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teakookssi · 2 years ago

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Before I Leave You [Eren/Levi x Reader FF]

[ curated playlist ][ full story can be found here or here ]

[Overview & prologue]

➺ pairing: levi ackerman/eren jeager x fem!reader

➺content: mafia au, crime, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, angst, lol so much angst

➺warnings: SHIT. IS. DARK. YO. violence, blood, strong language, guns/weapons, and illegal activities are all mentioned but hey, that’s attack on titan for you, so if you can handle that, you can handle this (:

chapter 5: the worst kind of monsters

You stand leaning against the black metal railing of your home’s rooftop, alone, a lit cigarette in between your fingers. Above you, the sky bleeds a crimson red and orange as day gives way into night. You look out over the smog-infested city, to the bustling streets below.

Children are scurrying back home as shops begin to close for the day. Men and women of all ages cross through the unpaved roads as they return back from work, sidestepping out of the way every once in a while to let a random member of the aristocracy drive on by in their rumbling automobiles.

Before your father came into power, the Founding Sector had been nothing more than a rundown, underdeveloped, pathetic excuse of a city. The ones in power were the only ones who ever knew what it was like to live comfortably. Slaves to their greed, they fed off the weak like ravenous vultures, all the while the people of the Founding Sector grew ever the more weak and powerless.

Your father—forced to grow up under such a corrupt and broken system — learned from a very early age how the world worked.

And the world belonged to the strong.

You were either the one in control or the one being controlled.

It was for this reason your father, a mere young working class man with nothing to his name save his wit and desire to succeed, refused to submit to the unfavorable hand he had been dealt with.

You draw your cigarette to your lips and exhale, your sharp eyes easily locating your father’s legally owned businesses and properties across the city like landmarks. You think of the illicit activities taking place from within most of them and your eyes narrow.

You will not deny there are days when you are sick with guilt. Sick with death. When your mind aches for solace and peace even though every drop of blood you’ve ever spilled screams you do not deserve it. But then you gaze out into the powerful city your cunningly ambitious father has managed to rule over through violence and fear and intimidation, and you're reminded of why the line between right and wrong does not exist for people like you.

You never asked for this life.

Neither did your father, or Levi, or Mikasa, or any of them. But the world has never apologized for forcing you all to walk down this dark and weary road, so why should you?

The strong devoured the weak.

That was the twisted reality. So your father found a way for this rigged bureaucracy to serve him instead. If that meant crime was to continue running rampant across all Sectors of Paradis, than so be it. At least he would be the one in control now.

And you…

You were to make sure it stayed that way.

Eventually, the streets below begin to clear out and the clanging of construction and manufacturing companies begins to die down as street lamps and late business signs flicker to life across the Founding Sector.

Meaningful footsteps sound behind you moments later. You don’t need to turn around to know they belong to Mikasa.

“The appointment you requested with the journalist has been scheduled for eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” she informs you, coming to stand beside you to look out over the city.

You flick the burnt ashes from your cigarette with a tap of your ring finger, letting the wind catch them in its midst, before taking another smoke. “You sent the invitation under my father’s name as I instructed?”

Mikasa nods. “Will he need to be taken care of?”

The corner of your lip curls. “Not yet.”

Based off what you wrote in your invitation, Marlo Freudenberg, a journalist for Paradis Times, thinks he is meeting with your father tomorrow morning in his office, Ymir & Co., for a brief one-on-one interview, which is why he responded so quickly. Your father is not one to entertain the prying questions of many journalists, after all.

But if Marlo thinks you haven't already figured out what his true intentions really are, he's more of an amateur than you originally thought.

You put out your cigarette against the metal rail of the rooftop. “Erwin’s little spies are hard to come by,” you say almost playfully. “I’d like to have a proper chat with this one first before we're forced to part ways.”

You turn on your heels and commence to make your way down the rooftop to the stairs leading to the balcony on the third floor. Mikasa shadows behind you until you reach the hallway on the first floor leading to the kitchen where she thinks you will join them for dinner.

The freshly rich aroma that welcomes you as you pass by the dining room on your way to the front door stirs your appetite. You manage to catch a glimpse of Niccolo, your home chef, watch with expectant eyes as Sasha and Connie bite into his exquisite looking meals with great enthusiasm and appreciation. Jean and Historia, seated beside them, are the only ones who notice you walk by.

You’re almost to the front door when Historia calls after you. “Anya? Aren’t you staying for dinner?”

A glimpse over your shoulder tells you she’s popped her head out of the dining room, along with Mikasa and Jean.

“I need to check on something,” you mutter reluctantly.

“You haven’t eaten anything since this morning,” Mikasa points out almost accusingly.

“I’m fine. I won’t be long. I’ll be just around the corner.”

Mikasa begins to stride over towards you with the full intention of chaining you to the dining table if that’s what it took to get you to sit down and eat.

“It’s fine.” Jean steps in her path, a hand in the air to get her to stop. “I’ll go with her. I’ll make sure she eats something at one of the pubs.”

“I’ll go too,” Historia offers, leaving the dining room to reach for her coat.

“Maybe we should all go,” Connie suggests reluctantly, not wanting to leave his precious meal behind so soon. “Last time she was alone with Jean she nearly died and Levi almost had our heads.”

Jean’s face flushes as he turns on him angrily. “And what the hell were you doing? Stuffing yourself with food like a damn useless boar?”

“Huh?!” Connie exclaims indignantly.

You roll your eyes and head out the door as they continue their bickering, not willing to wait for them to come to an arrangement.

The moment you step out, however, you inwardly grimace at your timing.

Eren is walking up the porch to the townhouse next door, where Levi’s men are stationed, key in hand and ready to head inside. Levi had insisted his people be the ones to keep an eye on him, since no one trusted him enough to have him anywhere near you, let alone living under the same roof.

A swift glimpse in Eren’s direction confirms he’s just arrived from your father’s office. He carries a leather suitcase in hand and wears a dark grey tailored suit that helps him fit the role you’ve assigned him well.

You test your luck and walk forward into the streets, needing to head past him in order to get to the alley behind The Red Rose — your destination for tonight — but your presence doesn’t go unnoticed by him. The second he recognizes you, his face lights up and he begins to walk towards you.

“Anya!” He waves at you thinking that might get your attention, but you blatantly ignore him, not wanting to peer into those doe-like eyes of his if you could help it.

This doesn’t seem to derail him though. He's close enough now you catch him from your peripheral vision as he extends a hand out to try and reach out to you.

“Oi!” Jean quickly appears beside you, roughly shoving Eren back before he can touch you.

You don’t miss a step in your stride as you leave Jean to deal with Eren, but you can still hear Jean loud and clear behind you, pointing a threatening finger at Eren’s chest.

“Try going anywhere near her again,” Jean growls, “and I’ll have you wishing she had never spared your life at all.”

“Jean!” Historia chides, stepping in to steer him away from Eren and back in your direction. “He only wanted to say hello. You don’t have to be so hostile with him all the time.”

Jean lets out a grumble of disagreement before they both fall into step beside you, failing to notice the amused glimmer in your eye.

There is no denying how much Jean despises Eren. Whether it’s because he doesn’t trust him or because Eren had bruised his ego by saving you in his place from your encounter with Floch, Jean was looking for any kind of excuse to get his hands on Eren. To prove to you he needed to be gotten ridden of. And it was killing him that despite Levi’s objection, you were still adamant on keeping Eren close — to you, to your circle, and now to the inner workings of Ymir & Co.

Or at least that’s what it looks like to him.

You glimpse over your shoulder to Historia, an assistant to one of your father’s legal advisors, and the one you assigned to oversee Eren’s work at your father's company.

“Has he settled in well?” you ask her casually, not needing to mention Eren’s name for her to know you were talking about him.

Eren’s current position there was to serve as your father’s administrative assistant — a temporary role you wanted him to perform to help determine if he was fit for the actual position you had in mind for him.

It’s been over a few weeks now since you first made his acquaintance, and you find it rather suspicious that in all that time, not once has he attempted to leave town. You’ve allowed him to walk the streets of your city freely, without any threat of your people tailing after him. He could have used any moment to make his escape. And yet, at the end of the day, the boy still kept coming back.

You don’t spare Eren a second glance as you continue down the street for the same reason Historia is looking at him over her shoulder with a sympathetic look in her eye. Given Eren’s unexplainable attachment to you, he’s probably standing in the middle of the road watching you leave the way a puppy looks when their master leaves them behind. Confused and hurt, but still loyally waiting for their return.

Historia turns her head forward again. She nods beside you. “You were right about him. He’s clever as he is charming. He’s already interacted with some of your father’s usual clients, and there’s no denying he's got a way with people.”

Jean scoffs, not at all impressed, but Historia ignores him. Her softhearted sapphire eyes are pinned on you. “He’s been asking for you.”

But your face remains indifferent. “I’m flattered.”

She frowns. “Anya—”

You throw her a warning look and she lowers her gaze, dropping the subject.

You make one quick stop at the fish market, ignoring the odd looks Jean and Historia give each other when you ask for any leftover tuna or sardines from today, before heading to the Red Rose.

As the pub appears within your line of sight, Jean goes ahead and stops in front of the entrance where many of your father’s men are already stationed so he can inform them of your presence. Ever since the attempt on your life, your father has doubled the amount of men in your area to help patrol town. Unfortunately, that means any chance for Erwin to make any more bold appearances grow all the more slim.

When you confronted Hannes about why he'd failed to mention to you Erwin’s little surprise visits to the pub, he claimed it was because of how difficult it was to keep track of the amount of people that go in and out of the pub ever day. If Eren had spotted him, it had been because ever since Hannes had hired him, Hannes had spent less and less time out front serving drinks for him to notice.

To some degree, you believed him. If only because you knew that nowadays, he was always passed out, drunk, somewhere in the back.

“Oi!” Jean calls after you when he sees you walk past the entrance of Red Rose. “Where are you going?”

You turn the corner into the narrow alleyway behind the pub where you spotted the little furball a few weeks ago.

“Anya, what is it?” Historia asks, peering into the dark alley behind you.

You raise a finger to your lips to silence her and signal for her to stay back as you see her begin to follow you, but Historia refuses.

“I’m not letting you walk into a dark alleyway on your own,” she hisses behind you.

Jean’s footsteps stop short beside Historia. “What is she doing?”

You tear open the small newspaper-wrapped package you’ve been carrying in your hand from the fish market and pull out a sardine.

Trash bags rustle on the floor near a dumpster to your left and when you crouch down, a pair of eyes flash in the dark.

You hum in delight. “There you are.”

You toss the small piece of fish a few feet in front of you to lure the kit out. It had taken shelter under a stack of cardboard boxes, but the moment it caught the scent of food it slowly made its way out.

It’s black fur blended well against the darkness of the alley. If it weren’t for its bright, glowing eyes you wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint where it was.

Just a few weeks ago you’d seen a female cat with her young litter foraging for food around the back of the pub. They must have relocated soon after because you never saw them again, but being the runt in the litter, this last one must have been left behind. It couldn’t have been any older than three weeks old when you first heard its mewling on your way back from the pub.

Out of curiosity, you’d gone in search of the noise and came across the little black thing stumbling its way around the alleyway looking for food.

For a while you just stood there and watched as it struggled.

You knew that without the mother to fend for it, it was not going to survive on its own. It looked so small and frail in comparison to its surroundings, so helpless, you were reminded of that day as a kid when your mother was taken from you. When you too learned what it was like to be afraid and powerless. But like all things born of this world with a will to live, you learned how to survive. Instead of being afraid, you became something to fear. And if this little thing wished to live despite its unfavorable circumstances, it would learn this too.

You would give it a week before deciding if it possessed the strength and determination necessary to live and survive on its own. You had no interest in weaklings, and if this one didn’t fit your requirements, you would find another that did.

Assessing it up closely now, you’re impressed by how nicely it has grown in size since you last saw it. It has to be at least five weeks old, which means it’s much more curiously aware of its surroundings than before, and within seconds, it devours the piece of sardine you've offered it.

It meows at you for another and starts to approach you cautiously, sniffing out the rest of the fish you carry in your hand.

But then Jean steps forward too abruptly and startles it, having peered over your shoulder to check what you were doing.

“A flea-infested stray?” he asks incredulously beside you. “That’s what we came here for?”

The kitten hisses at him in warning. Jean has stepped far too closely than the kit is comfortable with. It’s back is arched towards him with its hairs raised and its ears flattened backward on its head—pupils dilated.

You smile approvingly at the kitten's reaction. In the short time its lived out on the streets, its learned to be distrustful of humans — and much rightfully so. Humans are the worst.

As you were about to prove it.

Dropping another piece of sardine in front of you to warrant its attention, you take advantage while it’s distracted to reach for its scruff.

“Don’t touch it!” Jean scolds you, pulling your hand back. “It's feral. It’s probably got rabies.”

The cat mistakes Jean’s quick hand movement as a threat and scratches him across the hand with its sharp claws with enough ferocity to draw blood. Jean curses and pulls his hand back as you raise your eyebrows in surprise.

Historia stifles a giggle. “It doesn’t seem to like you very much, Jean.”

“Vicious little thing, aren’t you?” you muse as it resumes munching on the last scraps of raw fish on the floor when it feels Jean no longer poses a threat to him.

Before it has time to finish it, however, you snatch it by the scruff before it can fight back and you rise to your feet with it. It hangs helplessly in your hand with its paws out in front of him. You tap its pink nose. “We’re going to get along just nicely.”

You hand the leftover fish to Historia despite your new companion’s meows of protest. But it's already associated your scent now with food so it believes you’ll provide him with more if it behaves and waits a little longer.

