#the tools were spread across three different containers and by the end of it even my sister was stressed

[cultivating-wildflowers]

Misplaced a couple of tools, one of which my dad described off-handedly as having “sentimental value”, which led to me panic-searching my mess of crafting supplies. I found the tools. And now my crafting supplies and costumes are organized.

[superhero--imagines]

Etsy Store Here l Ko-Fi l Commission Info

Part 2 Here!/ Part 3 Here! / Playlist Here!

* Sorry guys but this mans been living in my head rent free

* So the first time you see Satoru it’s with those black specs he likes to wear and you get a glance at those GORGEOUS eyes

* He meets your eyes for a second before looking away, it’s the briefest of interactions

* But your heart is racing and you can feel the familiar heat of attraction starting to lap at your face

* ‘He looks just like a prince’ you think

* You find out pretty fast the ‘prince’ similarities stop at appearance

* “Ah it’s not my fault you’re so weak~” You hear him say with the princely smile as he teases Utahime

* It looks like he’s held something so high she can’t reach it

* “Try your best, if you drink plenty of milk I’m sure you’ll be tall enough one day~” he says before laughing with that same princely face

* “You shouldn’t pick on those that are weaker than you” Geto intervenes, somehow making the entire situation worse

* You watch as Gojo laughs

* You’re starting to think he might be the real curse you need to exorcise

* You continue watching him as Utahime tries to kick him in the crotch

* “You silly girl, did you forget there’s an infinity between us?” Cue Gojo���s “A-hahahahaha” laugh

* Yeah, he’s definitely a demon

* You keep your distance, Gojo’s beautiful and all, but you’re not dumb, you’ve heard about the Satoru clan.

* “Hey Geto-Kun, who do you think would win in a fight me or a lion?”

* Besides that guy is way too reckless, you’d rather not get all mixed up in that if you can help it

* You watch as Satoru takes his shirt off, his well defined chest glistening

* Still, you’re grateful for the show

* Little do you know the famous Gojo Satoru has taken note of you as well

* Naturally given his ability he notices everyone, but he especially takes note of you

* It’s not because you stand out, quite the opposite

* You blend into the background easily, supporting others when needed

* But not to the degree where you unable to defend yourself, or you’re sacrificing your own life for someone else

* He grins

* Looks like he found something interesting

* You’re at the vending machine eyes racking over the drink selection

* But there’s another thirst quenching sight right next to you, their hand resting on the vending machine, that princely smile aimed right at you-

* “So what do you say?” Satoru asks, and you start to wonder if that princely smile seems just a bit wolfish “Do you want to be my lover?”

* You’re kind of annoyed

* What an impetuous question, you can count on one hand how many times you’ve spoken to each other, and you only need both hands to count the words said in each of those encounters

* “No”

* You turn your attention back to your drink choices, it’s pleasant weather so you don’t want anything hot.

* Anything carbonated is out of the-

* Gojo moves closer, peering into your face with that grin

* Ugh does he have to stand so close

* “Why ‘no’? I know you think I’m attractive”

* “I also think you’re a womanizer with a god complex”

* And really why shouldn’t he be?

* He’s probably the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life, not to add the sheer power he contains in that body of his

* But just as he has the right to be a womanizer with a god complex, you have the right not to take part in that narrative

* He backs away, leaning back against the wall

* So he’s not going to deny it

* Well, at least he’s somewhat self aware

* Those clear blue eyes catch yours again, and you have to fight against every human instinct from showing any human reaction

* You turn back to the vending machine making your selection when a smile lilts onto his mouth

* “Friends then”

* “Just colleagues” you reply, grabbing your drink

* But as you walk by you push a canned beverage into his chest.

* It’s a can of green tea

* It’s his favorite drink

* He looks to you seeing a bottle glinting in your hand

* So you didn’t sacrifice your own thirst, but you also didn’t ignore his needs

* He feels that same wolffish grin curl onto his mouth

* “What an entertaining person”

* After that if you’re anywhere within a 50 feet radius of him he’ll go out of his way to get your attention

* “Oh wow, looking especially radiant this morning (Y/N/N)” he’ll say with a playful seductive wink

* When you don’t respond he tries annoying you instead

* “Ah you can’t reach that? Here let me-” and then he’ll proceed to hold it even further out of your reach

* He’s expecting you to jump up and down, or at least give some sort of response but you just walk away

* Well that wasn’t what he expected

* He feels that grin spread across his face again

* Very interesting

* His attraction to you is pretty shallow

* He’s interested you because you’re entertaining

* And you’re entertaining because you aren’t interested

* Which only makes him that much more interested in you

* Its a paradox

* You watch him flounder around, annoying Utahime for a giggle

* Well it doesn’t matter anyway, you know how he is, he’ll get bored soon enough and lose all interest in you

* He’s not the strongest {f*ckboy} for nothing

* You see him turn to meet your gaze, offering a boyish smile and a wink

* You make sure not to give any reaction, turning to listen to something Shoko is telling you

* You hope he can’t sense the twinge of heat you feel on your face

* You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find the attention a little flattering

* I think for the most part you’re right, Satoru is mostly playing around-

* At least at first.

* You’re just something new and fun no one knows about, and wildly entertaining since you never respond the way he thinks you will

* You’re kind, but not at the expense of yourself, and he likes that

* Besides you’ve got this quite sort of consideration for others-

* It’s not flashy, it’s so subtle most people hardly notice

* It’s in the way you bring an extra snack for Utahime when she’s running herself ragged training

* “They were having a two for one special”

* Or the way you’ll get your teacher a plushie you saw at a shop at the station because you know he needs more

* “I just thought it was cute, but I haven’t got any room for another one”

* You’re quiet, someone who hears things and she’s things, but never says anything about them

* A wallflower

* But you’re not weak

* There’s something about those two things put together in the same person that entertains him to no end. Like a paradox or a puzzle he can’t seem to solve no matter how hard he tries

* Satoru’s had at least a hundred lovers, and a great many of them had provided him with their own brand of kindness and consideration

* But he’s never felt something as warm as when he see’s a lunch box in his dorm after he hobbles back from a mission that lasted a little longer than expected

* He peers at the note attached, it’s not even signed but he knows it’s from you

* “I know you think you’re god or whatever, but even gods have to eat”

* He doesn’t know why, but he’s overcome with the urge to cry

* He gulps hard- it’s not like this a lunch you made by hand or anything, it’s just something from the convenience store

* And it’s not like this note is particularly affectionate or special either, he’s gotten entire love letters from his previous lovers

* So he’s not sure why he saves your note, placing it behind a picture frame where only he’ll know it is , or why he thinks that convenience store lunchbox is the most delicious thing he’s ever had

* Even though he knows he cares about you, and that he’s grown quite fond of you -

* I don’t think it clicks for him

* And part of that is because well, he’s Gojo Satoru

* He collects lovers like some people collect photographs or memories

* They serve their purpose, and he lets himself be entertained by pretending all the feelings are real, and then he moves on to the next one

* It’s just what he’s used to

* And this whole paradox you two have going on could go on for a few years until something finally shifts

* He went a little too far with one his half-flirting-half-tormenting pranks

* And for the first time you give him a reaction, it’s only for a second, but annoyance and anger mar you face

* And then just like that, it’s gone and you turn and walk off in the other direction

* Sh*t.

