charger to get to school. He’d dropped Gabe off and made it all the way to Canelo’s before he realized that he hadn’t heard from Eli all morning.

He stood now under a half-disassembled Chevy Tahoe, scrubbing desperately at his glossy pink fingernails as though with enough solvent and friction he could wipe himself from this world and return to his own body, his own curse, his own Hillrock Heights, his own brother. He simply had no better ideas.

“Reyes!” Canelo barked from across the shop, and he jumped, dropped the can of brake cleaner. “Quit daydreaming!”

Eli would have had a snide comment about how Canelo ought to mind his own fucking business or risk getting disemboweled. Robbie checked the time and added up the hours he was due by the end of the day, for future reference in case Canelo rounded his pay down when it was due next week. If he was still here next week. He couldn’t be stuck here until next week but he didn’t know to do anything but work. Did his other self know anybody here who dealt with interdimensional travel and too-pleasant dreams? He wasn’t a Ghost Rider here, Johnny Blaze wouldn’t have any reason to have met him…

...But he was a something.

What the hell was he now?

He was on the clock, that’s what. He had a job he knew how to do, to provide for a brother he loved, even though neither of them were his, and he would reinstall this truck’s axles and wheel bearings and not get his alternate self fired and then he would, somehow, figure out how to get home. (Dread filled him.) (He hadn’t fantasized about murdering anyone all morning.) (The world felt brighter, his senses more vivid, his flesh and skin snug over his bones, and he could believe for the first time in a long time that he might be safe for others to be around.)

“You alright, son?” Canelo asked from two feet behind him, and Robbie hit his head on the Tahoe’s subframe. It didn’t hurt as much as it probably should have. Canelo was just standing there, frowning a little. “Take five, I’ll get you some ice.”

What the hell, Robbie thought, and no one answered.

Canelo did, indeed, return from the break room with an ice pack. No one else at the shop seemed to think this was unusual. Marty winced at Robbie and patted his own head, mouthing, You okay? and even Ramon grunted sympathetically at him. Robbie retreated to the bathroom where he pressed the ice pack to the starting bruise and stared himself down in the mirror. Without his beard, he looked young and delicate—that’s why he’d grown it. But it wasn’t just the beard; his eyes were brighter, his skin was smoother, the scar through his eyebrow had faded—all the scars on his hands were gone, too, the bashed knuckles and burns and scrapes that were inevitable if you worked with cars all day. He looked tender and undamaged. He looked like someone worth protecting.

He had a terrible thought and whispered, “Talk to me. I’m not doing this on purpose but if I know you’re in here I think I can give you your body back.” He stared uncomfortably into his own eyes, but the back of his mind was silent.

He got out his phone—same PIN as usual—and checked his contacts list. Johnny Blaze was on there, but Johnny Blaze had almost killed him and Eli the first time they’d met; how would Johnny react to some strange, murderous version of Robbie wearing the skin of the Robbie he knew? He couldn’t beat Johnny in a fight in the real world. He didn’t know how to explain himself. There was nothing to do but finish the Tahoe.

The day rolled on, he returned the Tahoe to drivable condition and did a couple tune-ups and oil changes, and he snagged a moment to Sharpie his nails black again. He wasn’t afraid of nail polish—he had black nail polish at home somewhere, eyeliner too—but pink was not his style and was liable to attract the wrong kind of attention, especially with how...how he looked, in this world. (What was he? Was he something that could fight, defend itself? There was no fire waiting under his skin to consume his human weakness.)

He was puzzling over a set of trouble codes from a fifteen-year-old Nissan Maxima when his phone buzzed. If this version of himself worked on the same logic, he’d set it up to mute unknown numbers but programmed in all Gabe’s teachers and therapists. He dug into his pocket under his coveralls and checked it. It was Lisa, saved in his contacts list with a photo he didn’t remember taking: familiar bright hair and smile, raising two fingers in a V in front of one eye while her other hand displayed a river rock with a large hole worn through the center, dangling from a pink ribbon.

This was not a conversation he was ready to have. He ended the call. A minute later, she called again. Robbie walked to the time clock and punched out as he answered. “Uh, what’s up.”

Screeching and howling and buzzing in the background. “Omigod where are you?” Lisa demanded. She sounded out of breath.

“Work,” Robbie said, baffled. “What’s going on, are you okay?”

“What do you mean what’s—” Banging, panting. “Where’s Eli?”

A chill unfurled under his skin, his hand grew numb as he gripped his phone case. “What are you talking about.”

“Did you lock him in the freezer again?” Lisa demanded. What. “I know he’s annoying—”

“That’s one word for it,” Robbie muttered, swallowing bile.

“—but he’s an essential member of the team!”

“What team?”

Lisa paused. “The, the team,” she said hesitantly. “The Guardians of Hillrock Heights. Robbie, you. You know what you do helps people, right?”

He was disappointing her somehow—no, worse, letting her down. “Yeah, of course, I, uh.” Eli existed here, but this Lisa knew about him; obviously this version of Robbie had trusted her more. Or she’d just stalked him and figured it out. “What do you need me to do?”

“Get to the Cecil Hotel,” Lisa panted. “Bring Eli. And stay and talk to me after you transform back.”

Transform. Robbie rubbed the hard pink jewel embedded in his sternum. “Right. Okay.”

He left the time clock and approached Canelo’s office, racking his brain for some excuse—a lie about Gabe? A medical appointment? When he opened the door, Canelo met his eyes and sighed. “Again? Well, go on.” Robbie stared at him. He wasn’t even scowling. “What do you want, a hug? Go do your thing.”

He ran out of the shop and threw himself into the Charger. As he sped out of the parking lot, he almost clipped off one of its mirrors against the security gate. He grabbed his phone and started to search for the Cecil Hotel while making a left turn onto Atlantic Boulevard and almost crashed head-on into an F-250; he couldn’t drive and use his phone at the same time anymore. The phone dropped to the floorboards and he pulled hastily to the side of the road, cursing.