Jean and Historia follow after you as you begin to head back home, but Jean has his scratched hand cupped in his other hand with a sulking face. “You better have a good reason as to why you're bringing that bloody thing home with us.”

You pet the mangy fur of the creature in your arms mindlessly. It looks to you and meows before it starts purring at your touch, comforted by the scent of fish in your hands. As you pass under a lamppost, you notice the cat’s eyes are bright and green, like fresh blades of grass.

“There’s a very special person I’d like to befriend at the park,” you tell Jean and Historia. “He's very fond of these furballs.” You raise the black cat to your eye level, noticing it's still very small for his age given his entire body fits in the palm of your hand. “My walks to the park will prove most promising with this one in my pocket.”

—

The following morning Connie drives you over to Ymir & Co. in a sleek black automobile, gifted to you by your father now that you were enforcing business meetings further out into the city more frequently.

Mikasa sits in the front passenger's seat next to Connie while you sit in the back of the car, gazing impassively outside your window with an elbow propped up against the door frame. Outside, the people of the Founding Sector scurry about, rushing to get to work and start their day. They’re familiar with the type of vehicles you and your family own, so when they recognize your car drive past them, they nod towards your car respectfully before continuing on their way.

Ymir & Co. is located in the heart of the city, and it’s where your father handles the legal side of business. You drive past one of your father’s warehouses a few blocks from your townhouse, where his men are most likely finalizing the last preparations necessary to ship out the manufactured commodities over to Marley as agreed upon, along with various misplaced military weapons hidden in the cargo.

If anyone were to discover these weapons had been sent over to aid enemy nations, like that of Marley, when Paradis was on the brink of war with them for wanting to extract Paradis of its natural resources, the ones responsible would be found guilty of treason and imprisoned for life, if not sentenced to death.

You look to the east of town, where the Founding Sector’s canal networks currently send illicit goods into the heart of the city, per the requests of many powerful lords and elected officials, who await for them with open arms and pockets full of money.

There was a time when you used to look down on them all for their unscrupulous ways. As a child, you would often hear of their appalling demands and just the mere sight of them afterwards sickened you to your stomach. But after your childhood became overrun with death and violence, you grew numb to humanity’s sinful nature. You came to realize there was no use changing it. Your father understood this better than anyone. The intricate web of criminal activity he was able to form in the underworld, embedded so deep in the Founding Sector only those within his circle knew just how deep it truly lied, proves it.

Such was his network of clients — corrupted to the core, requesting all kinds of services ranging from the legal to the illegal, and willing to pay good money in exchange for the guaranteed promise of delivery — that made this business so profitable. But your father also had a reputation to uphold as CEO of a highly successful car manufacturing company. And to continue holding onto that respectable power and status, all legal matters needed to come first.

Which is where Eren would come in.

Your father needed a spokesman. Someone to represent him whenever he couldn’t attend a certain business meeting for Ymir &Co., or whenever he needed someone to simply whisper in his ear the names of people he encountered at charity events or other important social gatherings so as to appear interested and involved.

Ymir had originally wanted it to be you. So he could show you off proudly as his one and only heir. But your father had raised his taste in business partners. He was now keeping senators, diplomats, leaders of entire countries, for company — people whose presence required you to play civil.

And you were never one for diplomacy.

To keep the bridges your father had built with his new affluential clients, your father needed someone tailored to their liking. Someone with a welcoming face and charming personality, capable of striking a deal with them because he knew how to put on a fake smile and make it look genuine. Someone docile and patient, who didn’t appear like a threat and could follow their social rules and etiquette until he had them letting down their guard enough to attack.

Eren checked all these boxes perfectly, and as Historia mentioned earlier, was doing so already.

When you brought this up to your father, you assured him that he lost nothing with using him. Eren would only ever be informed of the legal parts of business. He would have no access to the records or dealings that your father partook in outside of the law because all incriminating evidence was stored outside of that office. In a room that only you, your father, and Levi had access to. And after showing your father Eren’s identification papers, along with a photo of him, he could not deny you that he fit the part well. All Eren needed was to prove whether he had the skills necessary to take on such a task.

The boy also seemed to be willing to do anything to please you, and you would have mentioned this to your father — to assure him of your confidence in this plan — but after the way Eren saw you kill another man in cold blood without hesitation, you weren’t so sure.

Armin would have been an alternatively ideal and safe choice after you, if his name hadn’t already been marked and linked to the underworld. The majority of your cadre’s identities, actually, had already been defaced in some shape or form before coming to you.

But it did not matter; you needed Armin down in the Colossal Sector more.

The day you had been targeted, he had been in the area on business. Once he knew you were out of danger, he returned back to the Colossal Sector without a moments waste, despite having left it in safe hands. Bertholdt’s clan may have bent the knee to House Ymir, but tensions still ran high between families, and only Armin was capable of keeping them all in check. He was wickedly clever. He knew what made people tick, which made it easy for him to find people’s weaknesses and manipulate them to your advantage. A skillset of his you valued greatly.

Ten or so minutes later, you arrive at the red-bricked building where Ymir & Co.’s business partners frequent and where your father’s prestigious looking office is located.

You make your way up the staircase with Connie and Mikasa behind you, passing through the open glass doors and richly warm colored hues of the main parlor.

Not bothering with the receptionist at the front desk, you walk right past her and take the elevator up to the last floor where your father’s office as CEO is located. Mikasa and Connie join you inside. When you arrive at the top floor, Connie stays behind and stations himself beside the elevator’s sliding black gates while you and Mikasa head down the end of the hallway to your father’s office.

A metal sign with your father’s name on it and the word CEO underneath is framed on the wall beside a dark cherry wooden door. You open it and find Eren sitting behind a desk to your right. Historia stands over his shoulder, in the middle of explaining something to him.

At the sight of you, Eren stands up so suddenly, the chair behind him nearly tips over. He was not expecting you to make an appearance at the office and it’s caught him by surprise.

“Anya,” he says in a daze, as if not quite believing you’re standing in front of him.

Historia clears her throat. “You’re early,” she notes, beginning to move towards you so as to draw your attention away from Eren’s reaction. “Have you had breakfast? I can order you something to eat—”

“I won’t be staying long,” you reply, already half way across the reception’s area. “Send him in when he arrives.”

From your peripherals you catch Eren attempt to follow you, but Historia rests a hand on his shoulder and manages to keep him seated at his desk.

You turn the corner to the right and walk through the open door of your father’s office where you’re immediately welcomed with the smell of expensive leather, fine wood, and burnt cigarettes. The blinds are drawn, with only a small sliver of golden sunlight to seep through, but there’s something about this dim lighting that makes you feel powerful the second you walk in; you feel right at home.

Ymir’s desk is made of rich, dark wood and is sparsely populated by writing tools, a telephone, a cigarette tray, and two tall lamps. One on each side to provide him light during the late hours of the night. Behind his desk is a wooden shelf with a small collection of decorative books and trinkets on display, and to his right is a metal filing cabinet pushed up against the wall. Beside it, a little farther to the left, is a small table where he keeps some fine bottles of scotch and bourbon, a pair of drinking glasses, and some fresh ice that Historia must have recently set up for you.

You take a seat on your father’s black leather padded chair behind his desk as Mikasa closes the door behind her. She faces you, her jaw set, and you sigh, bracing yourself. You cannot avoid this conversation with her any longer.

“Go on then, Mikasa. Out with it.”

Mikasa crosses her arms across her chest and rests her back against the wall beside the door. “Levi is right. You can’t keep collecting any more of these strays. One of these days they’re going to betray you.”

You shrug, nonplussed. “If the cat remains feral, we can always toss it back out.”

She throws you a deathly glare and you try not to smirk. You know she is referring to Eren, but she’s so easy to rattle you enjoy teasing her when you can.

“You think keeping him confined within these walls is going to shield him from the things that go on outside this office?” she questions. “He knows who you are. He’s aware of your father’s reputation. The longer you keep him at your side, the higher chance he has of finding something to use against you —against your father.”

You meet Mikasa’s troubled gaze with steady eyes. “His sole purpose is to serve as the face of this company. Nothing more.” Eren may have an inkling about the kind of activities you and your family are involved with outside of Ymir & Co., but he cannot begin to comprehend the exact kind of business that entails. And he never will.

Mikasa raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. “Right. But does he know that?”

You roll your eyes, a look of distaste on your face at her underlying meaning. “Whatever perfect vision he has of me will shatter soon enough, if it hasn’t already.”

Mikasa frowns. “That’s the problem.” She begins to cut across the room towards you. “He knows you’re spoken for. He’s got a good sense of what you do for a living — I mean, you killed a man in front of him. A police officer, at that. All things that would have any normal person running, yet he refuses to stay away.” She shakes her head with open annoyance. “You should see the way his eyes light up whenever you walk into the room.”

You prop your elbow against the arm rest of your father’s chair and rest your chin on your fist. Mikasa’s suspicions mirror your own so you surprise her by not dismissing her concerns as you usually do. Jean is also very much against Eren’s presence. Mostly because they cannot be assured of Eren’s true intentions with you, and you have too many enemies on your back for Eren not to raise mistrust amongst your inner circle…

You flick a subtle gaze over to Mikasa at the thought of the rest of your cadre.

Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Sasha, Connie, Historia — all loyal to you because you had saved them all from a fate worse than death. When the world turned its back on them, you gave them a second chance at life — even if it that life was one of crime. The fact that you went out of your way for them, risked your own life and your own people to save them, is what ultimately won you their undying loyalty. They would die before letting anything happen to you.

Except…Eren is not like all your other strays.

You cadre had all suffered. They had known pain before coming to you. Eren had not. And that’s what has your team worried. They are all well acquainted with the darkest parts of humanity, and thus understand why you do what you do, but Eren never will. The second he finds out what you are truly capable of, he will not hesitate to turn to the law and make you pay your dues.

A knock sounds at your father’s door and your attention cuts to Historia as she opens the door to let herself in. But a hint of sadness envelops you at the sight of her. The softness in her eyes and inviting aura she radiates with her charm is the most deceiving part about her; it’s also what makes her the most dangerous.

If you didn’t know any better you would think she’s lived a carefree, happy life, alongside a family who loves her and wishes only the best for her.

But, you do know her.

You know the kind of life she’s lived. Of the grotesque filth you tried wiping off her golden hair and skin the night you set her free from her captors. But no amount of water or soap could remove the amount of scars traced across her body, and it’s that gentleness in her demeanor she carries with her always that catches you off guard. Because you are incapable of smiling the way she can.

As if everything was all right in the world.

As if she wasn’t terribly broken inside.

It always made you wonder if Historia would behave any differently — less pleasant, more angry, more real — if you had been able to save the brunette as well. But Historia never spoke of the girl with the freckled face, who had looked after her protectively inside the brothel. The selfless girl who died helping Historia get away — to you.

“The journalist from Paradis Times is here,” Historia announces, snapping your attention back into place.

She steps aside to signal the journalist to come in and you amuse yourself by the look of confusion that quickly settles across his features at the sight of you sitting in your father’s chair. At Mikasa standing to your right.

“Mr. Marlo Freudenberg,” you announce in that deceptively inviting tone of yours, leaning back in your father’s leather chair to give Erwin’s little spy a once over. “You have no idea how much I’ve been dying to meet you.”

Marlo Freudenberg was a tall young man with a diamond-shaped face, black bowl-cut hair, a beaklike nose, and dark brown eyes. He carries a dark grey coat in his arm and a brown leather suitcase where you assume he stores all his notebook and pens to take notes. He glances over nervously to Historia and Mikasa as they begin to take their leave.

“I was…I was told I would be meeting with Mr. Ymir today,” he stumbles out.

“Right.“ You offer him a wicked side grin as Mikasa closes the door shut behind her. “About that…”

Marlo might have thought —or perhaps had it been Erwin?—that by setting up a meeting with your father at his company’s office, under the watchful eye of the public, Ymir would never risk acting out on a threat so openly. That by being in his office with so many potential, respectable witnesses, his safety was guaranteed. So the fact you’re here instead changes things significantly.

He seems well aware of how wild and unpredictable you are, and the danger of being left alone in a closed room with you based on the way his eyes flicker over to the door warily.

Reaching into the inner pocket of you coat for your pack of cigarettes, you take your time lighting one up, enjoying the fear and uneasiness you evoke in him as he watches your every move, not knowing what you’ll do next. You finally lean back in your chair and put your feet up on the desk, blowing the first smoke upwards.

“You're not the first journalist to request a meeting with my father and get denied,” you begin most calmly. “Inquiries after inquires he receives. Every day.” You give the cigarette in your hand a light tap and let the ash fall on a tray nearby. “Your very own list of questions might have gotten lost amongst the rest if I hadn’t come across them first.” You flick your gaze up at him, an undertone of danger in your voice. “And your questions have garnered my attention, Mr. Freudenberg.”

You nod to the chair across your father's desk. “Have a seat.”

Marlo swallows at your command, throwing the door behind him one final look, before gingerly taking a seat at the chair you’ve indicated. He’s realized that Mikasa is probably waiting outside the door and that there is no way out for him until you allow there to be.

“I’ve read your articles, Mr. Freudenberg,” you continue coolly while he loosens his tie with unsteady fingers. “You consider yourself an honorable man, willing to stand up against corruption. You wish to empower your readers to do the same. To not be afraid of those in power and bring about change.”

You blow out a last line of smoke from your cigarette before putting it out. “I commend you. I really do. It takes a lot of courage to play the hero.” You let out a heavy sigh before getting out of your chair to circle around the desk. “If only you weren’t trying so hard to dig into my father’s past.”