* He went too far didn’t he?

* It should be fine right? You’re not too mad at him right? You’ll get over it-

* Right?

* But for the next few days you don’t speak to him, and you don’t make eye contact

* It bothers him more than it should

* Normally he would be annoyed that his toy would have the gall to blatantly ignore him like this-

* But this is different than that.

* He’s-

* He’s feeling regret

* He shouldn’t have acted that way to you, maybe if he had just done something differently, or said something differently-

* It’s not like the way things were between you two was ideal or anything,

* But at least then you would at least speak to him

* ... and every once in while he would get to see you smile

* It’s never at him, it’s mostly when you’re with Shoko or Utahime

* Occasionally when you’re with Nanami or Geto, who you’ve been talking to more recently

* He’s pretty sure you three are talking about him, just one day away from forming a “down with Gojo Satoru” club

* Still that smile when you laugh-

* The way you look so carefree and young and so full of life is worth all the slander in the world to him

* He needs to see that smile, to know something that wholesome and kind exists somewhere in this cruel world

* Satoru’s thinking about how to go about apologizing to you

* He’s caught between buying you a Lamborghini or buying you a special grade tool when he ends up running into you

* “Ah, could you help me with something?”

* He would quite literally give you the clothes on his back right now if you asked

* You stand up on a a chair holding a glass of water

* “Apparently this is supposed to help with concentration or something” You say pressing the glass full of water to the ceiling

* “Can you hold this broom?” You ask and Satoru nods, holding the broom handle steady as you make sure it’s pushed against the glass holding it steady

* You nod approvingly down at him

* The rest happens pretty fast, you’re off the chair, carrying it away

* “The broom is actually a special grade tool, so cursed energy won’t work on it”

* You grin

* “Have fun figuring how to get out of that Baka Prince!” You say with a laugh

* And Satoru is dumbfounded

* But not because you just pranked him into a holding up a glass of water with a broom

* But because as you were rushing away, you showed him your teasing grin

* It’s the first time you smiled at him

* And as he looks up at the glass of water, a smile slowly spreads across his face

* It’s not the wolffish smile he usually has when he’s around you, or the princely smile he uses when he’s trying to get something

* It’s a genuine smile

* Ah, so that’s it

* He’s fallen in love with you

* If you’re not the one entertaining him, then he’s just not interested

* Ah geez

* He was so focused on trying to get you to fall in love with him that he really didn’t see this coming

* Well he’ll have to start being serious about pursuing you now-

* Though for you to pull off something like this on him tells him you’re his ideal match without a doubt

* A wallflower with a mischievous streak, he likes that.

* He scratches his head with his free hand

* “I wonder how I’m supposed to get out of this?” He muses looking up at the glass full of water

[tlatollotl]

Finding the tomb of an ancient king full of golden artifacts, weapons and elaborate clothing seems like any archaeologist’s fantasy. But searching for them, Gino Caspari can tell you, is incredibly tedious.

Dr. Caspari, a research archaeologist with the Swiss National Science Foundation, studies the ancient Scythians, a nomadic culture whose horse-riding warriors terrorized the plains of Asia 3,000 years ago. The tombs of Scythian royalty contained much of the fabulous wealth they had looted from their neighbors. From the moment the bodies were interred, these tombs were popular targets for robbers; Dr. Caspari estimates that more than 90 percent of them have been destroyed.

He suspects that thousands of tombs are spread across the Eurasian steppes, which extend for millions of square miles. He had spent hours mapping burials using Google Earth images of territory in what is now Russia, Mongolia and Western China’s Xinjiang province. “It’s essentially a stupid task,” Dr. Caspari said. “And that’s not what a well-educated scholar should be doing.”

As it turned out, a neighbor of Dr. Caspari’s in the International House, in the Morningside Heights neighborhood of Manhattan, had a solution. The neighbor, Pablo Crespo, at the time a graduate student in economics at City University of New York who was working with artificial intelligence to estimate volatility in commodity prices, told Dr. Caspari that what he needed was a convolutional neural network to search his satellite images for him. The two bonded over a shared academic philosophy, of making their work openly available for the benefit of the greater scholarly community, and a love of heavy metal music. Over beers in the International House bar, they began a collaboration that put them at the forefront of a new type of archaeological analysis.

A convolutional neural network, or C.N.N., is a type of artificial intelligence that is designed to analyze information that can be processed as a grid; it is especially well suited to analyzing photographs and other images. The network sees an image as a grid of pixels. The C.N.N. that Dr. Crespo designed starts by giving each pixel a rating based on how red it is, then another for green and for blue. After rating each pixel according to a variety of additional parameters, the network begins to analyze small groups of pixels, then successively larger ones, looking for matches or near-matches to the data it has been trained to spot.

Working in their spare time, the two researchers ran 1,212 satellite images through the network for months, asking it to look for circular stone tombs and to overlook other circular, tomblike things such as piles of construction debris and irrigation ponds.

At first they worked with images that spanned roughly 2,000 square miles. They used three-quarters of the imagery to train the network to understand what a Scythian tomb looks like, correcting the system when it missed a known tomb or highlighted a nonexistent one. They used the rest of the imagery to test the system. The network correctly identified known tombs 98 percent of the time.

Creating the network was simple, Dr. Crespo said. He wrote it in less than a month using the programming language Python and at no cost, not including the price of the beers. Dr. Caspari hopes that their creation will give archaeologists a way to find new tombs and to identify important sites so that they can be protected from looters.

Other convolutional neural networks are beginning to automate a variety of repetitive tasks that are usually foisted on to graduate students. And they are opening new windows on to the past. Some of the jobs that these networks are inheriting include classifying pottery fragments, locating shipwrecks in sonar images and finding human bones that are for sale, illegally, on the internet.

“Netflix is using this kind of technique to show you recommendations,” Dr. Crespo, now a senior data scientist for Etsy, said. “Why shouldn’t we use it for something like saving human history?”

Gabriele Gattiglia and Francesca Anichini, both archaeologists at the University of Pisa in Italy, excavate Roman Empire-era sites, which entails analyzing thousands of broken bits of pottery. In Roman culture nearly every type of container, including cooking vessels and the amphoras used for shipping goods around the Mediterranean, was made of clay, so pottery analysis is essential for understanding Roman life.