His connection to the Charger was different here, too. Still there, but weaker. Possibly just in his head. He tried to stretch out into it anyway, feeling its vibrations, listening to the loping chug of its idle and the continuous hiss of its supercharger, but his consciousness stayed firmly in his human body.

He heard something clank in the trunk.

Atlantic Boulevard was not a good place for a street fight. Robbie found his phone, pulled up a route to the Cecil, took a detour in an alley behind a warehouse. He hit the gas and slammed the brakes a couple times before shutting down the car and sprinting around the back to pop the trunk, confront this alternate version of his uncle, slam the trunk on his neck while he was still dazed, kill him like this alternate Robbie wasn’t yet sullied enough to do.

There was no washed-up mob henchman wriggling in the Charger’s trunk. Robbie found a couple bags of school supplies, a tool box, and a big first-aid kit, nothing sinister, and then in the shadows, oddly, something pink and shiny—one of this Gabe’s collectibles? A Beanie Baby?

“FUCK,” the pink thing bellowed, and then it unspooled and slipped up over the edge of the trunk, hit the ground with a slap, and slithered away, S-curves glittering in the sun as it struggled against the smooth pavement. Robbie gaped, then chased after it. Him. Eli was making slow progress and Robbie caught up quickly, but he turned on a dime; Robbie headed him off away from a nearby dumpster and danced around him for almost a minute before he had the idea to shrug off his jacket and throw it on Eli’s head. Eli backed out from under it but by this time Robbie had him by the neck. “Look. Revenge is, you don’t got the mindset for it? There’s healing in forgiveness. It makes you more stable. Less prone to violent, emotional outbursts. Kid. Kid! We had our differences, but it was the situation, the close quarters, you know? You’d do the same in my position, I just wanted to live, I had unfinished business! And now, heh, you got a body, I got a body, we can go our separate ways. Kid? Hey?”

Eli was a shimmery pink snake about half-again as long as Robbie’s arm. He had round shining eyes in a hundred shades of rose, and the large scale between them was shaped like a heart. His forked tongue sparkled as it scented the air. His voice was exactly the same.

“You, uh. Look different.”

Robbie had a sinking feeling that stomping the snake’s head under his boot wouldn’t be doing this world’s Robbie any favors. He dangled Eli in one fist at arm’s length—an essential member of the team. “You don’t know what’s going on, either.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not the cause of everything that goes wrong in your life.”

“Lisa wants us at the Cecil Hotel,” Robbie said, returning to the Charger and dumping Eli on the passenger seat. “She requested you by name. We’re gonna take care of whatever’s going on and figure it out from there.”

“The Cecil, huh? Good times.”

“Don’t tell me you killed people there.”

“I won’t.” Eli awkwardly pressed his long narrow body against the door, slowly lifting his head toward the window. Robbie took a hard left and Eli slipped sideways between the seat and the side pillar. “Fuck.”

“Apparently you’re important for some reason.”

“Can you not act like my existence is an imposition for two seconds.”

Robbie slammed his fist into the steering wheel. “You exist because you committed human sacrifice.” Eli slithered out of view behind the passenger seat. Robbie took a breath. “You’re a talking pink snake here. You probably have magic powers.”

“Pink?”

“You color-blind, too?”

Eli was silent for the rest of the drive. Robbie hoped he was figuring out what magic powers he had, otherwise they’d just have to wing it.

Hotel Cecil was a trio of brick buildings spanning half a city block and joined by skywalks. The complex had probably been impressive before the invention of reinforced concrete. No longer a failing hotel for people falling down the ladder of society, it was being converted to affordable housing for people crawling back up. Robbie parked across the street and squinted up at it. He was pretty sure the walls weren’t supposed to be covered in gray goo, but there was a ghost tour or something right there on the sidewalk and none of the tourists were taking pictures. Maybe it was a maintenance thing? An art installation?

“Huh,” Eli said, finally squirming his way up onto the dashboard to take a look.

Robbie texted Lisa: Here.

Her reply was immediate. Fourth floor front building room 73

No emojis. That couldn’t be good. “Any ideas on how to get inside?” Robbie asked.

“Put on your spare coveralls and act pissy.”

Robbie could have thought of that himself, but he had no better ideas. He stomped through the graffitoed doors of the unassuming entryway and through the unexpectedly grand marble halls of the lobby floor, scowling like he’d been called in on his day off to fix a plumbing catastrophe that could have been prevented by routine maintenance the previous week, and glancing up now and again at the pulsing tangle of veins the color of neglected differential fluid that wormed between the ceiling lights and which no one else seemed to notice. Eli wrapped himself around Robbie’s neck like a scarf; uncomfortably close, but better, at least logically, than having him ride along in his thoughts like usual.

“Art nouveau,” Eli commented, peering up an angular gold-and-green wall sconce beside a statue in an alcove whose opening was carved to look like palm leaves and Egyptian columns. “Classy place full of staff who don’t ask stupid questions.”

“Shut up,” Robbie hissed. They reached the pair of elevators that served this part of the complex: just two, and one was out of order. A big brass dial on the top indicated that the elevator was on the eighth floor, and going up. Robbie stabbed the button irritably, then gave up and ran for the stairs.

On the fourth floor, the gray veins were so thick that the ceiling looked a foot lower than it should have been, and the light sconces were mostly covered. Somehow, the light escaped anyway, leaving the carpet brightly lit and the air at shoulder-height and above dim like twilight. Robbie watched a tall man in a business suit strolling down the hall, his entire head vanishing into the pulsing fleshy mass. “Keep your head down, there’s gray magical crap on the ceiling,” Eli informed him.

Robbie felt a moment of glee that Eli couldn’t just look out through his eyes anymore. “I noticed.”

“Try touching it. Left hand.”

Robbie poked one of the ceiling tentacles with his left pinkie finger as he advanced down the hall toward room 73, and cringed as the rock in his chest seemed to shudder in protest. The gray flesh was clammy and yielding, leaving his finger numb as he pulled away. Even if it was invisible, how did anyone walk around with their whole head swimming in this stuff without noticing? What was it doing to the people it enveloped?