Marlo’s jaw clenches as you lean against your father’s desk in front of him, hearing the threat in your words, but his eyes remain leveled to the empty chair where you’d been sitting. His voice, unyielding. “The people of this city deserve to know about the kind of leaders who represent them.”

“My father is nothing but a small, working class man who made his fortune by working hard,” you correct him, an edge to your voice. “Do not write him off as the villain Erwin Smith is trying to sell him as.”

His stoic expression falters for a brief second. “Erwin Smith? I don’t understand. What does the Chief of Police have to do —”

You laugh mockingly. “Oh, but Erwin Smith has everything to do with this, my friend! He hired you to tear my father’s image apart, did he not?” You swiftly reach into the pocket of his coat and pull out the voice recorder Marlo had intended to use to record your father during his interview. You’d seen him subtly reach for it when he first walked in, and you turn if off with a click. “To use any means necessary to gather your evidence so you can release it to the media. He risked your life by setting up your meeting with my father here, and yet you still chose to walk in here willingly.”

You step away to fix yourself a drink from your father’s bottle of scotch. You serve one for Marlo as well before heading back to him with both drinks in hand.

“Tell me,” you say curiously, holding out his drink to him, which he takes somewhat mindlessly. “What inspirational speech did he give you for you to give up your life for him so easily? Did he share with you his vision of the world? Free of evil and corruption?” You read his tense posture and smirk as you take a drink from your glass. “He made you believe you were important, didn’t he? That despite the danger, what you would accomplish here”— you gesture to the space between you and him — “would be for the greater good. And if you died, it would be an honorable death. That your life’s sacrifice was a step towards the betterment of mankind.”

His refusal to look at you tells you you’re right.

“He does not care for you, Mr. Freudenberg. You are all just pieces of pawns for him to use in his grand scheme of things.” You take another sip of your drink. “Which is most unfortunate, really. Your noble, white knight has ruined more lives than you will ever know. And for what?” Your voice drips with venom. “All his life he’s been chasing after a pipe dream, and deluded others to do the same.” You shake your head. “This whole world, this society,” you say emphatically, circling your hand in the air you nearly spill your drink, “is founded on corruption. You cannot change it.” You narrow your eyes at Marlo in warning. “If you do not accept this, you will die for nothing, as will the people of this city — your readers.”

Marlo’s grip on the drink in his hand has his knuckles turning deathly white, that you wonder if he’ll break the glass. “You wish for me to turn a blind eye to everything wrong in the world?” he asks, voice strained. “Like some spineless coward?” He finally meets your gaze. “No. My heart will not allow it. I cannot live in such a world.” He firmly places his drink on your father’s desk. “I refuse.”

You study the deep resolve in his eyes closely before lowering your gaze with lament. “All I’ve said,” you mutter quietly, “and you still think he’s on the side of the angels. Is it because he’s offered you money to pay for your daughter’s treatment?”

Marlo’s face pales. “What — What are you talking about?”

You give him a pointed look. “Come on now, Mr. Freudenberg. I make it my business to know things — just like you. And I not only know what Erwin Smith hired you for, but I also know of your family. Your wife — Hitch, was it?” You place your cup of glass on top of some books by your father’s desk to pull out a dainty golden locket from the pocket of your coat. “And your only child, Freya, who is terribly ill.”

You let the locket fall out of your hand, using its golden necklace to dangle it in front of him.

A noteworthy gift from Sasha, you had to admit, considering she had nicked it from his daughter’s room while her mother bathed her. Inside the locket is a mini portrait of five-year-old Freya being held in Hitch’s arms with Marlo standing behind her. Engraved in the back with fancy letters was Freya’s name.

Marlo’s eyes widen at the sight of it in your hands and he lunges for it, but you pull it back out of reach before he can take it. “Uh, uh, uh. Not so fast.”

Despite how Marlo stands looming over you, you are not at all threatened by him. You wave a hand for him to back away and he obeys you. Reluctantly, but without protest. With the way his wide eyes are full of dread at the thought of you hurting his family, he’s at your complete mercy.

“Please,” he begins to say, “don’t—”

You raise a finger to silence him and his mouth clamps shut as you force him to wait.

“Here is my offer, Mr. Freudenberg: I will pay for your daughter’s medical expenses and I will make it that you and your family live a safe, and comfortable life.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off.

“Do not give me an answer just yet. Think it over first. Think of your daughter. If you die, do you really think Erwin will keep his word and look after her? You cannot deny the gamble Erwin took with you. The chances of you succeeding here were slim. By giving you this job, he knew he was most likely sending you to die.”

Marlo frowns, looking hesitant, and you watch as the seed of doubt you’ve planted begins to grow.

“This is what he does, Marlo,” you insist with brows knitted in concern. “He sends people to their deaths. Do not give him the power to do with you what he wills as he’s done with so many others.”

He slowly sinks back down into his chair, an expression of defeat woven in his features.

“If you insist on sparking change and influencing the mind of the people,” you go on, unable to hone down the malice in your voice, “you will only be leading them straight to their deaths. And you will be no better than him: a monster.”

This doesn’t seem to sit well with Marlo, however, and you sense the change in him almost immediately. “I fail to see how wanting the best for humanity makes you a monster,” he says through gritted teeth, glaring up at you.

Your expression hardens as you catch the heroic ardor in his eyes. He’s made you aware of his decision without even realizing it and you can’t help your disappointment.

You break eye contact with him to reach back for your drink and throw the last of it down your throat before going over to place the cup face down on the table with the rest of your father’s drinks. “The worst kind of monsters are those who don’t think they’re monsters.”

Marlo’s own drink, which he’d left untouched on your father’s desk, is in your other hand. You give it a swirl.

“You have twenty four hours to collect whatever research you have managed to get your hands on for this story and deliver it all to me,” you say with finality. “You betray me, you submit any of your work for publishing, and I come for you instead.”

He takes this as his cue to leave and numbly makes his way to the door while you down his drink in one go.

“And something you should know about me, Mr. Freudenberg,” you forewarn behind him as you place the empty cup face down next to your other one.

Marlo stops halfway to the door and turns to you. The familiar look of resentment you rouse in your enemies settling well over his features. You toss his daughter’s necklace for him to catch.

“I always keep my word.”

—

Moments later, Eren catches you in the hallway as you try to leave your father’s office.

“Anya!” you hear him call behind you. “Wait!”

Mikasa stands a few feet ahead of you, eyes fixed on Eren from over your shoulder as you hear him approach you.

He’d skittered out of his desk the second you walked past him in the reception’s area, and with no sign of Historia there to stop him, he did not hesitate to chase after you.

“Anya!”

Your nails dig into the palm of your hands as he keeps calling your name, frustrated at his inability to take a hint. Ignoring him was clearly getting you nowhere, so you stop short in the middle of the hallway, most unwillingly, your back to him. When Eren realizes he has your attention, his footsteps come to a halt a few feet behind you.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he asks quietly, almost petulantly. “You spared my life that day, but ever since then you won’t even look at me.”

You scoff dismissively and resume your leave, hating that Mikasa was right about his undying attachment for you, but the boy is deeply wounded and unwilling to hide it.

“Do you regret saving me that much?” you hear him muster out behind you, his voice pained, as if afraid to hear the answer.

His words stop you dead in your tracks.

“Saving you?”

You let out a sharp laugh, turning to face him.

“What makes you think I saved you?”

His bright green eyes are visibly hurt as he looks to you from across the hall, but your piercing gaze remains cold and dangerous as you stride towards him.

Eren watches you wearily as you come to stand in front of him. He manages to hold his ground, but your disdain is written all over your face he struggles from flinching away.

“You exist because I allow it,” you snarl at him, inches from his face, “and you will die when I demand it.”

You turn on your heels and leave, not needing a response from him, but you’re left with a bitter taste in your mouth, as if you’ve swallowed down poison. But you refuse to take the antidote; refuse to let doubt cloud your judgment.

You storm out of there before the crushed look and anguish on Eren’s face remains permanently branded across your mind, and before the guilt, of knowing just how much you’re bound to ruin him, starts to catch up to you.

—

Later that evening Sasha knocks at your bedroom door. You’re lying on your stomach in bed with your elbows propped on the mattress and your chin in the palm of your hands, watching as your little black alley cat frolics around on the floor in front of you.

“Did you retrieve it?” you ask Sasha as she makes her way inside.

She places a manila envelope beside you on the bed. The article about your father Marlo had tried to deliver to the presses despite your warning, tucked safely inside.

“Any problems?”

She shrugs. “Nothing I couldn’t handle it.”

You let out a heavy sigh, hating that the journalist had to go on and be so predictable, because now you had to drag yourself out of bed and pay him a visit all the way across the city, when all you wanted to do tonight was catch up on your sleep.

It was tiring, always being right.

After your meeting with Marlo, you’d sent Sasha to monitor the Paradis Times building for any signs of him while you had Connie tail him the second he left your father’s office.

Leaving your bed, you retrieve your weapons from your bedside table and begin to strap them to their respective places across your person.

It was truly a pity about Marlo.

You’d tried to warn him about Erwin, but that hard look in his eyes at the end of your meeting with him told you Erwin’s scrupulous ideals were already planted in him too deeply. There was nothing you could say that would change his mind.

Even when you’d offered him the money for his daughter’s treatment, you knew he wasn’t going to accept it. Not when he knew where that kind of money came from.

Swiping the manila envelope from your bed, you begin to open it as you make your way out the door, your four-legged creature following behind you like a small shadow. It hurries on past you and disappears somewhere downstairs, probably in the direction of the kitchen where it hopes Niccolo will feed it some scraps before dinner.

“I could have spared you the trouble of doing it yourself,” Sasha says, coming up beside you as you head down the stairs while you skim through the article Marlo had risked his life to send to the presses. “I had eyes on him from above the whole time he was there. I could have taken him out at any moment before he sneaked out from the back and drove off. If he’s got any brains, he’ll be trying to make a run for it right about now.”

But you disagree.

When you had asked Sasha to keep tabs on the Paradis Times building, you’d done so with the assumption that Erwin had provided Marlo with some form of protection for him and his family, since he knew what would happen once it became known he had gone against your wishes. Connie had followed Marlo all the way to his home and only confirmed this for you when he’d returned to report the number of coppers stationed at every corner of his home. Whatever trouble Sasha had come across in her interception of the article had come from Erwin’s men, who had been patrolling the area from your people so as to assure Marlo’s success.

You’d asked Sasha to maintain secrecy and act as quickly as possible so as to avoid any unwanted attention since she’d be working out in broad daylight. You trusted her skillsets to get the job done so you had her act alone, not wanting any more of your people in the area than necessary. It’s why you’d had her keep Marlo alive — to make him and Erwin think he had succeeded — all the while Sasha would swoop in moments later to infiltrate the place with as much discretion as possible, and locate Marlo’s article to replace it with a fake one.

“Erwin promised Marlo security,” you explain to Sasha, ripping the article in half, “and Marlo trusts him too much to think the coppers stationed at his home will be enough to stop me.”

Sasha hears the slyness in your voice and it finally dawns on her. “You know this is a trap,” she states matter-of-factly, not at all surprised that you’re once again running into danger head on. “They’re expecting an attack from us.”

“They’re expecting an attack from my father,” you correct her. “But in Erwin’s pathetic attempt to draw him out, he’s failed to anticipate the extra chess piece on the playing board.”

You.

“Your father has plans for Erwin,” Sasha reminds you gently. “He’s told you not to interact with him until the time is ready. Is Ymir even aware of your meeting with the journalist today? Is Levi?”

You slide her a knowing look that answers her question. “I’ve waited long enough, Sasha. Don’t you think?”

Your stealthiest of spies exhales sharply through her nostrils in disapproval. You smile back at her wickedly. “Relax, love. There will be no encounters with Erwin tonight. Though, I expect him to be watching. His obsession with my father means he’s got tabs on him everywhere, waiting for him to make a wrong move. But by doing so he’s invited me to come out and play.” Your smile lights up like a loaded gun. “And I want to show him just how well I play the rules of the game.”

As you reach the bottom of the stairs, you head into the main living room where the nearest fireplace is located. Pulling out your lighter you feed the ripped pages of the article to the candle-like flame and throw it into the hearth to let its ashes collect inside. The article contained nothing that could implicate your father legally. Everything Marlo had brought up, Ymir had been cleared of years ago. But despite Marlo being unable to collect any new hard evidence that could stir open a new investigation against your father, his mention of these past allegations was enough for people’s suspicions over his questionable background to resurface amongst his new business partners. And that was not the kind of attention your father needed, or deserved.

The sound of a car engine draws near and moments later you hear the front door open.

You turn towards it and Mikasa appears in the doorway, layered in all black, much like you and Sasha.

“The car’s ready,” she informs you. “The rest of your team has already left and will meet us there. They’ve been instructed to wait until you give the signal.”

You lead Sasha and Mikasa to the front door. Opening it, you find your car and another modestly luxurious car parked outside in front of the house. Connie sits in the driver’s seat of the car behind yours while Jean leans against the side of your car with a cigarette pressed to his lips, patiently waiting for you.

It had been decided that Jean and Mikasa would accompany you in your car, while Sasha and Connie would take the spare.

You begin to climb down the stairs of the front porch when you catch sight of two running figures a small distance away.

“Eren, wait!” you hear one of them call out.

You quickly recognize them as Historia and Eren, but the way they’re racing towards you has your cadre on alert. Mikasa immediately steps in front of you protectively, not allowing you to take another step further, while Jean stands ready for them at the bottom of the stairs by your car.