The task involves comparing pottery sherds to pictures in printed catalogs. Dr. Gattiglia and Dr. Anichini estimate that only 20 percent of their time is spent excavating sites; the rest is spent analyzing pottery, a job for which they are not paid. “We started dreaming about some magic tool to recognize pottery on an excavation,” Dr. Gattiglia said.

That dream became the ArchAIDE project, a digital tool that will allow archaeologists to photograph a piece of pottery in the field and have it identified by convolutional neural networks. The project, which received financing from the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation program, now involves researchers from across Europe, as well as a team of computer scientists from Tel Aviv University in Israel who designed the C.N.N.s.

The project involved digitizing many of the paper catalogs and using them to train a neural network to recognize different types of pottery vessels. A second network was trained to recognize the profiles of pottery sherds. So far, ArchAIDE can identify only a few specific pottery types, but as more researchers add their collections to the database the number of types is expected to grow.

“I dream of a catalog of all types of ceramics,” Dr. Anichini said. “I don’t know if it is possible to complete in this lifetime.”

Saving time is one of the biggest advantages of using convolutional neural networks. In marine archaeology, ship time is expensive, and divers cannot spend too much time underwater without risking serious pressure-related injuries. Chris Clark, an engineer at Harvey Mudd College in Claremont, Calif., is addressing both problems by using an underwater robot to make sonar scans of the seafloor, then using a convolutional neural network to search the images for shipwrecks and other sites. In recent years he has been working with Timmy Gambin, an archaeologist at the University of Malta, to search the floor of the Mediterranean Sea around the island of Malta.

Their system got off to a rough start: On one of its first voyages, they ran their robot into a shipwreck and had to send a diver down to retrieve it. Things improved from there. In 2017, the network identified what turned out to be the wreck of a World War II-era dive bomber off the coast of Malta. Dr. Clark and Dr. Gambin are now working on another site that was identified by the network, but did not want to discuss the details until the research has gone through peer-review.

Shawn Graham, a professor of digital humanities at Carleton University in Ottawa, uses a convolutional neural network called Inception 3.0, designed by Google, to search the internet for images related to the buying and selling of human bones. The United States and many other countries have laws requiring that human bones held in museum collections be returned to their descendants. But there are also bones being held by people who have skirted these laws. Dr. Graham said he had even seen online videos of people digging up graves to feed this market.

“These folks who are being bought and sold never consented to this,” Dr. Graham said. “This does continued violence to the communities from which these ancestors have been removed. As archaeologists, we should be trying to stop this.”

He made some alterations to Inception 3.0 so that it could recognize photographs of human bones. The system had already been trained to recognize objects in millions of photographs, but none of those objects were bones; he has since trained his version on more than 80,000 images of human bones. He is now working with a group called Countering Crime Online, which is using neural networks to track down images related to the illegal ivory trade and sex trafficking.

Dr. Crespo and Dr. Caspari said that the social sciences and humanities could benefit by incorporating the tools of information technology into their work. Their convolutional neural network was easy to use and freely available for anyone to modify to suit their own research needs. In the end, they said, scientific advances come down to two things.

“Innovation really happens at the intersections of established fields,” Dr. Caspari said. Dr. Crespo added: “Have a beer with your neighbor every once in a while.”

[poptod]

Subterfuge (Baxter x Reader)

Description: You’re the new medical examiner. Like most medical examiners, you’re a little... different.

Notes: aghhhh im caught in so many lies with my family and friends that im gonna fucking break down but if i tell anyone the truth im gonna get my ass beat on several different levels WC: 1.7k

+

The latex gloves on your hands did little to stay the cold blood, staining up the skintight material that clung to your sweat. This wasn't the first time you had your hands wrist-deep in organs, but it was the first corpse who had a bullet in his eye, and the first time you were completely alone.

Your years as an assistant were finished, and now you were a full-on doctor––a medical examiner, to be specific. A coroner. The one who deals with the dead. Not a particularly charming profession, but far more interesting, and far more safe than most others.

There was one problem, though––the policemen. You were never a timid person, but some of them just got to you, itched beneath your skin and sped your heart. Why that was hadn't yet been identified, so instead you focused on something you understood; the human body. The stiffness of refrigerated muscle, the stench of uncleaned organs, a mask chafing against your cheeks. The heat of a bright light on your neck.

The man below you was a particularly unfortunate man. Died young, was never quite fully healthy, and had few friends and family. His method of death was what caught the eye of one of the detectives, though it seemed cut-and-dry to you. There were no struggle marks, puncture wounds, bruises, or even scars on his body. Only the bullet hole. He had to have done it himself. Still, it wasn't your job to question the detectives––only to bring them the information you gather.

"How's he lookin'?" Asked a man from behind you, the quiet hinges of the door swinging shut as he entered. You shot up, eyes instantly meeting his.

"Haven't gotten far. About through the small intestine," you said, gesturing to the different jars and plastic boxes categorized with the man's organs. The nearest to you was the lungs. You noted the scrunch in the man's nose with mild amusement.

"Gotten the bullet out yet?"

"Oh, yeah. Already sent it up for ballistics," you said with a curt, polite smile.

He remained silent after that, watching you work from the safe, mostly smell-free area of your desk. With his back leant on the table, he crossed his arms with intent eyes.

"You're the new medical examiner, aren't you?" He asked after a particularly wet squelching sound came from your working fingers.

"Yes sir," you said, nodding. "Started yesterday."

"Oh, this must be new for you then."

"I've done autopsies before, but this is the first time on my own, yes," you admitted with a tinge of embarrassment. It was the truth, that this was new, but he didn't have to mention it.

"Well then, welcome to the team," he chuckled. "My name's Baxter."

"(L/N). Pleasure to meet you."

"You as well. I'd shake your hand, but," he trailed off as the both of you turned to your bloodied gloves.

"Don't worry," you said, a grin spreading across your face. "I'll give you a raincheck on that."

He hummed, uncrossing his arms and legs as he began to saunter over to you. For the most part, you could easily ignore his eye, stuck between your concentrated expression and steady hands. Having teams of professors and doctors looking over your shoulder for exams had prepared you well.

"Find anything curious?" He finally asked.

"Not really," you mumbled, gently cutting open the flesh of the stomach. "Not yet. There aren't any cuts or contusions of any notable kind. Only wound I could find was the bullet hole and an infected bruise on his toe. I'll be sending blood, stomach, and stool samples up to Peters soon, I'm sure you'll know more then."

As you took the samples out of the victim's stomach, Baxter circled the brightly lit table, stopping when he reached the feet. There he knelt, scanning the pale blue skin.

"How do you suppose he got this?"

"Haven't gotten there yet, but I'd assume he bashed it against some furniture," you said. He eyed you curiously but remained quiet for a moment.

"Looks like a puncture wound," he said slowly, contemplating his words carefully before he spoke.

"Give me a moment, sir," you said with a huff, sealing up the stomach tubes and setting them on the tray beside you.