He passed room fifty, and noticed that the higher the numbers progressed, the thicker the veins overhead pulsed and the lower they sagged, growing to fill more of the narrow space even as he watched. He crouched low and broke into a run. Room 73 was nearly overtaken; limbs as thick as ventilation ducts sprouted through the walls, heaving and pulsing and moaning, ozone and rot thick in the air. He had to kneel beside the door as he knocked. “Lisa! It’s Robbie. I’m outside.”

“Get in here!” Lisa yelled from within.

“They ain’t changed this lock since ‘98. You can shim it with a credit card.”

Robbie bypassed the latch and shoved the door inward against the mass of shifting tendrils packed against the ceiling. There was barely room to crouch inside; the rust-red carpet shone in the light of fixtures completely swallowed by the strange rot overtaking the hotel. He ducked as a gray coil twisted past his face.“Can you get to the door?”

“Kinda busy!” Lisa grunted. Someone else screamed, inhumanly long and somehow muted, the volume too soft for the cracks of agony in the voice. Robbie leaned down and spotted what looked like a clear space around the hotel bed. He army-crawled toward it. There was something wet and sticky on the floor—not blood, it smelled like solvent. White spray-paint, circling the bed. He dragged himself over the painted lines and got his first look at what Lisa was busy with.

There was a body on top of the blankets, a middle-aged white woman with hollow cheeks and loose skin rising in narrow folds where gray tendrils sank into her from above. Lisa had a broken bottle in one hand and was sawing at the thickest of the tendrils just above where it sank between the motionless woman’s eyes. With another, she held a flat rock with a hole in the center, scowling through it like a lens. From the nest of gray veins on the ceiling, a human figure sagged down, joined to the woman joint by joint with those tendrils. Its mouth was a formless hole, its eyes cold wet pits, its flesh the same sludgy substance as the rest of the hotel’s infestation. Robbie swallowed. “Is she alive?”

“For now,” Lisa said, scraping furiously at the tendril. Robbie noticed with horror that two other tendrils had descended from the ceiling to sink into Lisa’s shoulders; he lunged forward and ripped them away. The rock in his chest shuddered as his hand went numb. “Was it on me?” She turned around and looked at him for the first time. “Omigod, why aren’t you changed?”

Robbie took a deep breath and stared up at the vacant eyes of the abomination on the ceiling. He pulled out the blade on his multitool and joined in cutting the woman free; the gray stuff yielded like flesh to expose a tough stringy black core. “We can wrap her in the blanket and drag her out.” The human shape began to drag one of its hands down toward them, struggling against an unseen force.

Lisa grabbed his wrist. “Robbie, she needs an exorcism. You have to change.” He stared at the river rock that dangled from a long pink ribbon on her neck as she tried to meet his eyes. “She’s got kids who miss her, she’s turning her life around, you gotta help! Come on!”

“I don’t remember what you’re talking about,” Robbie blurted.

“Omigod are you cursed or something?”

The horror on the ceiling reached closer, closer, as black claws unsheathed from half-molded fingers. Then it drew back and tension shuddered through its body; the woman on the bed shuddered in synchrony. Its eyes fixed on the back of Lisa’s neck. It lunged, but Robbie was faster, slicing its wet palm with his knife as he pushed Lisa aside. As it swiped back to retaliate, he instinctively leaned into its path—baiting it with the Rider’s leather skin filled with the Charger’s fire ready to erupt the moment those claws released it to burn his enemy—and screamed as the talons sank into his human shoulder. He could barely feel the wounds through the hollow ache the creature’s touch carried, but the worst pain was the furious hum from the stone in his sternum, rocking and jerking like an engine that had snapped its mounts; he thought his chest would crack open from the force. His hand went limp and the knife dropped and stabbed blade-first into the bed. He punched ineffectually with his good hand as the creature lifted him. New tendrils sprouted from its body, seeking to plug into his own. He was as frightened and angry and frustrated as he’d ever been in his life, and though he was suppressing none of it since this Lisa was already enmeshed in his supernatural bullshit, the transformation wasn’t happening.

Eli slithered down his coveralls and escaped out his pant leg as he struggled. Lisa stared in horror through her river rock. “Eli! Help him!”

“Eh, sure,” Eli said, watching Robbie from the bedcovers while Robbie’s leg went cold and dead. “Rake its eyes! Behind your left shoulder!” Robbie flailed blindly with his working arm, hoping Eli hadn’t gotten his left and right confused.

Lisa stood up and grabbed Robbie by the waist, trying to pull him down. Blood from his shoulder soaked her hair. “What’s wrong with you two? Say the words!”

“What words?”

Lisa groped his chest until her palm pressed against his pink troll-doll gem. “Oh, thank God. Say it: Tie cloth nee, ya toys or chalk!”

“What?!”

“Say it! Tie cloth—”

“Ty glavny, ya tvoy suchok,” Eli interrupted. “Five words, you can do it.”

“Die glovny, a twoy sujock,” Robbie gritted out just before the ceiling monster’s limbs closed around his throat. For an instant, all he knew was aching cold and darkness. Then the stone in his chest sparked and a shockwave erupted through his body, driving away the clammy gray tentacles in a blast of warm pink light. It doesn’t hurt, he thought, shocked. Changing into the Rider in his own world was a cathartic blast of agony as his body cremated itself from within, but this, this was nice. He was weightless in a void of dancing blue-green lights. The pain of talons crushing his shoulder was gone, and so were the low-grade headache he always got about halfway through the work day and the tension in his spine and the knot on his head from banging it into the Tahoe that morning; he tingled all over with the contentment of an hour-long hot shower where he wouldn’t have to pay the heating bill. He stretched out, luxuriating in the feeling, and realized with horror that his body wasn’t there.