Both Historia and Eren look completely disheveled and appear to be returning from the office despite their work attire reflecting their current indecorous state. There is no mistaking Historia is chasing after Eren, trying desperately to catch up to him and get him to stop. But Eren has a great lead over her and covering a lot of ground, fast. He makes it to you in no time, but Jean is there waiting for him and intercepts him before he can make it up the stairs. You inwardly wince as Eren collides into him.

“No!” Eren protests, struggling in Jean’s hold. “Anya!” The horror in his face takes you by surprise as he looks up to you with pleading eyes. “You can’t do this! Please! Call it off!

“Oi!” Jean hisses at him angrily as he struggles to hold Eren in place. “Calm down!”

“He has a family!” Eren cries out to you. “The reporter, Marlo —”

Your cadre all tense around you at his mention of the journalist, eyeing you for your reaction, but your face remains void of emotion.

“— I spoke with him when he came asking for your father a few days ago. He’s a good man!”

Historia finally reaches you and collapses on her knees before you. “Forgive me, Anya,” she says in between breaths, head bowed in shame. “He must have overheard my conversation with Jean earlier today. I should have been more careful, but he must have connected the dots on his own. I tried to stop him the second he figured out about tonight, but he’s faster than I anticipated.”

You tsk, and shift your eyes to Eren, annoyed. Why was this boy proving so damn uncontrollable? He was supposed to remain ignorant and far, far away from all this bloody business of yours, dammit. Why was he trying to meddle his way into this life of crime when his chances of surviving it were nonexistent?

“I don’t have time for this right now.” You sidestep Mikasa and resume your way down the stairs to your car. “I’ll deal with you both later,” you say as you walk past Historia and Eren.

“No! Anya!“ Eren grits his teeth as he struggles against Jean’s grip. “His daughter,” he pleads to you desperately. “She’s sick. She needs him!”

You pause mid-step. Rather surprised and mildly impressed by how he got that piece of information out of the journalist by simply striking up a conversation with him when Sasha had to follow him all day, and from afar, to collect that same intel.

Your face, however, remains blank, distant, as you resume and open the back door of your car. “Then he should have thought of her before dipping his toes in business that does not concern him.”

Before you step inside, you glance at Historia over your shoulder with evaluating eyes. Levi was out of town with Isabel and Furlan so you couldn’t rely on them to keep an eye on Eren for you while you and your cadre were away.

”Can I trust you to keep him in check,” you ask Historia none too kindly, “or is he going to run off on you again?”

Historia registers you’re talking to her and she stands at attention. “It won’t happen again,” she assures you firmly. “You can trust me.”

You give Jean a subtle nod before stepping in the car and directing your next order to Historia, gesturing to Eren. “Get him out of here. He’s causing a bloody scene.”

You shut the door and seconds later hear Jean knock the air out of Eren. You don’t need to look out your window to know Eren is on the ground, doubled over in pain.

You rest your head against your seat and close your eyes, impatiently waiting for Jean to get in to start the car so you could leave this moment behind. The look of horror and desperation on Eren’s face at your callousness is seared across your mind and you can’t shake it off. It was far too similar to the way you had once looked upon your tormentors from that day. When they’d rid you of your innocence and filled your heart, your soul, with so much darkness, the girl you were before was left buried ten feet underground.

Perhaps this is why you can’t bare having Eren anywhere near you. Because you knew that for as long as he remained within close proximity of you, you were chipping away at his innocence the way they had done away with yours.

It makes you hate yourself just a little bit more, knowing you were turning into the same monsters you’d vowed to destroy.

But then you think of what your father once told you, and your inner demons still once more. “There are two kinds of people in this world,” your father had said. “Those who live on the side of the world who have never been touched by darkness, and those who were raised in darkness.”

And you, Anya Ymir, belonged to the darkness, residing alongside the monsters and devils that reigned within it until you’d learned to make it feel like home.

As a child these creatures had threatened to devour you, sensing the softness still nestled within you. But now they recognized you as one of their own — a monster in human form. If you had any chance at retribution, your wretched soul could not waver. Could not forget: your mother’s killers had been monsters too.

A slam of a door closing snaps your eyes open. Jean has finally made his way inside your car and jabs the keys into the ignition, turning it on. Behind you, Connie’s vehicle also roars to life. Connie and Sasha leave first and Jean follows behind them seconds later, leaving Historia behind with Eren still bent over on the floor at her feet.

You draw out the revolver from your holster and pop the barrel open. Taking out the bullet with Marlo’s name from your coat, you exchange it for one of your regular bullets.

It takes a monster to destroy a monster, you remind yourself, locking the barrel back in place with a hard click. And you intend to be the deadliest.

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slowd1ving · 6 months ago

Text

PENDULUM ✦ . 　⁺ ii.

THE WORLD WE KNEW (FRANK SINATRA)

"Every road we took turned to gold, But the dream was too much for you to hold." wc: 7.1k

JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST

PENDULUM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ・゜NEXT PART

Stephen Steel is a brave man.

“Mr Steel, the conference is ready for you.”

It was a proclamation that littered both gazettes and newspapers alike: a subtle dig at his penchant for big ideas. Brave. No, those journalists were wrong. Stephen was stubborn, and a coward; his daughter was the brave one. Though, unlike those twittering fools, he didn’t mean bravery to be an insult. Rather, he admired Lucy’s fresh perspective in an industry where cowardice was the standard.

When she had first proposed the idea of a cross country race across America, he could already feel the printed ink on grey paper. Scathing remarks adorning comments about his character – maybe he was already growing senile – perhaps a dig at his adopted daughter, just for good measure. It was practically a given that the economist broadsheets would flock to scoff at what was undoubtedly a pipe dream. Foolhardy , they’d write, one can’t possibly hope to attain profit from this witless scheme – truly, Steel has grown rusty.

What those money-hungry sharks always failed to recognise was that Stephen didn’t do this for money. Something that never clicked for them was the beauty of watching an idea bloom into life. If it put that sparkle into Lucy’s eyes, who was he to deny her wishes? She wasn’t a fool; this idea was bold. The world’s eyes would be on this stage, and it was all his daughter’s doing. What idiot wouldn’t be proud of her? It was about the point.

The age of the horse is not over.

Amidst all the growing interest surrounding automobiles, there was a fervent desperation to catapult into the future. He could see it – had seen it – time and time again. What inventions could technology bring about ? What heights can humanity hope to reach ? It wasn’t a bad thing; innovation was the crux of mankind. In a rapidly industrialising world, though, he felt old .

Time slipped past his fingers like minuscule grains of sand.

He wasn’t one to dwell in the past; wallowing about with the dregs of tradition was left to the other members of his generation. This country had forced unbearable apparitions to plague his thoughts, to torment his dreams and reality alike. No, he really wasn’t one to stay in the past.

If it wasn’t innovation that unsettled him, what was it?

As industrialisation and capital sunk their grimy claws into humankind, community was shredded apart. Was there any to begin with ? Stephen hadn’t known community , but he could see the individualism piercing through man with every step they took to the future. This country was plagued with it.

No, he wasn’t a patriot.

He had watched people he knew from youth turn into reverent acolytes to the dirty ideal of business . He knew business intimately: watching talk of capital and money seep out his old friends like the most ardent of prayers. They had no compassion – no empathy – for others, save themselves. It settled over his skin like a layer of grease – infinitely hard to scrub off. Neighbour forsake neighbour .

Lucy, never fall prey to this beast .

This race across the continent could bring people together. All walks of life – rooting for a champion to cross the finish line. Hope . Humans and their equine companions . Could this remind people of the threads of fate intertwining them to each other? Maybe. He was almost too afraid to think it into the existence of his mind.

He wasn’t a patriot, yet America was all he’d known. Something would change with this race, wouldn’t it? The feat of crossing the continent of horseback had the potential to unite . All across the world, eyes would be trained on the glory of the victor racing against all odds – with a tool, a companion , that the wealthy viewed as primitive .

No, the age of the horse was not over.

It couldn’t be.

“Mr Steel, those reporters and sponsors might be growing a tad impatient.”

He was shaken out of his thoughts by his butler’s insistent voice. Instinctively, he sat up ramrod-straight in the armchair at the exasperated tone – a habit he could never quash, even decades after leaving the army.

“Do you want me to inform Miss Steel to join you?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Stephen stood up with a bone-deep weariness that betrayed his age. His hands shook minutely as he adjusted the green collar slung over his shoulders. “I don’t want my daughter to be present should things get heated.”

Stephen Steel is a cowardly man , he mused. The furthest thing from brave .

. 　⁺ ✦

San Diego beach was awfully quiet. It had been late in the afternoon when you finally meandered your way to the coast, after walking in circles and getting fooled by the street signs (not one, but thrice ). Finally, a local had taken pity on your pathetically despondent face and kindly pointed you in the right direction.

By now, the sun was hanging low in the sky, and a pleasant chill eased over you; instead of being sticky and overheated, you were now sticky and covered in cold sweat. This sucks , you thought as you dug your shoes into the sand by your drooping backpack.There was no sensation you loathed more than the itch of clothes plastered to your skin (save for maybe the feeling of nothing ).

Almost unconsciously, your eyes roved over the shoreline: not a soul was present, not even a stray seagull circling the sky above. Wind hissed in your ears, and the insistent lapping of waves against sand was the accompanying melody. It was empty , yet the floating head still hadn’t appeared into your field of view.

Whatever , you scowled. You suck anyway . Instead of worrying about where that Annoying Prick had disappeared off to, you turned your attention to the discarded newspaper nearby. With any luck, it would give you information on the Steel Ball Run that your friend had so graciously withheld.

The Daily Bee , you read. Issue 257. Your hands grasped your personal gold mine; by some miracle, it hadn’t gotten soaked by the spray of water nearby (though it was severely rumpled, as if someone had tossed it in a fit of rage).

“ Ridiculous race across America announced ?” you mouthed along, practically choking with how greedily your eyes scanned the letters. Bingo . The ink was slightly smudged – like it had been veritably ripped from the printing press – but that didn’t matter. You had a paper treasure trove in your clutches.

“ The infamous promoter, Stephen Steel, declared yesterday his plans to establish a cross-country race on horseback. Spanning lengthways over America, it has been dubbed the ‘Steel Ball Run’. Already, it faces criticism from rival promoters and citizens alike – I can imagine,” you paused to swat away a fly that was getting too close for comfort, before continuing your fascinating perusal. “ However, Steel insists that America needs this reminder of ‘pioneering spirit’. Certainly, it has never been done before in the history of mankind. Will he- turn to page six to read more .”

You set the newspaper on your lap as you thumbed your temple. Of course they’d put the concrete information later in the goddamn issue. Irritably, you turned the pages until you reached it.

“ -manage to appease the opposition? The grand cost of the race is in the hundreds of millions, with the prize money for the champion being fifty million dollars ,” your eyes almost bugged out of your head. Fifty million.. Already, you could hear a stampede of entrants flocking to prove their worth. “ Entrance fee is $1200. The start date is 10 AM, September 25th 1890, on the beach of San Diego. Second place- alright, that’s plenty.”

Neatly, you folded the newspaper in two and set it down. There was a lot to mull over. San Diego beach . That was here, right? Your gaze traced over to where the sand winked out on the horizon – it was hard to picture the coast being filled with horses when it was presently so barren.

Entrance fee . Any cash you had was still in your truck, you realised mournfully. Although, you doubted you’d get very far with modern money. Sure, you could probably pawn off some of the equipment in your pack, but you’d still be short by a couple hundred bucks. A job . With a pang of loss, you thought back to your internship with Dr Ferdinand. And with a pang of annoyance, you thought about the absence of your floating buddy.

Where the hell was it?

Exhaustedly, you tipped your head back and leant on your palms in the warm sand. The steady beat of your tattoo resounded in your left arm and lulled you into a lazy stupor; you’d never wished for the comfort of your bed this hard in your life.

When you really focused, you could feel the familiar surge of energy tugging and twisting at your innards. And it was annoying : much like the uncomfortable feeling of indigestion, or the sound of that irritating head. Wait . You furrowed your brow, and shut your eyes determinedly.

Like it or not, you could feel the cords twined around you – and they tied you to that head. Each of your limbs, your very soul was inexorably bonded to that thing : marionette and puppet master.

( Who is the puppet ?)

Something instinctive twisted within your gut; just as naturally as breathing, you let the sensation ebb and flow over you. Your left palm grew colder: a testament that you were doing something right. Inhale . Salt burned your tongue. Exhale . The air pressure grew heavier. You could feel the presence manifesting before you – like something was unfurling against your sternum.

Your eyes flew open.

There, bobbing through the air before you once again, was that Hideous Apparition. Automatically, your face settled into a healthy scowl.

“Hi again,” it wheedled. If that ugly mug had eyelashes, you were sure they’d be fluttering in some attempt to gain favour with you. “Long time no see-”

“Nice try,” you interrupted. You were really, really irritated now. “Great job, disappearing like that after I just got dropped in the middle of nowhere. Super convenient. It’s really making me want to help you.”

“ You were the one who hid me away,” it replied petulantly. Your eye twitched. “But then you summoned me again just now!”

“So now you’re blaming me?” you snapped. “ Thank you for explaining your weird shit before you tossed me into that wormhole.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” it cajoled. You decidedly missed the period of time where the inflection of its voice was flat and impersonal; this mockery of an apologetic tone simply added insult to injury. “I can explain right now, I promise! I’ll even tell you my name to make me easier to summon.”