Since you were the only doctor present, you had to hold the stomach walls open yourself, which kept you busy for a good two minutes before you could look at Baxter's little pointer. To your immense relief he waited patiently for you to finish sewing and setting away your tools, before shuffling to the side to make room for you at the end of the table.

As he noticed, there was a small, dark spot beneath his big toe's nail. Digging into your white coat pocket, you pulled out your magnifier glass and set it up close to the cold skin.

"Could be right," you said softly, focused more on your sight than your tongue. You raised a gloved hand, pulling at the wound, pushing on the bruise till the hole widened.

"Needle mark?"

"That's what I was thinking," you said, shoving your magnifier glass back in your pocket. "Good eye, Baxter. I'll tell Peters to check his blood for any trace drugs."

You circled back around to your spot on the table, sorting through the six tube samples before lifting the case into your arms. Noticing your small stumble over your feet, he rushed over to join you, taking the case from you.

"I can take this up for you," he offered, his wide, grey eyes set strictly upon you. The sudden closeness had your words stammering and stuttering.

"Um – y- yeah, thank you," you said with a smile, your chest tight as he left. Only when the door shut behind him did you breathe again, turning back to the patient beneath you.

Hopefully, when you got the chance to meet the rest of the officers, you wouldn't slip up like that––messing up in front of one person was enough, and Baxter already felt like a very strange person, so probably would mind your oddness the least. The others would be less forgiving, or at least that's what you assumed. Most of the police you'd met in your life had been incredibly straight-cut, diamonds-up-the-ass kind of people.

"What a strange lad," you commented to your patient. "I should bake him some cookies."

The rest of the autopsy took three hours, full of rotting stenches and labelled gizzards. Your thirty-minute break was reduced to ten as the victims of a bar shootout came in, the three bodies riddled with bullet holes, leaving the cause of death obvious to anyone who stopped by. You didn't see Baxter again that day––not until it was done, and you were wrapped back in your personal coat, heading towards the elevator.

He caught the door before it could close in front of you, and as you rushed in with full hands you hurriedly thanked him. A bell dinged and the door shut, leaving the two of you alone in the enclosed space, the buzzing florescent light buffering between you.

"Did you hear about the shootout?" You asked when it became clear to you that this was a slow elevator.

"Yeah," he nodded, "I got a call and stopped by, but... they were already gone, and the, um.. the others were dead."

"Well, if they weren't then, they are now," you said, once again ignoring his questioning eye. "I had to put their brains in some jars."

To your surprise, he chuckled, brushing the hair off his face and readjusting his perfect posture.

"You know, usually it takes some time before new people start making jokes about the dead," he said, grinning as he looked at you out of the side of his eye.

"I'm a fast learner and a natural comedian. Mother always was disappointed in my career choice... wanted me to be a court jester," you teased with your own giggle, heart beating rapidly at the prospect of someone pretty enjoying your company.

"You do well in both careers. Do – do you need some help with that?" He asked, noticing your struggle with the varied bags in your arms.

"I think I can do it," you said, huffing as you tried to hoist the plastic back onto you. Before you could help it two of them slipped, nearly falling but halted when Baxter caught them mid-air.

"What do you have in here?" He asked, his brow furrowed as he tried to glance inside.

"Clothes," you said after a mumble of a 'thank you'. "One of the women here had a lot of clothes to get rid of and, well, I need some. And I'm sure one of my roommates could use them, too."

"Oh. Do you have a car?"

"You could call it that."

"I'll help you carry these there, then," he said, taking another bag off your shoulder. The loss of stress on your muscles left you relieved, and you sighed happily.

"Thank you, sir."

You tried to contain your smile as you led him through the parking lot, slipping between the empty spaces to get to your tiny vehicle. Legally it wasn't even a car––actually, you'd built it from the basis of a golf cart, slowly adding and changing features until it drove and looked essentially like a car. Hard work, but you'd been doing it since you stole it in the 7th grade.

Rarely did you ever get along with people, and so Baxter's politeness had sparked a delight in you that brought a ceaseless smile. When you took the bags from him, you thanked him again, attempting to hold a conversation while shoving the bags into the back of your car. He chuckled at your strained words, but eventually helped you when he got over his amusement.

"It was nice to meet you today, and thank you, again," you said once the backdoor was slammed shut beneath yours and Baxter's combined strength.

"Pleasure to meet you, as well. Drive safe now," he said, shaking your hand with a grin.

"Oh I will," you assured him, laughing. You clambered into the driver's seat, shutting the door but leaning out the open window. "If I don't I'll have you on my ass."

"You know it!" He said as he walked away, his bright laugh echoing in the mostly-empty parking lot.

[thetaoofzoe]

Fic: The Hand and The Hammer

August Walker x Reader (YOU)

Word count: 5K, Explicit

Summary: August Walker has been living rent free in your head for five years. For half a decade, you had been deployed all across the world to hunt down the elusive anarchist, all because of a long standing one sided love/hate relationship between he and your unhinged employer.

Thanks to @lightsidecalling​ for your support

Part I

You lie beneath cool white sheets, watching the white-yellow wash of early morning sunlight tickle at the edges of billowy sheer curtains. It takes several minutes for the light to seep through the curtains, spill across the bare stone floor and then paint indulgent stripes of gold across your duvet.  

Throwing off the sheets to allow the rising sun to caress and warm your naked skin, you close your eyes and bask in the heat like a contented house cat.  

You have absolutely nothing to do today. Your diary is gloriously empty of responsibilities and just as you've done for the last three weeks, you fully intend to take advantage of your free time.

You stretch and yawn,  feeling comfortable exactly where you are, and you consider sleeping in. However, your stomach growls and abruptly the quest for food is suddenly top priority. You grab the mobile phone that's tucked beneath the pillow and the face brightens at a touch.

You can see that it’s almost eleven am.

You perk up at the rattle of a room service cart being wheeled through the sitting room outside of your bedroom door.

Right on time, you think.

You had requested that breakfast be brought round at a certain time, and everyday,  it was there without delay. The staff in the rented oceanside bungalow was always on the ball, always attentive and you appreciated that.

Rising easily, you walk lightly across the cool stone floor to the adjoining bath.  Powdered and perfumed,  you dress in a light, peach coloured sundress and sandals.

An ocean breeze ruffles your dress when you step out onto the sunny patio where breakfast is waiting. It is quite a spread, for just one person, with juice, coffee and tea services, seasonal fruits, cheeses, breakfast meats and a lovely stack of golden french toast that is still pert and fresh from the cooker. You walk to the shade provided by the umbrellas over the long glass table and help yourself to the food.

Nearly  a half hour later, the service door behind you slides open on quiet rollers and you can hear your assistant striding across the paving stones.

'Phone call for you,' he says in that gentle familiar voice.

You replace the coffee cup on the saucer and shift, fully expecting him to slip a thin mobile phone into your hand. Instead, he lays a bulky black leather case on the table. You look down at it and swear under your breath.