I’m hallucinating, he told himself. It was hard to think through the nice bubbly feeling, but he remembered that Lisa was right there trying to stop him from getting eaten, and there was a woman on the bed below who was dying, and he couldn’t see or feel anything but the bright pink gem illuminating the hollow space where his body was supposed to be. He thrashed, but it was like trying to fight the wind with a puff of smoke. He was nothing but thought, and he couldn’t even panic properly.

Solidity returned in jolts and starts: cool fabric twisting around his body and snugging him into shape. Protective gloves, leather boots long enough to save his knees from road rash, body armor, something to guard his forehead. The familiar handles of a pair of body hammers filled his palms, and the world snapped back into place. No time at all seemed to have passed; he was still suspended above the bed by the ceiling monster.

He was not the Rider, but he knew what the Rider would do. He jammed one hand into the mouth of the humanoid sludge stalactite and stabbed the spike of a body hammer through its skull. It moaned, and he stabbed again, flipped himself around, gripped its leg between his knees to anchor himself, and struck for the heart, the throat, all the vital targets that he’d trained himself to avoid whenever he gave in to the urge to beat down local thugs in Hillrock Heights. Black blood spattered into his eyes and trickled up his nose, reeking of mold. Its touch no longer chilled him; his touch seemed to burn it. He beat the creature until it melted away and retreated back into the ceiling, all the veins and coils and tree-root limbs draining away after it. Robbie landed hard on the edge of the bed, bounced, and rolled to his feet. His feet—

“Point your toes!” Lisa yelled, too late. He tripped over his own ankles and crashed face-first into the bedside table.

Whenever the Rider ate shit like this, he’d sink through his own shadow and reappear in the car like he’d meant to do it—not that he was embarrassed, just that he preferred not to take the time to pick himself up. Robbie pried himself up off the floor when he realized that his powers in this world did not include the ability to dissolve into the room’s nicotine-stained carpet. He was wet, disappointingly fleshy, and entirely alone in his head. His protective gloves were doing a poor job, already soaked through with disgustingly organic black slime, and his feet—

He looked down at himself for the first time. He wasn’t wearing protective gloves or work boots or body armor. He had the kind of delicate white cotton gloves that women wore with ballgowns in old movies, and thigh-high go-go boots over tights, and what looked like a women’s ice-dancing costume. The ankles of the high-heeled boots were decorated with pink rhinestones, and so were his white-painted hammers. The worst part was that under the pink satin bow where the gem from his chest had migrated, the black leotard bore the same staple-shaped white stripe as his favorite jacket. This was his ice-dancing costume.

He tried to get his feet under him to stand, but the heels were in the way. Whatever force had undressed him seemed to have a grudge against the stock geometry of the human foot; the boots were so stiff he could barely bend his ankles. When he yanked at them, they didn’t budge. He couldn’t find any fasteners. He was about to grab one of his spiked hammers and try ripping through the leather when he noticed Lisa looking down at him from the bed, holding Eli twined around her forearms like a pet corn snake.

“Get the fuck away from her,” Robbie snarled, lunging on his knees.

Lisa jerked back, carrying Eli with her. “Okay, what is your deal today? I thought you had amnesia, but the way you bashed up that genius loci—are you, like, possessed by your alternate universe evil twin with a goatee?”

“Basically,” Robbie said, retrieving one hammer from under the bed. “Put him down.”

“Hey, looks like we’re friends in this universe, too.” Eli rested his head in the crook of Lisa’s elbow and flicked his tongue at Robbie.

“Rrrrrrrr,” Robbie growled. It sounded ridiculous without the rumble of the Charger’s engine filtering through his throat. He could tackle Lisa and rip Eli away from her, bash his head into the wall—but she’d never trust him after that. “He’s not safe, he used to be a—”

“I know you are, but what am I?” Eli interrupted, and Robbie wavered.

Lisa passed him the box of tissues from the bedside table. “Wipe your face and exorcise Mrs. Sanchez so we can get her out of here.”

Robbie hated that this “change” had left him with a human face to wipe. He struggled to his feet, gripping the mattress for balance. The woman on the bed hadn’t moved; she stared vacantly at the ceiling, black veins spreading from the points on her body where the ceiling-monster’s roots had anchored. She was breathing, at least. Her lips were an unhealthy gray-purple. “Any idea how I do that?” he asked, glaring at Eli.

“Search me, I dunno what trigger words alternate-me picked.”

“You make a cross with your hammers,” Lisa said, demonstrating with her empty fists, “and say something like, eej an owie, sucker?”

“Idi na hui, suka,” Eli corrected her.

Robbie had a bad feeling that all his powers were activated by Russian vulgarities. He took careful crouching steps as he retrieved his other hammer, keeping one hand on the bed or on the wall as much as possible, then crossed his hammers like a priest in a vampire movie and did his best to parrot Eli’s words. There was a rush of wind that set his hair fluttering along with the skirt and pink bows of his leotard, and a fountain of pink sparks erupted from the hammers, right at the comatose woman’s bare face and the flammable-looking bedclothes. He had to separate the hammers, to turn off the power or at least point it in a safer direction, but his body wouldn’t obey him: his spine straightened and his shoulders drew back and his legs stepped wide into a power-stance despite the boots pinning his feet at an unnatural angle; he was spraying hot sparks at a defenseless innocent person and he was posing like he was proud of himself.

The seizure ended and he dropped the hammers and stumbled to the edge of the bed, ready to smother fires with his thin cotton gloves, brush off any burning embers from the woman’s hair. Lisa caught him by the shoulder. “Hey! Hey, look, you did it,” she said, examining the woman through her river rock.

There were no fires or burns. The infected gray-black marks were retreating up from her skin and trickling away into inert slime. “What did I do,” Robbie panted.

“You saved the day!” Lisa said brightly. She lifted her rock to check the ceiling; fresh veins had begun to ripple over the paint in a human outline that mirrored Mrs. Sanchez. “You saved...two thirds of the day. Eli, so your thing.”

Robbie hated that he knew Eli well enough to read from the tension in his sigmoid posture that he was taken aback. “My thing.”

“Bite her!” Lisa said impatiently, watching the ceiling.

“What?”