“ Great ,” you hoped every syllable absolutely dripped scathingly. A small, traitorous – scientific , you insisted – part of you was trembling with earnest curiosity. You were finally getting answers. And you had the ability to summon this thing: suggesting a modicum of control over it. Your fingers twitched with excitement. Obviously, you’d experiment (and maybe, maybe you’d be able to use that Question of Time ability to return home).

“I’m you,” it began, before promptly staring at you to really punt the message inwards. You grimaced, but didn’t open your mouth to refute it. “Or more accurately, the manifestation of your fighting spirit.”

“What fighting spirit? I’m a lab intern !” you wailed despairingly. Not only were you somehow related to that ghastly thing, but now you were expected to fight on top of that?

“Look, I know this isn’t the most ideal situation,” it tried to pacify you, but that irritating attempt at a soothing voice from a floating head was only repulsive. “But the Devil’s Palm chose you for this.”

“Question of Time: take me back,” you clasped your hands together in fervent prayer. You could feel the head’s exasperation buzz across your neurons. The familiar pull of the wormhole didn’t appear. Even the tattoo didn’t hum with extra vitality.

“That’s just not gonna work,” it sighed. “This is the destination, and your objective is here.”

“If I prevent the President from taking the corpse – is it an actual corpse – will I be able to go home?”

“I’d think so,” it replied thoughtfully, spinning in the air as if it were cycling back through its thoughts. “Like, I’m new to this, but that sounds like it would work. And yes, it is an actual corpse.”

“Right,” your shoulders drooped. Neither morbid curiosity nor hope stirred any interest within you; exhaustion had long since taken command of your body. “And I have to enter the race? Can’t I just track the President down outside the race?”

“No can do,” those clock eyes distorted slightly in a sympathetic squeeze. “The race is your best bet to get closer without suspicion, as well as finding the corpse before he does.”

“But I have to buy a whole horse , and pay the entrance fee, and get equipment and provisions,” you mumbled, covering your face with your hands. Against your cheek, the tattoo pulsed with something akin to a comforting hum. “Plus survive here for a good two months. A horse !”

“We’ll find you a job,” it came out slightly muffled due to your hunched shoulders pressed against your ears, but you appreciated the assurance nonetheless. Silence settled briefly, before you peeked through your fingers; the head was quietly watching you with an expression that seemed to be a cousin to concern.

“Who are you?”

The question escaped out of your lips before it had a chance to become a fully-fledged thought. Curiosity had begun to flare up against the dampening fatigue that soaked through every cell in your body.

Despite the haze of the unknown clouding your conscious mind, that impossible familiarity kept tugging your gut. You knew what that head was: somewhere in the deepest recesses of instinct . Even now, your mouth formed something that might’ve been a name – yet it was impossible to know. Your tongue felt leaden, as if you were just learning how to speak.

“My name is Depeche Mode.”

And it was true ; just as soundly as you knew the earth beneath your feet, you knew that name. Depeche Mode , you called out, and something answered within your very soul.

[ I’m here. ]

“I’m a fragment of you,” Depeche Mode continued, as if it hadn’t just resonated with your internal monologue. “I’m a tool , that you yourself created.”

A rather faulty tool of you .

[Shut up.]

“So what can you do?” you settled your chin on your forearms and leaned forwards. “Other than, y’know, kidnapping hapless interns for weird schemes?”

“Technically, you kidnapped yourself by foolishly wandering into the Devil’s Palm and awakening me, and by extension, you ,” it retorted snippily. “Let’s not point fingers here.”

You closed your mouth.

“Look at your palm – right hand, right hand , idiot.”

Not wanting to get head-butted by an irate Depeche Mode, you twisted your palm round. Nothing. You flipped it over – still nothing.

“Hey,” you looked up. “There’s no-”

Then, you felt it. That familiar prickling sensation, that familiar heat was beginning to emerge from your very bones – and right into the meat of your palm. Straight lines plastered themselves under your watchful gaze; those bold lines (interrupted only by the decorative friezes embellishing them) were so unlike the fragile lines of the other tattoo that you were quite taken aback.

“Okay, a rectangle with decoration, cool,” you uttered, deadpan. Although, you had to admit, the swirling patterns crawling up your wrists were pretty decent for something that wasn’t your choice. “You secretly a tattoo artist or something?”

“It’s not a rectangle,” it scowled. You could feel its simmering vexation threatening to spill over. “It’s a slot machine.”

“That’s even more bizarre!” you threw up your hands in exasperation. There really was no winning, but the glower you received prompted you to cease any further remarks.

“With two numbers,” it challenged, practically daring you to say something.

That’s stupid as hell , you thought. Two numbers ?

“ And a five minute cooldown after it’s used,” it replied icily. You swallowed nervously. “The pocket watch on your left palm will show the time remaining.”

Sounds great !

“Think of it starting up,” it instructed. You peered intently at your palm: feeling those blocky lines brand themselves in your mind’s eye. This was not intuitive. Depeche Mode was practically breathing down your neck with how intensely it scrutinised you.

“Look away,” you snapped after a minute of no luck. That empty stare was making you nervous , or at the very least, irritable .

“Relax your muscles, and imagine pushing the button to that slot machine,” you could feel it twirl away from view, and you heaved a sigh of relief. “ Feel the spin of it.”

“ Feel the spin ,” you muttered. Of course that thing had added a silly little riddle as a garnish to its advice. Focus . You inhaled, then shakily visualised a big, red button. Shiny, stereotypical - the one that screamed ‘don’t press this doomsday button or else’.

You slammed down on it.

Immediately, something clicked . Your heart skipped a beat. Beneath your widened gaze, numbers and symbols were spinning within that rectangle splayed out on your palm. If you really focused, you could even hear phantom whirring and chiming, as if you had wandered into some haunted casino.

Just as suddenly as it began, the spin came to a grinding halt. There, framed by that embellished rectangle, was the number 1: proudly emblazoned and complete with a decorative syringe sketched inside the ink.

A syringe , you pondered. What could that possibly -

[Activating: Personal Jesus. Countdown has begun.]

“What the-” your incredulity was cut off with even more incredulity as Depeche Mode poofed into existence before you. Something was different .

Your eyes roamed over the brand new floating hands that accompanied that dismembered head. And in its grasp, in its grasp , was a cartoonishly over-sized syringe. Depeche Mode was currently tapping it against its palm menacingly like a goddamn baseball bat . You eyed it nervously.

“You’re not going to bludgeon my brains out, right?” you queried with an uneasy smile. “ Right ?”

“Of course not!” that cheery, yet somehow still monotone, denial had you break into a light – light – sweat. “You got injured, didn’t you?”

Those lacquered lips had yet to open. Why, why the hell did your soul have to form this horror movie extra?

“Yeah, uhh,” your eyes darted to your arms to check out the shallow scrapes that appeared after each time you got shit out of that wormhole thing. Did you want to be honest? Did you really trust that thing?

“Relax,” that smug tone was not helping its case. “Personal Jesus can quickly heal you!”

Before you could even react, Depeche Mode grasped the plunger with those two hands, raised it, and struck you with that huge needle. You let out a rather embarrassing yelp, but it passed through you . It felt warm , like you were swimming through some amniotic fluid. Against your will, you felt your shoulders relax. Beneath your disbelieving eyes, those cuts and scrapes were rapidly clotting and vanishing . Even your sore shoulder had eased up.

“As you can see, Personal Jesus rejects injury someone has taken – unless the body has already accepted it as the natural state ,” Depeche Mode rattled off robotically, as if it hadn’t almost given you heart palpitations.

“Like a scar, or something like that?” you rasped. Your mind was still hazed from the shock and abrupt warmth.

“Precisely. If the body is already rejecting it, this ability helps it out, and if it’s already deemed ‘healed’ by the body, you can’t do shit about it. Like if it’s a fresh amputation, you could reattach the leg, but if not… well,” it waved the syringe nonchalantly, and you fought the urge to flinch. “Any other questions?”

You squinted, and something finally seemed to register in your brain. Perched precariously on that shiny, bald head was a… nurse hat? No, surely your own ability wouldn’t wear something as tasteless as a goddamn Halloween costume .

You wouldn’t ask. You wouldn’t . Not when the two of you were getting on so swimmingly .

“ Uhh ,” you began intelligently, desperately fighting the urge to poke fun. “When the five minute cooldown is up, does that ridiculous get-up disappear?”

Way to go .

“Watch it,” it threatened, though there was barely any malice in its voice anymore. “But no, not unless you want it to go. But you’re stuck with this form for those five minutes. Unless, of course, you want to make me disappear – but that cooldown will remain.”

Looking down at your left palm, you noticed that the analogue watch face had been replaced with a digital timer. The countdown , you figured.

“You’ll be able to feel it when the countdown reaches zero,” Depeche Mode added helpfully.

“Why is there a countdown and this half-chance thing in the first place?”

It wasn’t like your question was particularly astounding or radical , but Depeche Mode was silent nonetheless. Unlike the comfortable lull in conversation that happened naturally, this quiet was plagued with an unsettling hesitance.

“Well,” it began, though there was a note of something you’d never heard in its voice before. Wariness . An abject caution that, while not deeply discomfiting, disturbed you nonetheless. “Quid pro quo, this for that – you sacrifice something, you end up stronger for it. It’s a limitation that allows you to transcend other limits.”

While it made sense, the quick explanation nagged at you. There was more to it that Depeche Mode was leaving out. You knew it, and you knew it knew that. It couldn’t conceal it any more than you could conceal your thoughts. It was you , but you were lying to yourself . Implausible, ludicrous, but true . It left a bitter taste in your mouth, but you couldn’t bring yourself to push the issue further.

It’s a warning .

You dropped it. In your ears, you could hear the pleasant chime of the countdown finishing, and you turned away. Turned away from your ability, turned away from the water, and turned away from acknowledging the persisting unease that wrenched at your gut.

Quid pro quo .

What would you get for sacrificing your life?

“Right,” your voice rang out. Fragile. Shaky. You pressed your lips together briefly. “What’s the other form you’ve got?”

“We don’t have time for that, unfortunately,” it replied apologetically, but you felt the double blow of dejection nonetheless. You fought back the water clouding your vision and looked at the fabric of your fatigues twisting under your clenched fists. Depeche Mode was right ; it was already evening and you hadn’t even found shelter yet, let alone a meal to sate your hollow stomach. Still, your heart smarted with a dull ache that just wouldn’t go away.

“Right,” your agreement was barely there. In fact, it was a mere jape at affirmation: a petulant, childish plea went unspoken beneath the cover of the syllable. I don’t want to . If you could, you’d rest in the sand forever and let the sun bleach your bones to dust. If you could, you’d let the sea wash you away, and maybe you’d wake up in a better place.

If you could, you would’ve never been born in the first place.

. 　⁺ ✦

Twilight was currently coaxing the sky to shed its orange coat for a purple one. Those melancholy paint strokes of prussian blue streaking the sky only added to the pensiveness in your own heart. Even the cicadas, with their mournful – painfully familiar – song, were quieter than usual.

You fought the urge to cry.

Not here , not when there were the lively sounds of bustling humanity behind those saloon doors, and in the warm light bathing the porch: laughter, the clink of glasses, and incessant chatter that grasped at your heart and refused to let go. People , but not from life as you knew it. People , whose general history you ascertained and whose future you had the potential to change with your actions. People , who were just as alien to you as you were to them.

Your backpack was significantly lighter, but your leaden heart more than made up for the difference in weight.

Minutes prior, you’d quietly and grimly sold off a good chunk of the equipment to the pawnshop located in the seedy side-street across from this inn. They were impersonal relics, yet they were remnants from your time; the painful feeling of childish possessiveness had wracked you, and your hands were shaky as you set the items down.

$470 . That was the final numerical value assigned to the shattered fragments of your past. Your future . Dr Ferdinand’s old mirror light microscope ( that good old-fashioned thing , she’d called it) – gone. Diya’s favourite soil pH-meter ( the only one that didn’t act up constantly , she’d quipped) – sold . Even your old hand-lens, gifted to you by an old teacher – given away for money by your own grimy hands.

You’d taken the coins and bills in that clipped, resigned manner that was slowly becoming more and more familiar.

Survival , some rational part of you had begged yourself to accept. It’s just survival . Yet the irrational feelings grasping your heart with gnarled fingers begged to differ. Traitor , they whispered. You didn’t really care about Dr Ferdinand or Diya . They’d never do this .

All you were left with were some binoculars and those cursed plastic containers of sand. You felt utterly defeated, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to throw them away. Sure, that search for samples had started all this, but those were still from home .

You wanted to cry. Here, standing in the very outskirts of people , you’d never felt more isolated.

[You can do it.]

It was quiet – hell, barely even there – but you could hear the tremors of Depeche Mode’s encouragement vibrating through your sternum.

Yeah .

If Depeche Mode’s thought was quiet, yours was crossing the line into silence.

Steeling yourself, you shouldered your too-light backpack and pushed open the saloon doors. The toasty air that wrapped around you only served to further magnify the exhaustion and all-consuming hunger you were feeling. You fought the urge to sink onto the polished timber of the floor and sleep .

Only a few eyes turned your way when you stumbled in, though they were probably more preoccupied with the draught of cold air that was let in rather than you. Probably. Hopefully. Trying not to draw any more attention to yourself, you slunk into a booth in the back and hunched into the soft seat.

Tiredly, you contemplated pressing your cheek to the honey-grained wood table in front of you. A short nap would be good, and everything would work itself out, right? Unfortunately, at that moment, your stomach gurgled in misery; once again, you were reminded of how your last meal had been around eight hours ago.