It is the satellite phone. And the satellite phone means only one thing.

You pick it up and hold the earpiece it to your ear.

The messenger down the line delivers the information quickly, sparing no words and then asks if you understand. You say that you do and the call is disconnected.

So much for a day of nothing.

You finish your breakfast and return to your bedroom. Waiting for you on the freshly made bed  are two white envelopes. You pick up the larger of the two. In it is a stack of your destination's local money, and airline tickets. You tuck that envelope into your handbag, dress in comfortable, but chic travel clothing and pack a small carry-on.

You then pick up the second, smaller envelope that you know contains information regarding the target. This envelope, unlike the first, is sealed with a black wax stamp. You recognise the initials of your employer and the envelope comes open with a flick of your fingernail. You slide out a black and white photo and have an immediate and unnamed visceral reaction to seeing the face. Unconsciously clenching your teeth you resist the urge to rip the cursed photo to pieces.

'Fuck...' you mutter, glaring down at the strong, unbearably handsome face peering back at you.

It was the infamous Hammer.

August Walker.

Again.

You struggle to get yourself in hand and after a long,  cleansing breath, you turn the photo over and read the neatly printed message about a lonely summer in Italy addressed to a fictional, 'My darling Véronique.'

With picture still in hand, you walk to your writing desk. Opening the top drawer, you pull out a piece of white card-stock paper that has in it, several cut out ovals of different sizes. You’d received this little holey card-stock in the post three weeks earlier with no accompanying explanation, and while it was strange, you knew enough about your employer's methods to keep it.  

Lining up the white card over the writing, you read the secret message revealed by the ovals.

'Target - August Walker. Find and Take Alive.'

'Ohh,' you groan, exasperated. 'Not this again.'

August Walker has been living rent free in your head for five years. For half a decade, you had been deployed all across the world to hunt down the anarchist, all because of a long standing one sided love/hate relationship between he and your unhinged employer.

You were good at your profession. Very good. And you had no trouble using your skill and your people to get close to hard targets. Yet, August Walker was not a bloody hard target and was NOT hard to find as he seemed to leave a trail of destruction and bodies that in turn led directly back to him!

So much for subtlety.

So it didn't matter much that you were able to pinpoint his location or get a visual bead on him days after the start of an assignment, as your employer invariably hit the mission abort button because 'things had changed'.

You were still paid handsomely. But being at the whim of a mad employer made you start to hate August Walker a little as well.

At least, at first.

Your hate soon turned from a hot coal sitting heavily in your gut to little butterflies that frantically scrambled about at the sight of him.

Over the course of your assignments, you'd had the opportunity to see him do nearly everything ranging from eating, to fighting, to blowing up buildings. The way he moved during a fight, his well-placed blows, his underhanded methods of winning were intoxicating to watch. The man was an absolute menace.

You'd told yourself that your physical delight was just a response to your clear admiration for his chaotic skills.

That admiration was purely professional, of course!

But the more you followed and watched him,  the more those little butterflies of admiration ignited into an unquenchable fire that only your hand seeking out a little self-pleasure beneath the duvet could put out.

But honestly, you would have fallen on your proverbial sword before you admitted to yourself that you found everything about August Walker, sexy.

And then he disappeared.

No destruction, no bodies and the trail was cold.

During the rest of that assignment, you didn't see him for two month until the night he climbed through the french windows of your Parisian hotel room.

To say that you were surprised to see him was an understatement.

But there he was, standing in your bedroom, like a fever dream, with that ridiculous moustache and that infuriating smirk.

He did not give you the opportunity to react, before he was upon you.

But that didn't matter, for you wrapped yourself around him, greedy and eager and August Walker took his time showing you how much of a menace he truly was.

You neglected to tell your employer about those few glorious hours of mission deviation.

No use throwing petrol on that unstable fire, you'd decided.

You were pulled from the field shortly after that because 'things had changed' and it was no longer necessary to bring in the target.  

Your last and most recent assignment ended in Beirut ten months ago. You had come so close to legitimately ensnaring him. You had been in top form and August had been cunning, but it was not enough to elude you. You'd had him dead to rights and all you had to do was give the word to tighten the noose round his neck. But before you could, that damned satellite phone call dragged you back from the brink.

And you remembered standing there, dirty, and exhausted on a crumbling rooftop watching that smug bastard escape through the streets below on a stolen motorbike.

The only thing that soothed you was a text from a blocked number, received a week after the Beruit incident, that read, 'Next time, baby.'

You had to laugh at that. It was so something August would do.

Coming back to the present and shaking yourself of your memories, you realise that you're still standing in your oceanside bedroom holding the photo of August Walker. Checking the time, you see that you're going to be late and you grab your bags.

The photo along with the cardstock go into the shredder, and you listen to the machine choke down the evidence as you leave the room.

Your flight to Heathrow is late arriving and the  airport is as busy as ever, full of children escaping on their summer hols and tourists out to see the world. You walk confidently through the melee and to the taxi stand outside. You want to get to your hotel quickly and have a nap, as you need to be sharp to handle what's coming your way.

**

Part II

Later that evening in your hotel, you shower and scrub up thoroughly, excited about the prospects of the evening's plan. You powder and perfume your body carefully and choose a pair of glossy red high heeled court shoes to go with your black dress. You feel sharp, clear-eyed and ready for a little fun. This assignment was going to be played on your terms and was probably going to be your last.

Carrying your kit bag with all of your tools, you hum along with the lift music (The Girl from Ipanema) as you descend to the lobby where your contact waits. You follow him to a black car waiting outside and climb inside.

As you are driven through the city, your contact sits next to you not saying a word. Your only form of communication is through the tablet he puts on your lap. You look down at the digital photo on the screen.

It is an image of August in what looks like a dance club. Only he didn't look like he was there to pick up women, or to have drinks with friends. He looked big and bulky and out of place amongst the scantily clad glittery people having a fun night out. He looked like he was lurking, and waiting for something.

'That was taken one minute ago,' says the contact as the car, caught by a traffic light, slows to a stop.

'In that one.' 

The contact points towards the window on your side of the car.

Your eyes follow the line of his finger to the brightly lighted neon sign spelling out the name of a club.

'Am I on the list?' you ask and a sudden giggle surprises you.

You open your mouth to apologise for the awkward comment, but you grab your kit bag and slam the door without waiting for a reply.

You walk up to the front of the club and survey the queue waiting to get in. You count up the number of bouncers but keep walking. You make a quick right, cut through the alleyway and come up to the backside of the club. There is a young woman wearing the club's uniform, standing under the emergency building light, and using her weight to keep open the rear door. She is smoking and scrolling through her mobile.

'Hullo,' you say pleasantly, as you approach, your heels clicking on the dry  macadam.