“His bites heal people.”

“Puta madre.” Eli stared at the woman in...probably disgust. “This is…” He cut himself off, looking up at Lisa. “Just what I’ve always wanted.”

“You are so full of shit,” Robbie hissed. Lisa glared at him, and Robbie glared back. “He is!”

“We don’t have time for this,” Lisa said to Eli, making a strange gripping gesture beside his head. “Hurry up or I’ll do it for you. Manually.”

Eli grudgingly fit his mouth around Mrs. Sanchez’ wrist and wriggled his lips and teeth around with disturbingly more mobility than Robbie had expected a snake to be capable of. Robbie clenched his fists as translucent pink fangs flicked into view before sinking into her wasted skin. Eli’s body glowed, and pink sparks shimmered along her veins, circled over her heart, and flashed twice before vanishing. Mrs. Sanchez opened her eyes and sat bolt upright, staring at Robbie.

“Uh,” Robbie said.

“Oh thank God you’re okay!” Lisa squealed, throwing herself between them and gripping Mrs. Sanchez by the torso. “Ma’am, you just survived a carbon monoxide leak, it’s absolutely imperative that we get you to fresh air, you may still be experiencing visual disturbances, first responders have been called, come on, let’s get you out, don’t worry about your belongings, let’s go. Go. Go.” She half-led, half-wrestled the confused woman out the door. Robbie took two steps after them before his ankles did a death-wobble and dumped him to his knees. “We’ll figure out your amnesia-whatever when I get back,” Lisa assured him. “If the hotel wakes up again…” She mimed bashing something with a hammer. “You got this!”

“I got this,” Robbie whispered to himself, stumbling to the nearest wall for balance.

“He can’t even walk!”

[midnightmagicks]

FFXIV 30 Day Writing Challenge Day 10: Stable (Makeup Day)

Stable: (Of a person) sane and sensible; not easily upset or disturbed.

“Y-You’re insane!!”

“I’m perfectly stable, I assure you. You are simply too dense to understand.”

The hyur man scooted across the damp and jagged stone, trying to hold the end of his spear towards *whatever* this man who approached him was. This..person. They moved like shadows through the ruins. Silent, save for the echoing laughter that bubbled from them every so often. Piercing blue eyes stared down at the man. There was a smile on their face but it was *anything* but friendly. Their eyes were wide. Unblinking as they leaned down, putting their face right in front of the spear tip. “Best make it count, thief. I’ll only give you one chance~”  A giggled bubble up as the man yelled and lunged forward, spear dissipating the mist-like form in front of him. A decoy. A cold sweat ran down his forehead as the laughter went quiet. He couldn’t hear the movement of the other until a clawed hand grabbed his collar, pulling him up roughly before throwing him against the dilapidated wall. That clawed glove grabbed his throat, cutting off any words that might’ve been forming. The smile was gone and the Viera’s stare was cold. Leaning in, he whispered,

“We don’t take kindly to *thieves* around here, you poor fool. Such a shame I’ll have to make an example of you.” Clawed hands squeezed with surprising strength, and the struggle within the man faded as his body went limp. With a scoff, Arne tossed it to the ground, retrieving the stolen artifacts from the man’s satchel. Arne looked around to the wisps of light that had been following him.

“Don’t worry friends, I’ll put it back now. Eventually their self preservation will outweigh their greed.”

[weirdero]

In case any of y’all cared

I should edit this list tho cus I’ve only watched sharp objects once. I did love it tho

[waraxarcana]

Hawkins' Hatred

Many assume that the person Hawkins hates most of his old alliance are Kid and Killer, but this is simply untrue. While he always disdained Kid and his feelings regarding Killer are...complicated, the one he hates the most is, and always will be, Apoo.

During the alliance, this was because the man was obnoxious and often an instigator of fights with Kid, making the whole working relationship more difficult than it should have been. While Hawkins expected the whole thing to crumble apart, he had always assumed that it would be due to Kid finally losing his cool and turning on them despite Killer's attempts to keep him calm.

Then came the betrayal. Not only did Apoo sell them out to Kaido, but he did so gleefully. It was his fault that Hawkins was put in the position where he would have to submit to Kaido or die. His fault that Faust was killed and his crew slaughtered. His fault that his chances of becoming Pirate King were brought down to 1% and he was forced to commit unspeakable acts in the slim hope that he could turn things around.

But he hates Apoo most of all because, for some reason, Hawkins is the one who seems to get the most derision for the betrayal. As if he had done so willingly. As if it was his fault that Kid was imprisoned and Killer ate a SMILE fruit. He feels he gets the blame for it all falling apart. People call him a coward and a traitor for agreeing to work for Kaido when he was merely trying to survive in the face of impossible odds. Apoo was the one who betrayed them all. Hawkins is just as much of a victim of the long-limbed bastard's betrayal as Kid and Killer.

He hates Apoo with every fiber of his being, and had he been given even the slightest chance, even if the cards told him the odds were slim, Hawkins would have attacked and attempted to kill him on sight. Would have taken him somewhere quiet and tortured him. Perhaps he even would have visited Kid in prison afterward and given him a few of their fellow Supernova's piano teeth as a gift. A token to remind him that they were both betrayed, but at least he got a little payback.

Alas, Hawkins died, and Apoo still lives. Such a cruel twist of fate.

[oldestenemy]

the babygirlification of duncan grimwater

[aethelfred]

@archangelslaybriel

[space-twelve]

How Only Murders In the Building is presented: funny murder mystery! steve martin & martin short! selena gomez!

How Only Murders In the Building actually is: well it is like that. especially for season 1. but also one of the main characters is canonically bisexual, another has been hinted at as bi, and 90% of the side characters are gay. also there are a lot of horny old people.

[romances-not-tragedies]

and i keep my side of the street clean

Summary: When a chat about the case of the murdered magician goes ugly, one of Jo Gar's longtime acquaintances walks up into the scene and chooses figurative violence against the lieutenant of the Manila Police Station who thinks he is right in accusing an innocent man of a murder he may not commit. Or "The Magician Murder" AU in which someone puts Sadi Ratan in his place. Title from Taylor Swift's "Karma".