“Hiya,” a voice chirped to your right, and you looked up to see a fleshy blob with a toothy grin beaming right at you. You blinked, and that fleshy blob in front of you emerged into a sunburned, freckled kid of around ten with dark brown pigtails. “I’m Dolly. Is there anything you’d like to eat or drink?”

“Uhh, sure,” you responded, wracking your brain for a suitable answer as to not screw yourself over at the first encounter with a person from the past. Stew . Stew was good, right? “Stew?”

“No, I’m Dolly,” her grin didn’t disappear, but rather grew even more smug. Your brows lowered in exhaustion and mild exasperation. “Just kidding! Uncle Vinnie made a fresh batch yesterday, and it’s got a bunch of potatoes and venison inside. Whiskey or ale?”

You fought back the urge to frown at the choices presented to you, but then you remembered that you were in pre-prohibition America, and the only water available was likely contaminated with bacteria you’d rather stay ignorant of. The taste of alcohol wasn’t particularly pleasant, but you didn’t have the time nor the energy to attempt making potable water. “Is there any mead?”

“Sure is!” she responded enthusiastically. “We’ve got strawberry, pear, and even some blackberry .”

Her voice dropped conspiratorially as she rattled off the other beverages available, including some European vintages for the posh visitors , as she put it.

“I’ll take a cup of strawberry mead, and a bowl of stew,” you quenched a yawn valiantly as you responded. You barely registered handing her three dollars and her skipping off to the counter on the other side of the room. Propping your head up on your forearm, you watched as a tall, gruff old man ladled a bowl of soup and cup of mead up. Perhaps that was the famed Uncle Vinnie you’d heard so much about.

[You should try ask him for a job.]

Maybe , you considered, noting the lack of other servers besides Dolly. The other patrons weren’t exactly the most amicable chums you’d ever seen, but they looked to be regulars – judging by the familiarity with which they talked to the man behind the counter. Looking around, you spotted the faded newspaper hanging beside you in a simple wooden frame.

Within its yellowed pages, you could make out the letters of The Daily Bee , with what appeared to be a photo of the younger version of the man behind the counter, standing beside the building. The owner, maybe , you mused, before skimming over the article written below.

Vincent Cosgrove, pictured above, recently opened his restaurant and inn, Jamie’s House on May 14th, 1881. Named after his late brother -

You were interrupted by the sound of something knocking against wood, and you turned to see Dolly carefully setting your food and drink down – brows scrunched with concentration and tongue sticking out as she made sure not to spill it. “Your meal!”

“Thanks, kid,” you nodded your head in a polite bow, but she didn’t turn around and leave like you thought she would. Rather, she waited expectantly for something.

“You gotta try the stew,” she explained earnestly, pointing to her uncle. “So I can tell Uncle if you like it!”

“Right,” you picked up your spoon hesitantly and scooped a chunk of potato into your mouth. It wasn’t particularly amazing or revolutionary, but the rich sauce and tuber were filling , so much so that you could feel your stomach gurgle in some delight. “Ith gooth.”

“Really? I’ll tell him you liked it,” she chattered, then promptly scampered off to the counter once again.

It wasn’t much, but the cosy atmosphere – coupled with the warm food – were lulling you into a murky stupor. Dutifully, you chewed the savoury game meat; paired with the garlic and caramelised onions present in the sauce, it practically tasted like life itself. You tore off a chunk of the bread roll gratis, and shovelled it into your mouth right after. No, you really weren’t one for manners right now, not with a ravenous stomach and the pragmatic need for sleep.

Raising the tankard to your lips, you eyed the cloudy, dull pink liquid inside. Cautiously, you inhaled; the vinous aroma mingled with the fruity notes, and you could almost taste the heavy scent of honey already. You took a hesitant sip. It was smooth , and it washed over your tongue with an ease that you hadn’t expected. Sure, the strawberries were a lot more syrup-like and it was different , but it was something . You swilled down the drink, leaving only a swallow for after your meal.

Lazily, you used the last of your bread to mop up the remaining gravy and onions; the wooden bowl of stew had been finished remarkably fast, even for your standards of quick eating. As you thoughtfully chewed at the roll slathered in fragrant onions, you turned to watch your potential employer.

He was gaunt, you observed: lined with decades upon decades of life. Harsh steel-grey formed thick waves atop his head and thin eyebrows, which seemed to be permanently stuck in a deep scowl. Despite the staunchly unapproachable appearance, the comments he yelled at patrons had them roaring with guffaws that practically shook the entire inn. For a brief moment, that furrowed expression unfolded into a minuscule smile. Just a small one, but a smile nonetheless.

You felt a brief glimmer of hope.

With your spoon carefully placed in your bowl, and the now-empty tankard grasped in your hand, you stood up and slung your pack over your shoulder. No time like the present . You swallowed dryly, feeling several eyes swivel your way at the scrape of your chair.

It was wildly disconcerting.

Although, you did look out of place, with those cargoes and a T-shirt that looked like it had been dug up along with the fossils. In the recesses of your mind, you could feel Depeche Mode snicker at your astute observation. Shut it , you grumbled, you’ve got no room to poke fun at my clothes .

Still, it was only with relief and a hint of trepidation that you finally set your empty bowl and tankard down on the honey coloured wood of the counter. Those cherry-red barstools dotting the perimeter secluded this area with a seemingly invisible barrier that you had nothing but appreciation for.

Here, the lights were brighter; several wall sconces flaunted their amber luminescence behind carefully decorated glass. The glow flooding your eyes felt more accusatory than welcoming. Judgement day . You took a deep breath. The aroma of tobacco faintly curled through the air.

“Can I help you, kid?”

You started as the booming voice of the owner sounded in front of you; it took an embarrassingly long time for you to realise you were still gripping onto the tankard and bowl with all the life within you. Sheepishly, you pried your fingers away.

“Mr Cosgrove, sir?” you began. It was with hesitance that you met his heavy gaze, but he paused in picking up your empty dishes regardless. Now or never .

“Ain’t no one who calls me that unless they need something or they’re cityfolk,” he eyed you wearily, and you felt your resolve crumble much too rapidly.

[ Do it, coward .]

You gritted your teeth and steeled yourself. Get straight to the point . If you’d learnt anything from your observations and years of life, it was to match your wavelength to somebody else’s. And in this case, it was some gruff old man who appreciated bluntness. I’d like to be hired , you attempted in your head. Was that too direct? Would he see that as city entitlement? A minuscule furrow appeared in your brow.

“Are you hiring?”

Perfect. It was polite, but showed the heart of the matter. His brows rose slightly in surprise. You watched with bated breath as he looked you up and down: taking in the fatigues, the modern hiking sort of backpack, and lingering on the tattoos that extended up your forearms.

“You ain’t a convict or outlaw or anything?” he looked at you dead in the eye as he asked – it was clear he was trying to gauge whether you were lying or not. Still, it was a pretty pointless question to ask – a hardened criminal wouldn’t tell the truth either.

“No, sir,” you replied evenly. “Just not from around these parts.”

“You literate, kid?”

“Yes, sir,” a spark of hope flared within. You could see the cogs turning in his head - in his eyes, your standing had just increased. Hell yeah .

“Well,” he started appraisingly, and you could feel in your bones the glory of a small victory. “We’ll be closing in about a half-hour, so sit tight ‘till then.”

“Thank you, sir,” you fought the urge to break out into a grin. He waved it off dismissively.

“None of that pandering,” he shook his head in good-natured disappointment. “Call me Vincent.”

[ You’re in. ]

. 　⁺ ✦

What was with these offices looking like they had been last used in the Jurassic era?

Sure, it wasn’t like you were expecting something pristine for a backwater town like this, but the dust swimming about in the glow of the oil lamps was only rivalled by that in Dr Ferdinand’s office. Everywhere you looked there was paper: piles overflowing from the floor-to-ceiling walnut cabinets, thick stacks lounging on the desk to your right, and perhaps most interestingly, mounds of childish pencil drawings on the coffee table in front of you. You scrutinised them while you waited for Vincent to clear the seat opposite from any remaining debris – maybe they were that kid’s rough attempts?

“Sorry about the mess,” he confessed abruptly, looking around as if he were taking in the jungle of white upon cream sheaths of card littering the space for the first time. “I go here once a week to check the accounts - the rest of the time it’s a storeroom for all these contracts and invoices.”

“No worries,” you thumbed at the clock tattoo idly while he sat down in the leather armchair opposite your couch. 21:48 . It wasn’t particularly late by your standards, but you stifled a yawn nonetheless.

“As it stands, I’ve a vacancy after our last bartender left for our competitor,” he scowled. His hands knitted together, and he leaned forward. “Damn city branches come here for the thrill of the Steel Ball Run, setting up shop for twittering tourists. Leeches, the lot of them.”

“Right,” your mouth was dry. Vincent picked up on your hesitance and shifted in his seat.

“Well? Spit it out, kid,” the lines by his eyes deepened as he frowned at you. “What sorta job are you looking for?”

“A temporary one, but I can fill in the position of bartender,” you blurted out. Two months. You had two months to scrounge up whatever cash you could. Your blood ran cold as he looked at you appraisingly – had you screwed up by telling the truth?

[With your small coffee shop experience? Really?]

Shut it , you replied. Doubt the bartending here’s more complicated .

“At least you’re honest,” he responded. Maybe all hope wasn’t lost? “How temporary are we talking?”

“Around two months,” you admitted. If he found out you were only taking the job to make up the cash for the race, would he turn you away? Your mouth was dry. After all you’d trudged through today, after this murky amalgamation of problems building and building onto your weary shoulders, would you be forced into turning away from these goalposts?

“Ah.”

His answer was flat. Impersonal. What the hell did that syllable conceal? Even his face, usually set into a stone mask of disapproval, was impassive . It was impossible to read what he was thinking at that moment. You braced yourself for failure.

“Well,” he reached over to grab a clean sheet of paper from the table, but frowned when there were only the scribbles of a child on the top layer. Sighing, he grabbed a random sheet and flipped it over. Within a few seconds, he had jotted down several bullet points with one of the crayons lying around. “That gives me some time to find a replacement for you anyway.”

[ Way to go .]

“Besides,” he continued. His eyes met yours in a knowing gaze – too knowingly. “You’ve got a race to enter, don’t you?”

“How’d you know?” you spluttered incredulously. Was he secretly a mind reader?

“Please,” Vincent snorted derisively. “Two months from now is September, and you’re not from these waters. It don’t take a genius to work it out, kid. You entering for the money offered?”

Right . You were suddenly hit with the pang of loss; even in the midst of this success, your heart ached to be back home. Sure, if you were someone else, you’d enter for the sheer mountain of cash being offered. But you weren’t someone else.

“No, not really,” your voice was hesitant. Puny. “It’s my only chance of getting home.”

Without preamble, he reached over and clapped a calloused hand on your hunched shoulder. It almost knocked you into the coffee table, but the clumsy attempt at comfort was somewhat, well, comforting .

“I’m sure you’ll get there,” he reassured in that same gruff tone. “It’s a better goal than the prize money at least.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“Bunch of bigwigs entering, like Diego Brando and Mountain Tim,” he continued tactlessly. “No way you’d bag first, in any case.”

. 　⁺ ✦

At long last, you had a room. Well, it wasn’t technically yours – rather, it was a spare kept for any workers. Walls, a single bed, a desk, and a wardrobe; that was good enough. It even had a window!

There, pinned on the walnut-coloured wardrobe, was the red crayon outline of your work. Works. Bartending five days a week, Sunday and Monday off work. Cleaning bar and any paperwork during mornings – rest of morning off, bartending during the late afternoon and evening. $250 weekly wage . Odd jobs for bonus . It was doable. No, actually, the mishmash of duties reminded you all too much of Dr Ferdinand’s assortment of tasks for you.

You sank onto the creaky bed and leant against the dark green wall. As you shifted, something dug into your hip. With trembling anticipation, you pulled your phone out of your pocket. Could you contact somebody? Was there any way to leave a mark for the future? Your shaking fingers could barely press the power button. Greedily, you could only stare at your screen, but only your reflection answered.

Dead .

With a thud, your phone was tossed into your backpack.

Inhale . Exhale . You were tired . Weariness sunk its ghostly claws into you and refused to leave. Futile. Futile, futile, futile, futile . Who were you kidding ? You’d probably get kicked by a horse and die at the beginning. Why the hell were you chosen?

You weren’t a hero.

Any composure you had was rapidly unravelling. As if the very ocean pressed above you, the torrent of today’s misfortunes crashed against you, and there was no one else to bear the brunt of it. Your body heaved with choking sobs; there was only the piercing taste of salt to keep you grounded in reality, and barely even that.

Depeche Mode was silent.

It hurt. It hurt , and there was nothing you could do about it. The weeping trail of tears marring your face wouldn’t turn back time – turn it forward , until all you could do was laugh this off as a fitful dream. Hope deteriorated. Reality was altered and rewoven around you; your understanding of what was true was fundamentally skewed on its axis. It was something straight out of a 70s sci-fi novel Dr Ferdinand pretended she didn’t keep in her office: something too putridly laughable and distorted to be believable. Irony and ill-fate meshed together clumsily until they were one. Exhaustion wracked your body; it was the only feeling that forced you to curl onto your side.

Quietly, you slipped into a dreamless, restless slumber.

. 　⁺ ✦

#johnny joestar #gyro zeppeli #diego brando #steel ball run #sbr #jjba #johnny joestar x reader #gyro zeppeli x reader #diego brando x reader #hot pants #funny valentine #slowd1ving #res ･ﾟ writing #jojo no kimyou na bouken

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solarpunkpresentspodcast · 1 year ago

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A Self-Driving Auto Dystopia

Bad solarpunk me, but true child of the western US, I like to drive. And I don’t mean to the grocery store, but to beautiful places, especially ones I’ve never been to before. What could be better than the freedom of the open road and all the wonders my car can take me to see?