She raises her bleary bloodshot eyes to peer at you. You look at her name tag and under her name is a strip of tape on which is scrawled, 'Barkeep trainee'.

She looks like she is having a rough night as if she didn't know how to handle all of the drinks that overly generous customers bought for her, as the bartender.

'You're not supposed to actually drink it when they buy it for you, you know. You're supposed to spit it into your empty beer bottle.'

Her only answer is a wet burp.

Grinning and shaking your head, you put a finger to your lips and make a soft shushing noise as you put two hundred quid into her hand. Then without asking, you enter the club.

Once inside, the whole world shakes around you, vibrating with the thunderous bass that accompanies some nameless, formless song. You lean against the wall between the men's and the ladies' toilets for a moment, letting your eyes adjust to the dim lightning. The scent of urine and alcohol permeates your hiding place, but you don’t mind, as you aren’t going to be hiding there for very long. The ancient cigarette machine across the narrow corridor seemed to eye you disapprovingly.

'Yeah, I don't want to be here either,' you mutter.

Opening your kit bag, you fish out your small purse. In it are your syringes, and vials of incapacitating drugs. You are going to go in there with all guns blazing and August Walker is not going to know what hit him. You even left the satellite phone in the hotel room. You weren't going to give your employer an opportunity to back out of the deal and order you to let him escape. Again.

Squaring your shoulders, you stride into the main hall. The club is partitioned into two levels, where the floor above overlooks the main floor on all four sides. You stand by the lower bar and let your keen eyes crawl all over the neon lighted faces. The music screams unpleasantly and immediately your head starts to hurt.

It is the stress, you think.

The stress and the travelling and you haven’t had any water all day.

But instead of water, you order a whisky sour and drink it quickly. It doesn’t quell your headache, but it bolsters your mood. You continue to look around and honestly, if he hadn't moved, you would have never spotted him up on the second level.

Your heart picks up speed.

Dear God, there he is. The unbearably sexy August Walker.

Ducking away from the bar, you go round to where the stairs dog-leg to the next level. Once up there, you weave your way through the thick standing crowd. Then you just stop moving and the crowd buffets you for a moment. You realise that in your zeal to just get your hands on August, you have no other plan.

Sure, you were going to jab him with the hypodermic, but what were you going to do if his knees just gave out beneath him. You would have to make a scene to get your contacts in there to drag the big man away. You were not going to be able to haul him down to the car on your own. And the last thing you wanted to do was to draw attention to yourself.

You growl with frustration and push your way to the more intimate bar at the back of the area. It is just a little quieter there and you take the needed space and time to regroup. You order another whisky sour and face the bar to drink it and think.

Have I been hasty?

Am I unprepared for this?

Has my judgement been clouded by my hubris?

A tall man comes close to you at the bar, but you ignore him. He is probably just ordering something and will move off soon. But when he doesn’t order, or move away, you turn to look up at him, ready to give him the business.

August Walker towers over you, smirking and looking like the cat that ate the canary.

In your mind, you know that you should feel angry, or disappointed, or even afraid, but you can't bring yourself to feel anything but relief.

He grabs you up by the arm and all but pulls you through the crowd and to one of the private rooms in the back. The room he picks is dim and backlit with baby pink and purple lights and the furniture looked soft and fun. The room is also clearly occupied by several people who looked to be having a private coke party in the corner.  However they do not object to your sudden presence.

August crowds you up against the soft bubbly wall, one hand against it above your head and the other hovering at your waist.

'I'm going to search you,' he says, his eyes boring into yours.

A surge of heat rushes up inside you, but whether it was from anguish or arousal, you aren’t sure. Two whiskey sours on a stomach that only had jelly babies is making everything start to blur together.

'No you will not!' you manage to growl indignantly.

He raises a dark brow. His smirk lengthens into something more mischievous and his blue eyes warm considerably and you know he's not a threat.

'Then show me that you are not armed.'

'You can go fuck yourself.'

August  grunts with amusement and you bite your lip.

This is not the time to bring up sex.

You can see the wheels turning in his head and he heaves himself backwards. With the movement, you catch his scent and you are immediately rocketed back to the night he positively wrecked you. You remembered feeling deliciously tender for the rest of that week. 

The demon inside you lurches in its metaphorical cage.

Want him, want him, want...

He holds open his plain  black suit jacket with both hands in an obvious effort to show that he is wearing his weapon in a hip holster. Unfortunately, all you can see is how his tie nestles quite contentedly between his big, meaty pecs.

The demon in the back of your mind reminds you that he's got soft hair on his chest and belly and you fight the desire to touch him.

August clears his throat and catches your attention.

Yes, you think. Yes, focus. His face is right there, focus. Not on the memory of that beautiful chest.

He quirks his brows to indicate that you need to show that you aren't packing. But you are only wearing a thin dress with a light half jacket and couldn't possibly be hiding anything. Instead, you cock your head and mock him, opening your little half jacket to show him you weren't armed. At least not in that spot.

August seems to accept it, because he is obviously more interested in the reason why you are there.  

'It's time to end this.'

'End what?' you ask feigning innocence.

He takes your handbag, and opens it before you can protest. Seeing the contents, he flattens his lips into a tight line and then tosses the bag onto the floor. You watch it roll over once and come to rest in the corner.

'Stop. Following. Me,' he growls and leans in closer obviously using his powerfully built frame to intimidate you.

'I-- I can't. I have a job to do.'

You keep your face turned away, eyes still on the handbag in the corner. 

It’s the only way that you can remain sane with him this close.

Against your back you can feel the thump of muted music, you can smell his cologne and hear the faraway voices of the other occupants. You are starting to drift a little more, buoyed by the particular pleasure you’re receiving from his attempt to cow you.

August is good at reading people and when his big hand come to rest at your waist, you know he’s read you like an open book. He slides that hand to the small of your back and the other hand reaches down to touch you where your dress hem meets your lower thigh.

He arches you against him and you let out a soft  eager gasp.

'Well... well...'

His voice is low, breath warm against your temple and he sounds excruciatingly self satisfied.  

'What am I gonna have to do to get you off my back?'

Mmm there is that tone again. That tone that tells you that he is a man who does not mince his words. He is a man who is unafraid to show his intentions with his actions. Your heart wrenches in your chest. You feel sexy and mysterious in his presence. You are the woman he can’t get enough of. You are in control, not him, and deep down, August knows it.

You roll your head away from where you were looking at the purse. You look up into his eyes and  slide your arms about his neck.  

August needs no other prompting. His big hands tighten round your waist and he heaves you up off of your feet. One of your court shoes slips off of one foot and when you land on your knees astride his lap on the soft, pink couch, you grab the heel of the other and fling it over to its mate.

August Walker is an incredible specimen of male human form. His smirking face and ridiculous moustache arouses feelings of frustration and anger in you even as his thumbs inch up the hem of your dress. The foolishness of your flighty employer, August's elusiveness (for the most part) and the whole incomprehensibility of your futile, prematurely aborted missions, all suddenly  come to a head.