Content warnings: mentions of murder case, swearing, abuse of power by authority, insult towards an honorable ex-government official, not-quite accurate depiction of legal processes in pre-Revised Penal Code era, mixed opinions on the American colonial government in the Philippines

Note: Edilberto Alcantara is an original character I have made for each and every Jo Gar 'verse. In the stories he is a lawyer who's had the honor of working under one of the most honorable government officials who would figure in the country's history under tragic circumstances (read WWII).

Edilberto knew that he was supposed to be home, in an apartment unit at the arrabal of Ermita where he’d been living two years ago. To be fair, though, he still went back to the house at Calle Azarraga, which his family had bought upon securing enough funds while he entering his teenage years, for the weekends or when he felt like it, since it felt more like home than he'd thought it was before moving out.

But Jo had asked him to come over at his little office near Escolta since he needed his unofficial opinion on a certain case, and he climbed up the stairs after waving a greeting to Wong Ling, who seemed to be fretting in his place. He had wanted to ask but he had no time. He arrived at the door, not locked as he knew Jo would not lock his door as force of habit, only to hear sounds of conversations.

He bent down and pressed his ear against the keyhole to listen to who and what they were talking.

He recognized Jo’s matter-of-fact tone of speaking, countering with the always charged (and angry) tone from Lieutenant Sadi Ratan. He resisted the urge to sigh, as he had known the lieutenant to be a pus-filled boil on your buttocks dressed in a handsome face and spotless uniform. He had intensely disliked the lieutenant from the get-go. They were discussing about the case of a murdered magician, Señor Dario Cardoro who had arrived in the country and was watching the cockfight this night, only to get into a problem after the last round.

What it was, Edilberto had no idea.

And then, as it often went, what was supposed to be a decent conversation (or at least on Jo Gar’s part) devolved into the usual ugly shit. He heard the lieutenant ask in a demanding tone if Jo would accept Señor Sam Markden’s commission as he was seen as prime suspect.

It’s his right, yawa, he wanted to retort, but kept himself silent so he could time his entrance.

Then, he heard the lieutenant accuse Jo Gar, “You are protecting an American. You have always protected them. You like them. He was your client.”

Really now? Edilberto asked, if only to himself. It was like accusing you that you liked the current Governor-General, who Edilberto did not like since the Conley Crisis. Also, why was the lieutenant taking issue with Jo taking Markden as a client?

To Jo’s credit, he was as calm as he could be. “I was not paid that well,” he answered. “I doubt that I could be paid that well. Riazo was not drugged. You have no proof of it.”

Ayos! Edilberto silently cheered with a little fist pump. Drag him to hell, Jo. You’re doing it right.

Hotly, the lieutenant fired back, “I stood over Juan Derigo when he told me—”

So you intimidated him, then? Edilberto wanted to ask him.

“A Filipino does not like to be beaten,” Edilberto heard Jo chuckle as he replied. And the statement was true, unfortunately. “He preferred to let you think as you wished.”

Ha! Take that, you sorry sack of ball-less cocks!

Again, he heard the lieutenant vow to Jo, “It will not be good for you to protect Markden, Señor Gar. When we have caught him—”

Unless proven otherwise, Lieutenant Idiot-Face. You forgot that part. You only have one job and you are blowing it.

“The birds were in condition,” cut off Jo, though he spoke slowly. “Each of them. Riazo was defeated. That was all.”

But Lieutenant Idiot-Face, er, Lieutenant Ratan said, as though he had discovered buried treasure, “It is not all. Cardoro stood up and shouted that he would not pay.” Okay, so the man had money problems, and that’s the least of Edilberto’s worries right now. He was worried about the horrid fucker insisting that he was right despite the fact that his arguments could be thrown away by any sane juez de la paz. “I saw Markden’s face—”

Oh, you could read faces now? Good for you, Edilberto sarcastically said if to himself.

The lieutenant continued, “—there was hate in his eyes. And Cardoro was murdered. A spur knife was used. Markden has vanished. We have searched the city for him. He is the killer of the magician!”

And yet in your hate towards Jo Gar, you haven’t killed him. Also, why must you insist on something not yet fully proven? Anger was simmering in the young attorney. Were his former boss present in Jo’s office and was confronted by someone like Sadi Ratan, he would dismantle the lieutenant’s arguments with calm logic and knowledge of the law. He would gently but firmly rip them apart, one by one, until nothing was left for the lieutenant.

Jo replied with a sigh, “Then it is all very simple. You will find him, and that will be the end.”

Unless the court says otherwise, Jo. You forgot that part.

The calm must have driven Lieutenant Ratan crazy. Angry, perhaps. Which was why he would commit one of the most blatantly terrible acts of injustice Edilberto would hear him threaten Jo.

“And you will be brought to trial for lying to me, a police officer!” Edilberto heard Lieutenant Ratan fiercely threaten Jo Gar.

Anger shot through Edilberto. How dare Lieutenant Sadi Ratan accuse everyone and anyone of lying without solid proof! He wanted to puke and not because of beer, and he didn’t even drink! And he hadn’t made Jo swear an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, an abomination of everything he had learned at law school and his ongoing stint at the Department of Justice. And he would have him tried for a crime he was trying to prove with only conjectures? No solid evidence?

That’s it, I’ve had enough!

He swung the door open and stepped inside the little office of his late cousin’s friend. “‘Lying to me?’” he repeated the words mockingly as a greeting to the lieutenant. He closed the door behind him a little too strongly and raised a brow at the lieutenant. “Who the fuck do you think Jo Gar is, your wayward husband?” he asked crisply and coolly like the amihan winds of December.

That made both men jump out on where they were standing. Cold satisfaction ran through the young attorney when the police lieutenant went stiff and his eyes grew comically wide. Jo Gar blinked a few times.

The “wayward husband” remark must have disoriented them, he thought.