Yet, having lived nearly half my life now in Europe, I've spent a lot of time on buses, streetcars, and subways, and know the joy of travel by train. You can’t get everywhere on public transportation, but—admittedly more ideally than in actual practice, since they tend to be running late and (especially with the trains) are so often so crammed with people, there’s barely even anyplace left to stand—you can kick back in your seat, go sweetly to sleep, and wake up in a whole new place (hopefully one that comes before your stop, not after).

Add those two things together—all of the freedom without the hassle of having to do the driving yourself—and you get utopian dreams of self-driving cars. We wouldn’t even need to own one. In fact, owning one wouldn’t even make any sense, when we could just hail one through our phone or our watch or the chip in our brain, or wherever it is that the technology has gotten us to by then. Up it would roll and in we would go, buckle up, and we’d be off in peace, quiet, comfort, and security. The most strenuous thing we’d have to do is figure out how best to pass the time between us and our destination, especially if we’re not feeling sleepy.

I’m no futurist, but I think I have that all pretty much right. It’s not hard, really. It would be just like being a passenger in a car, except with a more sociable seating layout and without the stress of our best friend’s impatient husband’s road ragey driving. Except that last week reality came crashing like a drunken dystopian moose into my sweet dreams of self-driving cars.

I don’t know why it wasn’t front page news. It barely even got mentioned by the news sites I peruse, and only on some of them at that. Never mind the autos of the future, the cars of today are already a privacy nightmare. As in, if your biggest fear of a self–driving car future is of the hacker who takes over and crashes the car you’re riding in, guess again. Our biggest fear should be of the car companies themselves and the future they're aiming to create for us. And the present they've already got us corralled in.

Here's the news you probably didn’t catch: On September 6, 2023, the Mozilla Foundation released a study of privacy and security issues in cars. All 25 major brands of automobile that they surveyed failed to pass muster, making cars, as they point out, by far the worst case they have ever examined. In short, your car knows everything about you that your smartphone does (because you’ve let them talk to each other) about who you are, where you live, where you go, where you shop, what you buy, who you associate with, who you’re having an affair with, what music you’re listening to, what your sexuality is, and what genetic tests you’ve taken. Plus, your car collects data about how you drive—how fast, how often, how far, how aggressively, etc. The car companies feed all these data into an algorithm, crank the wheel, and out pops answers (accurate or not) about how smart you are, what abilities you have, and what interests you. The vast majority of the car companies sell their data on you to other companies and some would be happy to pass it on to the government after nothing more formal than an informal request (i.e., they see no need to require a warrant before handing over the information they’ve got on you). Meanwhile, only two of the brands surveyed (Renault and Dacia) give car owners the right to have their personal data deleted. To make matters worse, it doesn’t even appear that the personal data the car companies hold about you from your car is stored securely.

That's a pretty bad present. But even before I got to the end of the Mozilla Foundation’s report, I got hit by a horribly dystopian vision of the future of self-driving cars as created by the car companies. We won’t just hail a car, get in, buckle up, and off we go in peace, harmony, comfort, ease, and privacy. Instead, the experience will be as ruined as the internet (itself also once a non–capitalistic utopian dream of a level playing field and the free flow of information between people). We’ll have to lock ourselves into a subscription service that, thinking it knows everything about each of us, will bombard us with personalized advertisements repeatedly throughout our journeys. It’s like what Amazon, Google, and the company formerly known as Twitter are also trying to do... be the behemoth that makes all the money because they’re the one stop shop we’re locked into for everything from banking to shopping to healthcare to entertainment. That subscription service to the self–driving cars that behave like they know everything about each of us won’t just be about what make and model of self-driving car we have access to and which driving style mode/level of passenger safety we can deploy, but which music streaming and entertainment services we’ll be able to access and, in the worst case, which brick–and–mortar stores the self–driving car will be willing to drive us to. Prices per mile will clearly vary, not just for where we are and where we want to go and when we want to get there, but also for which route we take (shorter and fast will definitely cost a premium), and for who we are as a person (if they can get away with that kind of discrimination) and how desperately we need to get there (the greater the need it has calculated for us, the higher the price the service can charge; supply and demand, after all). And, oh, I don’t even want to think about how hard they could make it for some of us to get driven to—or leave!—a march or demonstration.

In other words, if we just sit idly by and let the self–driving car future happen to us exactly as the car companies are creating it now, we’ll end up living in a self-driving auto dystopia... instead of merely the privacy nightmare most of us don’t realize we’re already mired in. Worse, once self–driving cars become enormously safer than people–driven cars and it becomes illegal for a person to drive a car, we will have little choice but to participate in this system stacked so strongly against our own interests.

Unless, of course, there is plentiful useful public transportation and/or regulations preventing such monopoly power and abuse of our privacy by car (or any other) companies.

Maybe it’s not very solarpunk to be shouting about this self–driving auto dystopia. Solarpunk is all about envisioning futures we’d like to live in and I would most certainly not like to live in a future like that one. But solarpunk also shouldn’t stick its head in the sand. We are traveling fast down the road toward the self–driving auto dystopia of my nightmares and its worth facing that fact... so that we can start working to prevent that outcome.

Super easy step one would be to sign the petition at the bottom of the page on the Mozilla Foundation article.

Step two could be to clamor for an expansion of your local public transportation network by showing up at local planning meetings and otherwise making your views clear to the local elected representatives who control how much of the budget flows toward buses, trains, streetcars, subways, light rail, and expanding those services.

Step three would be to demand that our governments step up their protection of the privacy of citizens, like Europe is starting to do with things like GDPR.

Step four, I suppose, is running for actual office to work on all of these issues.

Because it would be so much nicer to live in a world where the transportation we take isn’t spying on us so it can blast us with ads, lock us into subscription services, and, if we stray too far into the grey, turn us over to the police or give the government or hackers the information they need to blackmail us or entrap us.

#solarpunk #self-driving cars #automobiles #dystopia #AI #cars #mobility #advertising

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val-victory · 1 year ago

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(anon who talked about tone) Val, I'm not saying that you aren't doing things well, what I'm saying is that the way you go about saying things makes it sound worse than it (probably) is.

When you reply you always focus on damage and winning in a very "might is right" way, and you come across as being a bully even if you may not be one.

People are trainers for a variety of reasons, and not all of them *want* to be like you. They don't all want to be the strongest, or to have Pokémon that aren't able to do anything other than battling. They may be an old lady who wants a yamper to help fetch her slippers so she doesn't have to bend down, will play nicely with her grandkids, and will maybe be able to get a nice ribbon at the local contests her granddaughter wants to enter it into.

Her Yamper wouldn't be able to do what you do, it may not have any moves for battling, hell it may be scared of the local pidove, but it'll be perfect for the kids. Sense is a good battler, but he wouldn't be able to do the job of that yamper. The yamper wouldn't be able to handle victory road. That's just how it is, and that old lady wouldn't be any less of a trainer if she'd mostly trained the yamper to use only cute moves for the contests and to bark to let her know the kettle has boiled.

Okayyyyy. but if she only went into Contests than she wouldn't be a Trainer but a Coordinator (minor definition mistake. Checkmate Argument)

Okay but let me actually explain this to your smallbrain. why your hypothetical doesnt make any sense

1 its against the Ace Trainer Code (linked in Pinned) to fight against someone if they aren't on my Level. (you think i call myself ace because i'm arrogant. FUCKHEADS)

2nd Sense is absolutely capable of fetching slippers and the way he is isn't my fault. i did not purposefully create the state he is in. it was the accident and a Pokétherapist recommended that i should keep him an active Fighter so that his EBF doesn't get worse.

3rd If that kind of person actually challenged me... i think i would be able to hold back. like Sense could just do a simple Powerslam and it would be a 1HKO. i don't need to be cruel.

BUT, if i find myself (behind the wheel of a large automobile) In a serious Battle -one which could impact my Rank- then yes. i will absolutely use everything in my Arsenal.

Maximum Pain is the way to victory.

Making your opponent Pass out is the Point of these Battles.

That is a reality you have to accept. this is a violent Contact Sport.

Stop acting like it's about cuteness and Friendship & shit.

But don't take this as an excuse to be cruel to your own Pokémon, they are the real heroes and you should never ever EVER think that you are better than them.

#rotomblr #pokemon irl #rotumblr

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hirocimacruiser · 2 years ago

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ARISTO vs SUPRA

go fast or have fun

Aristo vs Supra lap time comparison

ARISTO

1'11'33, 1'11'84, 1'11'84, 1'12'41, 1'11'19

SUPRA

1'11'79, 1'11'95, 1'12'51, 1'16'65, 1'13'00, 1'12'85

After all, the Aristo was faster... I didn't feel like it was when I was driving, but I was able to get a good lap time..." It's a word. "But I think the Supra is better when it comes to the fun of controlling it."

Recently, the surroundings of the car called Aristo are harsh. It is said to be the monster of a sedan with the largest torque of a domestic car.

As the voice grows louder,

I really wanted to confirm its ability.

Driver Takayuki Kinoshita, against Supra Twin Turbo R

And the stage is Tsukuba. Now, the actors are ready.

Text/Takayuki Kinoshita, Photos/Akira Takahashi

"It seems that a terrifyingly fast luxury sedan will be born, and it is said to be a sister car of the Crown." Is it true?

Indeed, in the Japanese automobile market, sporty cars with unparalleled potential are making their debuts one after another. However, even if Japan is a privilege, is it possible to establish a sporty model that belongs to the ultra-luxury car genre? If true, how much performance is hidden? I waited with bated breath for the appearance of the new model.

The engine, which combines an in-line 6-cylinder 3-liter DOHC unit with a two-way turbo, is the heart of a sporty car. It can be said that it is the real thing without any extra value. It exhibits excessive tenacity at low revs, and it blows all the way up to high revs.

An engine that draws a flat curve like NA

In addition to being given characteristics, maneuverability is somewhat

This is based on excellent stability that will not cause bankruptcy. Despite the fact that it has such extreme characteristics wrapped in oblate, it cannot hide the high power performance hidden inside. Although seemingly obedient, once it turns its fangs, it will turn into a ferocious wolf. It exuded an atmosphere similar to the killing that is peculiar to meat-eating animals. In that case, I want to release the chains and let it go wild. I want it to run around thoroughly. It is only natural to be seduced by such impulses. Therefore, there was no hesitation in running this kind of model with saloon characteristics.

Fast or slow? Fun or shrew?

In order to evaluate it, I ran it with Supra's top sporty grade "2.5 Twin Turbo R" on a circuit where there was no room for false intervention.

Aristo: There is something I would like to confirm before making an impression. "The Aristo is better than the Supra.

It was fast!" is the fact. It certainly did quite well on public roads. I feel the outstanding speed with my whole body. There was also the thought of “What if?” However, when it becomes a reality, Aristo's latent strength

I have no choice but to do it. Most likely, when I thought about running it on the circuit, I already had a premonition that Aristo would win. Or perhaps, somewhere in his heart, he was hoping that the refined driving that he experienced on the public road would lead to a lap time. Just making us think that is enough, isn't it? But Aristotle doesn't give up. In a world where there is no excuse for one lap time, the Supra was mercilessly thrown into the dust.

On the backstretch, the speedometer needle was pointing at 170km/h. Despite being a 4-speed AT, which should have a disadvantage in startup acceleration, it slightly exceeds the speed of the Supra. What's more, the four-wheel bench disc with hydraulic servo exerts a braking force approaching that of Gran Turismo in recent years. Therefore, it is possible to push deep into the corner.

The 245/40R16 tires (ADVAN HF-TU Type F), which are one size larger than the front, are overwhelmed by the rear, and will not break easily even at such times. Slightly higher speed than common sense

ARISTO IS DIGITAL AND SUPRA IS ANALOG

Even if you invade while creating a strong front wheel load from the road, you will still be firmly gripping the road surface. That's why you can attack without worrying about it. The grounding of the rear around here is at a high level that is by no means inferior even compared to the recently debuted sporty bike.

Sustainability at the front is similarly high. The responsiveness of the steering is tailored so that it cuts directly. The Piezo TEM S setting works to increase the roll rigidity from the beginning of the turn, so it does not roll more than necessary. As a result, it is possible to obtain handling that responds quickly and a feeling of turning without feeling uneasy.

However, it seems that the front response during cornering is set to be moderately lost, and understeer due to the pushing out of the rear wheels is slight but always occurring. Therefore, even if the throttle is opened roughly, the tail does not get in the way, and this setting allows the car to stand up with a stable tendency. I felt that the reason for the superior time was the excellent stability that allowed us to actively use the brakes and power. However, if you ask whether it is fun to run, the answer is "no" at this point. Because stability outweighs power, the driver doesn't feel like he's in control. There are almost no scenes where the tail sticks out and is pushed down on the counter, and it is driven within the range that does not exceed the performance of the car. Even if you try to force the tail slide and drive hard, the behavior will only become nervous as soon as the tire limit is exceeded. It is even more difficult to determine power drift within the limit

Moreover, the fact that information is transmitted only digitally is a factor that spoils the enjoyment. Steering always maintains the same steering force, so it is difficult to grasp the feel of the tires. Even TEMS, which is effective in ensuring squeezability, does not have a linear roll feeling, leaving a sense of incongruity in sporty runs.

It didn't feel like the car was lapping faster than the Supra.