You sit back on his lap and scowl, giving his meaty chest a thump with the base of your loosely curled fist. That stops him and surprise is evident in his blue eyes. You narrow your eyes in return and baring your teeth slightly, you tighten your fist and hit him again. Harder.

Then again, even harder.

You pull  him up by his neatly knotted tie and slap his face. The sound of skin on skin is loud in the quiet room.

Oh, that felt good.

A second stretches into an eternity between you and you watch a mixture of hurt,  and something else that decidedly wasn't anger ghost across his face. It was arousal. Slapping him across the face obviously turned him on.

You huff a laugh and he grins, the challenge is clear.

'Looks like you wanna play,' he rumbles darkly.

August reaches both hands beneath your dress and grabbing your knickers, he drags them down your trembling thighs.

‘Up,’ he instructs you and when you  rise to your knees he slaps your ass and grabs an indulgent handful. 'Good girl.'

You yelp and moan with delight, steadying yourself with both hands against him. With his help, you manage to only get one leg free, but you don't care. August has enough access and you watch him lick two fingers which he slides into your wet heat.

You gasp and shudder, lewdly pushing your hips towards him rocking in time with the motion of his fingers dragging across your sensitive slit.

Fuck... fuck! This shouldn't be happening, you think, trying to keep your thoughts from running together. Not here, not now this is crazy!

'C'mon,' August encourages you, warm hand stroking your bum. 'Take my cock out. I wanna fill that sweet little pussy up.'

You drop into his lap again to do as you were told. His cock is thick and hot in your hand and he groans when you give him an experimental squeeze. August cups your hips and lifts you again. There's no longer any perceivable space between the two of you and when you let him push you down on his ready cock, there is no longer any singular breath. It's just one breath, your shared breath.

You wrap your arms about his shoulders and bury your face into his neck. You  need his steadiness to keep from exploding into tiny pieces.

'You drive me crazy,' you gasp, breathless from the rush of heat drowning you.

August holds you and you match the motion of his body. It isn't long until he has built a relentless rhythm and you are begging him for release. You can feel yourself taking out all of your pent up frustrations on him. The heat and strength of him inside you is enough to drive away all of your fears and worries, replacing them with pleasure.

You lift your head and kiss him. His mouth is soft and yielding and you are confused by this new tide of tender emotions that rush in on the aftermath of your orgasm.  

You melt against him, hiding your face in his neck to recover from the high and just like during his unexpected visit to your hotel all those months ago, August caresses you until you're able to recover.

You hum softly and open your eyes to sheepishly peek at the other people still in the pink and purple room. They're far away enough, but you can see that they are way too coked out to care about what you two deviants are doing.

'They know you're here,' you murmur after a moment, stroking his stubble rough cheeks and smoothing his rumpled curls.

'Hmm.'

'They got you on film.'

'I'll take care of it,' he whispers back, matching your intimate tone.

You nod and with a groan, you heave yourself off of him and stagger back to your feet. He grabs you to help you regain your balance and you're grateful for his quick reflexes. You didn't want to end the night falling and cracking your head open on a coffee table. There's a stack of napkins by the wine bottles on one of the tables. You grab a handful and hand some to him. You both avoid each other's eyes as you clean up and you grab your purse and shoes. 

Contemplating the contents of your purse you say to him, 'Are you gonna let me jab you with this?'

August grins quite suddenly and you are charmed by his disarming smile.

'No,' he says with laughter in his voice.

'Tsk... ok.'

You feign disappointment even though you know that you were going to go through with it anyway. 

Back in order, August pushes himself off of the couch. He takes you by the wrist and pulls you close. He holds your gaze, making sure that you cannot mistake his meaning.

'Come with me.'

You stare at him. Oh, it's so tempting that it hurts when you turn him down.

'You know my methods... why I do the things I do. You know, and I know you understand me.'

‘I understand. I understand. But I can’t.’

August flattens his lips into a grim line again, but he nods and releases you.

‘Don't forget to take care of that… thing,’ you tell him in parting.

You want to stay so badly. You want to run away with him and you nearly turn around when you reach the room door. But you force yourself to keep moving forward and out of his life.

There is a message waiting for you when you return to the hotel. 

Mission aborted. 

Reason - ‘things have changed’.

**

Part III

You lie in your oceanside bedroom listening to the room service cart rattling through the adjoining room. It's time to get up for breakfast. You get out of bed, stretch, yawn and disappear into the bath to wash up and prepare for another delightfully leisurely day.

The stone floor is warm against your bare feet and you walk towards the patio and out through the sliding doors. The mid-morning sunlight is blinding and you put a hand up to shield your eyes. The beach is empty today with only a few boats dotting the clear blue waves. Maybe a swim later is in order, you think as you turn towards the umbrella shaded breakfast table.

A strange sight makes you stop in your tracks. There is a dark haired man sitting at the table, with his eyes closed, and his face tilted up to catch the sun not blocked by the edge of the umbrella.

'August,' you whisper softly to yourself as if saying his name any louder would make the mirage fade away.

You walk closer and clasping your hands together, you hover at the far end of the table.

'August.'

Alerted to your presence, he lowers his head and opens his eyes to look at you. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

'What are you doing here, August? You shouldn't be here... it... it isn't safe.'

'I came for you,' he says as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say.

'No. No, you're leaving now. Right now.'

He looks at you for a moment and with his foot, August slides out the chair next to him and gestures a lazy hand to it.

'Breakfast first.'

Sure, you think, rolling your eyes. Breakfast first. You sit down beside him.

August pours coffee for you. You watch him quietly and without really meaning to, you reach out to put your hand against his cheek. August stills at your touch and when he leans down to kiss you, you curl your fingers into his sun-warmed hair.

'Come with me,' he murmurs against your lips. 'I want you to be with me.'

'You know I can't.'

And even as the words come out of your mouth, you don't believe them.

August scoffs and is about to try another tactic, but is interrupted by the softly opening service door.

You watch your assistant approach with the heavy satellite phone. He gives August an impassive look and hands the phone to you. Your assistant also places two white envelopes on the table by your empty plate. August watches you put the phone up to your ear.

The messenger down the line is different this time, but delivers the information in the same monotone voice before asking if you understand.

'I understand,' you say. 'But... but, I will open the envelope before I agree to the job.'

A beat passes.

'Go on,' says the messenger.

You open the smaller of the two envelopes, the one with the black wax seal and pull out a photo of the target. You suck your lower lip between your teeth and turn the photo around to show August his own face.

'The target is August Walker,' you say.

'Have you seen him?'

You look directly into August's face. He looks apprehensive, you think. Does he think you'll turn him in? After all this?

'No, I haven't seen him. But I won't--'

/Take the job/, August mouths to you.  

'I mean I will take the job.'