It took both men time to recover from this dramatic greeting, Jo calming down first and greeting him with a faint smile, “Compañero Alcantara, what a pleasant surprise.” Relief washed over Jo’s countenance, though he hid it behind his usual expressionless face.

Edilberto smiled at Jo Gar and answered, “I thought you’ve already known that I would be here, since you sent me a message before I left home. And I do believe that Lieutenant Sadi Ratan here would quickly accuse me of conflict of interest even if I am just here for a different reason.” He delivered the last sentence in a cutting, sarcastic manner he’d always use when dealing with the lieutenant.

“How long have you been listening to us, Compañero Alcantara?” Edilberto turned to the police lieutenant, who was fuming so badly that he could see smoke out of his nose and ears.

The attorney directed his eyes towards Lieutenant Ratan, curled his lips in a here comes trouble smirk that had been a family trademark. He answered, “Long enough to hear you accusing of Señor Gar of liking Americans and committing perjury even if he has not sworn to someone who is fit to administer an oath. And then quickly accuse of Señor Markden of killing Señor Cardoro on the basis of—what?” He blurted out the last word in a mocking laugh. “Simply because he had dug up dirt on the man? That’s not how things work, Lieutenant. I thought you know better. I was wrong.”

He watched Jo Gar watching this unfold with interest and a bit of worry. He must have known that Edilberto hated the lieutenant, even more so when he watched the lieutenant trying to get under Jo’s skin. His underhanded tactics made Edilberto seethe no matter what.

Then his eyes went right back to Lieutenant Ratan as he grew red on the face. He must have hit where it hurt the most. Good, let him be angry and make his head explode.

Then Lieutenant Sadi Ratan exploded, making him barely flinch, “He lied to me! He is having Señor Markden hide behind him even though he is the killer of Señor Cardoro!”

Edilberto recovered from the outburst, thinking that Lieutenant Ratan sounded more like a lover scorned than a member of the Manila Police District. He asked, “Did you administer an oath to Jo Gar? Because from what I have heard, you did not. You just fired out accusations towards Señor Markden based on flimsy evidence and conjectures. If you tried to push it to trial stage at the court, even at the First Instance, the juez de la paz will laugh at your arguments. And while Señor Markden is suspected of killing Cardoro, he still has the right to ask for aid, legal aid.”

“Asking for aid from Señor Gar is not legal aid!” fired Sadi Ratan back.

“Doesn’t he have the right for an attorney?”” Edilberto countered matter-of-factly. “Is that not legal aid?” He watched the lieutenant grow mad once more and he was steps away from what his sister would call an apoplexy. He continued, “Plus, you already presumed him guilty, Lieutenant Ratan. That is not how it works.” He jutted his chin and pointed out, “He is still innocent until judged otherwise by the court of law.”

“And you are siding with Señor Markden, too,” Sadi Ratan accused him, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “You are supposed to be on the side of the law. I thought you know better.”

Edilberto rose an eyebrow on that, amused at this feeble show of power. “Why, I have been hearing that accusation too often,” he remarked, his voice mild but acerbic. He commented, “I must have gotten the lessons from my ex-boss wrong. I thought practicing fairness is important. Maybe I should visit him once more for some…clarification on the matter.”

“But I thought he had resigned from the Cabinet, Compañero Alcantara?” Jo Gar asked as he reached out for the packet of his favorite cigarettes in his coat.

“Which is why I said ‘ex-boss,’ Jo,” Edilberto pointed out with a smile on his face. “I still look up to him, though.”

He returned his stare to the lieutenant, who had dropped his finger when he saw how unfazed the attorney was. Which was a good sign, as it meant that what he’d said frazzled his non-existent brain.

“But he worked for Americans, and you work for Americans, Compañero Alcantara,” the lieutenant blurted out, gritting his teeth. He pointed to Jo and said, “And he likes working with Americans! He likes them and you like them!”

“So what?” Edilberto asked sharply. That this police lieutenant had the audacity to insult his former boss and his more-than stellar career in the government made his blood boil. Never mind he insulted his, but not that of the ex-Justice Secretary! It should earn him a punch or two, but that would be for another day. He stalked forwards, eyes and spirit hardened as he made Sadi Ratan stumble back.

Edilberto icily responded to the latter’s assault on the former Secretary, “My ex-boss was a pensionado, true. He also used to be part of the Cabinet as Justice Secretary before resigning. And guess who is leading the Cabinet? An American Governor-General! Does that make him pro-American? I don’t know except that my ex-boss is a fair and honorable man and is better at serving the people than you are.”

He smirked again at the arrogant lieutenant, who was utterly speechless, and pointed out, “And who is chief of the Manila Police District? An American! Your boss is often out of sight that we forget that he existed. And as for Americans asking for Jo’s help? That, Lieutenant Sadi Ratan, is none of your fucking business.”

He caught sight of Jo Gar looking at him in surprise. He knew that Jo had not seen him this angry towards anyone. Among his family and friends and in Jo’s opinion (at least how he’d say it), he had always been the mediator, the peaceful center amidst the chaotic dynamics.

He went on and said, “I’m not going to lie. It is not ideal, and I am not going to pretend that we do not have blood and muck up our necks because we work with Americans. Do not pretend that you are safe from it, either. You, too, are stained with the same shit as Jo and I are.”

“That is one way of putting it, Compañero,” Jo mildly said to Edilberto as he lit another cigarette. “But I fear that Lieutenant Ratan will not understand what you are telling him.”

Edilberto shook his head. “I’ve given up hope, Jo,” answered the attorney with a wave of his hand. “If he stays like that, that is on him.”

Then his attention went back to Lieutenant Ratan, who was standing there, angry defiance vibrating through him. He would not admit defeat, Edilberto thought to himself. He quietly told the police officer, “I will not be the cause of your downfall. Nor Jo Gar will be the cause of your downfall. You are already doing damn fine job yourself. But if you decide to go ahead with your threats and damn the consequences, go ahead. I will not stop you.”