As for my impression, "It's leaner than the Supra, but it doesn't look too fast." This is similar to the impression felt by the driver.

TWO DIFFERENT PERSONALITIES

In terms of this fun part, on the contrary, the Supra is leading by a large margin. Especially the fans who come from the high controllability near the actual world.

Verticality was overwhelming.

Certainly, the grip limit is inferior to Aristo

However, the flow and convergence of the rear wheels are poignant, and they are conveyed as if they were picked up. that's why,

Feel free to drift even in high-speed corners

All about driving

He clearly communicates his feelings analogically to Wakelists under his control.

To conclude, the Aristo is fast, but that's it, and the Supra is a fun car to drive.

However, the point that I do not feel fun with Aristo,

I have no intention of denying that it was inferior to the Supra's speed for this one shot. each

It's because the personality that can be put in is different.

The Mercedes 300E, BMW M5, which Aristo says is a rival, also cuts down on the fun of swinging at the price of outstanding stability, and even with the Z, which is a competitor of the Supra.

In addition, the control

Emphasis is placed on rollability.

If the concept is divided into the big genre of sporty cars, the concept becomes ambiguous. have a distinct personality

It's a sign of what you're trying to do.

As a means of transportation to safely reach your destination, Aristo is one of the world's highest standards.

become a car. If you want to enjoy the journey,

It's the world of the Supra. "Aristotle

or the Supra's time is slow."

That's what I mean.

PIC CAPTIONS

Aristo's corner link at the second hairpin in Tsukuba. As far as I can see, its behavior is stable and does not make me feel uneasy. Let's call it "quiet" cornering. It is so calm that it sometimes feels lacking in power. On the contrary, it will be a run with plenty of room.

Compared to the corner link of the Aristo, Supra, which also runs in the first hairpin, the behavior is greater. On the contrary, it also gives the impression that the driver is controlling the car and driving it.

#JZS147 #Aristo #Toyota Aristo #JZS147 Aristo #2JZ-GTE #1JZ-GTE #JZA70 #Supra #1JZ-GTE Supra #Supra twin turbo R #JDM

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carjunctiongy · 1 year ago

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papermoonloveslucy · 2 years ago

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TRAINSPOTTING!

Lucy and Railway Transportation

Before America was ruled by the automobile, train transportation was the way to go. Lucy makes tracks for the railroad in these unforgettable moments on the (laugh) tracks.

As a young girl, Lucy would take the train from Jamestown to New York City, hoping to fulfill her dreams of becoming a performer. The train station is now part of the National Comedy Museum.

1933 ~ Lucille Ball joined the Goldwyn Girls on a train headed west to Tinseltown. Left to right are Katherine Mauk,Rosalie Fromson, Mary Lange, Vivian Keefer, Barbara Pepper, Theo Phane, and Lucille Ball.

1943 ~ Lucille Ball and other well-known stars set out on a Union Pacific special train to cross America promoting the sale of War Bonds. It began in Washington DC and went through 16 American cities before ending in San Francisco 21 days later.

Fancy Pants (1950) ~ Lucille Ball and Bob Hope pose atop a railroad handcar.

“New Neighbors” (1952) ~ When Ethel is looking through the O’Brien’s belongings, she holds up a bronze of a man on horseback. She deems it “early Pullman.” Pullman refers to railroad sleeping cars that were built and operated by the Pullman Company from 1867 to 1968. The cars were often decorated with inexpensive items that sometimes found their way into travelers’ suitcases!

“Tennessee Ernie Visits” & “Tennessee Ernie Hangs On” (1954) ~ Ford sings the train-themed song "The Wabash Cannonball” waking Lucy and Ricky from a sound sleep, and then again just before Lucy enters as the 'wicked city woman.' The song’s first documented appearance was on sheet music published in 1882, titled “The Great Rock Island Route” and credited to J.A. Roff. A revised version was made famous by Roy Acuff in 1936.

Listen to the jingle, the rumble and the roar As she glides along the woodland o'er the hills and by the shore. Hear the mighty rush of the engine hear the lonesome hobo's call As you travel across the country on the Wabash Cannonball.

“Getting Ready” (1954) ~ Thinking about how to get to Hollywood, Lucy considers the train. The brochure Lucy reads has the Union Pacific Railroad’s logo redacted. In reality, the Union Pacific did not operate East of the Mississippi, betraying the show’s Southern California roots!

LUCY (to Ricky): You know, on the train, you can see the country you're passing through. This is little Ricky's first chance to go across the United States, so don't you think you ought to get a chance to really see it?

“First Stop” (1955) ~ On their cross-country road trip, the gang takes refuge at One Oak Cafe and Cabins. Their rundown cabin is near an unseen (but loudly heard) railroad - which causes the entire building to shake!

“Ricky Sells The Car” (1955) ~ In this episode we learn that the gang will return to NYC by train on the Union Pacific Railroad’s new Domeliner service on the City of Los Angeles train. A rift develops between the Ricardos and Mertzes when there aren’t enough tickets in the same class. Don Brodie plays the Union Pacific Railroad clerk.

Before he entered show business, William Frawley (Fred Mertz) worked as a stenographer for the Union Pacific Railroad.

Frawley was featured in the 1945 Deanna Durbin film Lady on a Train. The Universal release also featured future “I Love Lucy” cast members Elizabeth Patterson (Mrs. Trumbull), Edward Everett Horton (Mr. Ritter), Allen Jenkins, Fred Aldrich, Joseph Crehan, Mike Lally, Sam Harris, and Sam McDaniel, who played a train porter, just as he would in...

“The Great Train Robbery” (1955) ~ Returning from Hollywood to New York, Lucy wreaks havoc on the City of Los Angeles train.

As set up in the previous episode, Desilu had a partnership with Union Pacific Railroad. The line operated the City of Los Angeles train from 1936 to 1971, when Amtrak took over national train service in the USA. Although it is not mentioned, the train route terminated in Chicago, where, presumably, the foursome got a connecting train to New York City, perhaps the famed 20th Century Limited.

To simulate the emergency braking of a speeding train, Desi wanted more than just actors reacting to a jolting camera, so sets were built on a spring mechanism that was triggered by the emergency brake itself. When Lucy pulled the handle, it caused the entire set to lurch forward in a sudden movement. All this is demonstrated in the special features section of the DVD release.

As part of the partnership with UPR, Desilu was granted permission to film aboard the real Domeliner train. As there was a nearby train station, Vivian Vance, William Frawley, Kathryn Card, Frank Nelson (the conductor) and Sam McDaniel (the porter) were all featured in the location footage on the platform and doubles were not used. Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, however, do not appear in any of the second unit location footage. This is the only time principal cast members (instead of doubles) went on location during the half-hour series.

Footage of Fred and Ethel enjoying the Domeliner’s dining car and lounge were cut when it was realized that movement outside the window did not line up with the episode’s continuity. Rare 16mm film footage of the scenes was discovered and allowed the cut scenes to be added to the 2005 DVD release.

The lounge, however, was recreated on the soundstage. The short scene of the Mertzes boarding the train on the platform (complete with sound), assisted by the Porter and the Conductor, was still included in future syndicated broadcasts.

“Lucy’s Italian Movie” (1956) ~ Opens in a crowded train compartment headed to Rome. Here Lucy meets a film director and thinks this is her big break.

Band manager Fred failed to secure proper train acommodations for the overnight trip - forcing the gang into some unusual sleeping positions!

“Lucy Hunts Uranium” (1958) ~ The hour-long episode opens in a train car headed to Las Vegas, where Ricky's band is booked to perform at the Sands Hotel and Casino. Establishing footage indicates that they are traveling on the Union Pacific Railroad. In reality, getting to Las Vegas by train from Connecticut would have meant many transfers and route changes.

On the train they meet actor Fred MacMurray, who also gets uranium fever and races the Ricardos and Mertzes across the desert on a railroad handcar.

“Lucy Visits the White House” (1963) ~ Lucy and Viv accompany their scout troop to Washington DC on the train. The episode features establishing footage of an actual train and station.

The train makes stops in Greenview, Middlebrook, Flint Ridge, and Scottville. Like Danfield, all are fictional towns along a fictional railroad line.

Frank Nelson reprises his role as the frazzled train conductor, first played in “The Great Train Robbery”.

When Lucy misses the train, she tries to catch up on horseback. This sequence was shot on the soundstage using a mechanical horse. Coincidentally, an early literary name for a train was ‘iron horse’.

THE ‘FOREVER DARLING’ EXPRESS

Lucy and Desi board a special car provided by the Santa Fe Railroad to promote the film Forever Darling in early 1956.

The train was dubbed the “Forever Darling Special with stops in Chicago, Detroit, Dallas, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, New York City, and Ball's hometown of Jamestown, New York.

Back in Los Angeles, with Desi Jr., they admire the train that served them on their busy promotional tour. Desi is proudly wearing the cowboy hat he’d been given in Fort Worth.

TRAIN DEPOTS

“Off to Florida” (1956) ~ When Lucy misplaces their train tickets to Miami Beach, she and Ethel must share a car ride to Florida with Edna Grundy, a woman they suspect might be a hatchet murderess. At the end of the cross-fade between the second unit footage of the “North Miami” train station and the studio set of the same location, Lucy and Ethel’s doubles can be briefly glimpsed walking down the tracks on the left.

“Lucy and the Loving Cup” (1957) ~ Unable to tell where she is, Lucy gets off the subway train at the Flatbush Avenue station.

LUCY: Pardon me. Can you tell me where the stairs are? STRAP-HANGER: Well, you'd better get off the train first. LUCY: I am off. STRAP-HANGER: You're telling me.

“Lucy Misses the Mertzes” (1957) ~ The scene at the Westport Train Station is in the best tradition of farce, with both couples narrowly missing one another in the same space.

“Lucy and the Mustache” (1960) ~ Disguised as Ernie Kovacs’ chauffeur, Lucy parks outside the Westport train station.

“Lucy Wants a Career” (1959) ~ Lucy and Ricky only see each other at Grand Central Station, one of the most famous train stations ever built. There is establishing footage of Grand Central.

“No More Double Dates” (1962) ~ At the Danfield Train Station, Lucy and Harry narrowly miss Viv and Eddie when trying to have independent dates. When Lucy and Harry lie about missing their train, Eddie notes that the next one only makes one stop - in New Rochelle. The real-life New York town has already been mentioned several times in the series, establishing that Danfield (and nearby Ridgebury) are similar commuter suburbs of Manhattan.

“Lucy Visits the White House” (1963) ~ Lucy gets off the train at the Greenview Station to hunt down sugar cubes to rebuild the cubs’ sugar cube White House.

“Lucy is a Process Server” (1964) ~ Charged with serving Mr. Mooney, Lucy tracks him to the Danfield Train Station.

“Main Street U.S.A.” (1967) ~ Lucy and Mr. Mooney arrive in the small town of Bancroft by train.

TOY TRAINS

“The Attic” (1949) ~ An episode of Lucille Ball’s radio series in which George and Liz (Lucille Ball) clean out the attic and get locked in.

GEORGE: Hey, look at that! My wonderful electric train. LIZ: Well, I haven't heard you use that tone since you proposed. GEORGE: Oh, gosh, I haven't seen this train in years. LIZ: Well, you certainly have no use for it now. Out it goes. GEORGE: Take your hand off that box! It stays! LIZ: Oh, George, don't be silly! GEORGE: Now, who's being silly? That train doesn't leave this house. LIZ: Now, that's being practical. There's nothing as useful as an electric train. In fact, we should get another one for me. We can race them every night before we go to bed! GEORGE: Yeah. I guess you're right. Out it goes. LIZ: I'll let you keep your train if you let me keep my corsage collection. GEORGE: It's a deal!

LUCY: “Look out for the Super Chief! Woo Woo!”

“The Ricardos Change Apartments” (1953) ~ Lucy fills the apartment with Little Ricky’s toys, including a Lionel Electric Train Set, to convince him they need a larger apartment.

“Little Ricky Gets Stage Fright” (1957) ~ Little Ricky is discovered playing with his Keystone Toy Railroad, a wooden train set made by the Keystone Manufacturing Company. The box is tucked under the bed.

“The ‘I Love Lucy’ Christmas Show” (1956) ~ Lionel Trains are under the Christmas tree for Little Ricky.

“My behind-the-scenes memoris are just the toys on the set. The writers, Madelyn and Bob, gave me a Lionel Train set and that was a real big treat for me as a kid.” ~ Keith Thibodeaux (Little Ricky)

“Lucy and the Efficiency Expert” (1966) ~ Oliver Kasten (Phil Silvers) sits in front of red blow mold locamotives at the Grantland Toy Factory where Lucy is employed on the production line.

THE SUBWAY

“Tennessee Ernie Visits” (1954) ~ Ernie explains the subway.

ERNIE: I asked a fella how to get to the Rickerdos'. Well, he said, "Take the subway." Well, he pointed over there to a hole in the ground with some steps a-going down in it. I went down in there, and do you know what I saw? A bunch of people a-standing there looking in a ditch. Well, here come two streetcars hooked up together. All that bunch of people come a-steamin' up there pushed me through that door, shut it up, and we took off like a scalded gander. Well, sir, we drove and drove and drove and do you know what? RICKY: What? ERNIE: That driver never got that thing out of that hole.

“Lucy and the Loving Cup” (1957) ~ When Lucy gets a loving cup stuck on her head, she must take the subway to Brooklyn to get it off. The episode features establishing footage of the New York Subway trains, although the footage was reversed.

The subway car was recreated on the Desilu soundstage in Hollywood.

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