Lieutenant Sadi Ratan reared back in shock. The shift in his tone must have jarred his brain and that he was giving the lieutenant an opportunity, a choice.

“I will warn you,” Edilberto continued, still mild in tone but with the rage in its undertones, “that since you are fond of committing this particular sin, a false charge can ruin a person. Arresting anyone on false charges can ruin them more. No one is safe from being falsely accused and being jailed for it. Señor Markden may not be safe. Señor Gar may not be safe. I may not be safe. You may not be safe either. So be careful if you keep proceeding. Do not say I have not warned you, Lieutenant Ratan.”

Their eyes clashed, and Lieutenant Sadi Ratan gave him a hard stare. Edilberto returned it with a frigid glare, his lips in a challenging not-quite smile. It was not long before Lieutenant Sadi Ratan broke the spell and walked away, but not without bumping into Edilberto’s shoulder, making the attorney stumble a little, and slammed the door shut. Edilberto muttered something unsavory about the lieutenant as he rubbed his affected shoulder.

Edilberto looked at Jo once more and let out a shaky breath of relief. “That ataya. He should have seen it coming,” he muttered as he approached Jo. “Sorry if I screwed it up.”

“On the other hand, you did well,” Jo said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m just worried that he would go after you.”

“On what grounds?” Edilberto asked as he sat on the fan-backed chair Jo had motioned for him to take. “That I warned him of the consequences if he continues to be an animal?” He pronounced the last word as his Cebuano parents would pronounce it when feeling annoyance towards anyone who acted uncouthly. “He can file a complaint to our acting boss if he wants to and if he has solid evidence. I’m not going to stop him because I know what is right and he is wrong. He made his bed, so let him sleep in it.”

Jo shook his head. “And yet you deal with him in a way you are daring him,” he told him, his blue-gray eyes on him, weariness evident in his countenance. “I wish I have half of your audacity to call him out like that. But it may take too much of my energy.”

Edilberto felt sympathy for him as he watched Jo run his fingers through his graying hair. Dealing with a stress inducer like Lieutenant Sadi Ratan would take a toll on anyone, even the unflappable Island Detective. He couldn’t blame him, though, if he wanted to deal with the lieutenant in a way he thought best.

“Whatever suits you best, Jo,” assured Edilberto. “But by God, I am steps away from punching his face! I wish I do not have to, because if I do, my family will be disappointed in me.”

Jo appeared to want to say something but closed his mouth and only nodded. “Well, let us set that aside, Edilberto, and discuss that case I am working on before the murder of Señor Cardoro. I would need your advice on how it is best handled in the legal matters.”

Edilberto let out a sigh. At last they had something to divert themselves from the debacle involving the aggressive idiot of a lieutenant.

***

And so, when Edilberto Alcantara heard that Sam Markden had been jailed for the murder of Dario Cardoro, his shoulders slumped. But when he read an article from the most recent edition of The Philippine Herald in his office at the Department of Justice, it turned out that it was Miss Jessie Rayne’s Spanish companion, Señora Elena Riggio, who killed the magician out of spite and a history that ended bitterly. Markden was let go because of this development.

That last bit of news had been heartening, but it made him angry too. Lieutenant Sadi Ratan let himself be carried away by his delusions of grandeur, believing that his word was gold. It turned out to be gold-hued enamel coating over a celluloid bauble. Because of him, he ruined the life of an innocent man with a false accusation and its resulting arrest.

And Jo Gar outwitted him again.

He knew that it did not have to be like that. Had the lieutenant been imbued with half the integrity and willingness to be corrected like his ex-superior, he would have done a fine job. But no, he did not.

There was nothing he could do. Lieutenant Sadi Ratan had brought this upon himself, and there was no one to blame but him alone. He had warned the man but he did not listen.

Now go stand in a corner and think about what you did, Lieutenant Idiot-Face.

For now, Edilberto decided to go on with his life.

He stood from his desk and placed the newspaper on a table along with the others in today’s edition. Going back to his place, he resumed his job, reviewing paperwork for an upcoming meeting with fellow lawyers on a case they were going to pursue at court.

[wait-a-minute-lassie]

Oh Sadi, you sweet, innocent, stupid kid.

Why must you make your life difficult?

Also Jo be like:

[upthelagan]

Midsomer Murders. The Magician's Nephew.

[kurtc0ba1n]

what r ur favorite characters? like in any and all media? :>

okay so

alex from stardew vally

Klaus, viktor, and murder magician from the umbrella academy

Dally winston from the outsiders

oh and a friends showed me Dont Starve and i like wormwood a lot

i like fuecoco from pokemon

and mike milligram from killjoys national anthem

theres probably more but this is what comes to mind at the moment

[witchcraftandgeekness]

Kol Mikaelson Headcanon

Okay, so I just thought about it. We know that Kol was a witch during his mortal life, and after his vampire transition he was studying all kinds of magic to compensate disability to perform it himself. And I thought, what is possibility that his interest also applied to human magic as well?

Kol was described as a trickster and he has this fascinating mischievous nature. I can definitely imagine Kol, accidentaly witnessing how magician performs tricks with disappearing coins/cards that change and etc. and Kol was surprised. Then he approached the magician and asked how did he perform it. And after learning that magician is actually not a witch, he compelled him to show him all the hand tricks he knows.

So, basically, I imagine in the present day little Hope once mentioning that she feels bad about Kol not having his magic because he loves it so much. And Kol be like, "Oh, darling, but I do have magic!" And proceeds with making coin vanish in his palm.

And here come hours of Kol amusing his little niece by card tricks, guessing what card Freya selected in her mind ("You can't do this, do you, sister?") and making fork bend and re-straighten by mere "power of his mind" ("Don't be such a buzzkill, Elijah, you can sacrifice few forks for the entertainment").

I bet he would be so smug to see surprise written all over faces of powerful witches and joyful as a young boy to know he can do things that little number of people can. Ofc, it is not REAL magic but at least something. It can't really be full replacement for what he lost but for short amount of time he can forget about it and just be "mighty magician".