You disconnect the call.

'Why did you want me to take the job?' you ask a sense of giddiness beginning to simmer in your gut.

'Because you'll never catch me.'

You tap the phone and grin.

'I can give you up right now.'

August glances at the phone.

'Will you?'

You smirk.

'Mmm, breakfast first.'

0-0 END 0-0

Thanks for reading and please like and reblog  💖 💖

[brelione]

Feild Trip with a Rich Bitch (Rafe Cameron x Reader)

Part Two

Mentions of drugs,Rafe being a bitch,swearing and blow torches :)

Also,Goddess Part Three will be up by Friday afternoon.If you would like to be tagged please let me know :)

He had always hated Pogues.Then he met you.

You worked at a car repair shop in The Cut.He had come in on his bike,well,he had walked the broken piece of shit to the shop.You were the only one working that day.He couldnt help but think you looked adorable with your long sleeve yellow shirt under dark blue overalls,a backwards red hat and at least six silver chains draped across your neck.You had been extremely focused,sitting indian style as you smoothed a weird bump on a car with a nail file. “So are you gonna stare at me or are you gonna tell me what youre doing here,pretty boy?”You asked,not taking your attention off the task at hand.He blinked,surprised by your carefree yet assertive tone. “Uhh...somethings wrong with my bike.”He mumbled,attempting to smooth out his hair.You let out a small laugh as you dragged a paint brush along the smooth metal,fixing the messy spot. “No shit.What’d you do to it?”You asked,spreading more paint across the metal.His face turned red as he glanced around the shop.

There were paintings across the walls,multiple tool boxes and a wall of paint swatches.There were six other cars parked,some of them with large dents,holes or scratches. “I drove it into a tree.”He mumbled.You nodded. “Magnificent job,pretty boy.How are you gonna have a bike as expensive as that one then drive it into a tree?”You asked.He just shrugged,hands in his pockets.You put your paintbrush down into a cup of water,pulling out a blowtorch from seemingly nowhere.The flame hovered above the paint,drying and hardening it.Once you were satisfied with the paint job you stood up,brushing off your pants.You still had the blowtorch in your hand,the potential weapon swinging next to your thigh as you walked towards Rafe. “You gotta put the kickstand down,pretty boy.”You reminded him,gesturing to the bike.He nodded. “Right.”He nodded,putting the kickstand down and turning the handlebars so it would lean on the metal rod.One of the tires seemed blown out,a straight hole through the seat and multiple scratches across the metal.He watched as you looked over it.

You pulled at one of your chains. “So are you going to tell me what actually happened?”You asked,crossing your arms over your chest.That caused him to look down at your chest and the bleach stains across the front of your overalls.You snapped your fingers to get his attention back to your eyes.He cleared his throat,looking back up at you. “So how much for the repairs?”He asked.You smirked. “Well...i’d say $150 but you’re an asshole so thats an additional $15 and you’re also ruining my day so that would be another $15.”You twirled one of your chains,looking into his blue eyes.He bit his tongue,glancing between you and his bike. “And whats the fee for you not to tell anyone youre keeping my bike here?”He asked.You ran the tip of your tongue along your teeth with a devil like smile.God,this boy had never been in this kind of situation before.You werent even gonna tell anyone in the first place.You could probably charge him hundreds of dollars for all the things he’s done and he wouldnt be able to do anything about it.You were the best repair woman on the island and anyone else would go straight to his dad.It was 11 in the morning.You had pulled an all nighter for the third time that week and you hadnt eaten yet.Plus,if you sent Rafe to the store he could buy the expensive shit.

 “Theres a store three blocks away.Youre gonna go there and buy everything on the list and youre not gonna question it.”You told him.His eyebrows furrowed as he watched you take a notepad out of your pocket along with a pen,jotting things down.You tore the paper off,folding it and handing it to him.He took it,frowning and confused. “Hurry up.”You told him.He nodded,no words or sounds escaping his lips as he left the garage and made his way down the street.He knew what store you were talking about,the one with the sleeping cat outside.It was awfully quiet as he walked.Most of the time all the exciting things happened at night,not 11 in the morning.Either that or all the pogues were hiding from him,his gelled hair and his ugly ass khakis.He unfolded the piece of paper,reading it.Three large lemons,two large monster energy drinks,a bag of doritos and a pack of gum.It was a strange request but he wasnt supposed to question it.He had kept his head down at the store,grabbing three of the largest lemons he saw,two random monster energy drinks,the doritos and three packs of gum.

He didnt know what kind of gum you liked but you probably had to like one of the three,right?When he got back you were using your blowtorch on a part of the bike you had painted. “Put the bag on the work table and touch nothing.”You spoke loudly,confidently.He found your confidence unbelievably attractive.He never let anyone boss him around like this but ther was just something about you.You held some sort of power over other pogues,he could tell that much by the few boneyard parties he’d gone too.The others were attracted to you,some of them held their breath as you walked by,others just kept their distance.He didnt know where such nice chains had come from.They looked like they had weight,indicating that they were real.He had carefully walked over to your work table,seeing multiple small jars of paint,brushes,metal sheets,files,nails,screws and your cell phone.It was a pretty old model.He set the bag down on an empty spot,watching as a notification came across your phone.Eighteen days sober!Log this milestone.He frowned.Sober from what?

He shook it off,walking back around to where you were with his bike. “I was worried that you’d set my bike on fire or something.”He spoke quietly,trying to make conversation.You glared up at him,eyebrows casting shadows over your irises. “What?Cause im a dirty pogue?”You asked.He shook his head frantically. “Thats not what I meant I-”He began to explain himself but you cut him off. “So because im fixing your bike im different?”You asked.He sighed. “I just meant because of the blowtorch-Im sorry.”He mumbled.You stood up,blowtorch in hand. “Know your place,rich bitch.Your bike will be done by three,save yourself the embarrassment and go home to your mansion.”Your voice was dripping in venom,eyes narrowing.He gulped. “I cant go back home without my bike,my dad will kill me.”He mumbled,looking down at you.You smirked. “Good.”You replied before kneeling down again by the bike,getting back to work. “God,could you stop staring at me?Go sit somewhere or sue a tree or some shit.”You huffed.He almost tripped over his own feet,finding a chair and sitting down.He tapped his food on the ground anxiously. “So um...how long have you been fixing cars?”He asked.

You slammed the blow torch down on the concrete. “Could you shut the fuck up?Please?”You asked.He bit his lip. “I dont like the silence.”He replied. “And I dont like loud noises.”You answered. “What are you sober from?”He asked.You sat there for a moment,eyes locked on the ground.You slowly stood up,walking towards him. “You went on my phone?”You asked.His mouth went dry and he was lost for words. “Rafe.”You snarled.He looked back up at you,beads of sweat collecting at his hairline. “I-the notification-I just saw it and I just-God,im sorry (Y/N).”He sighed,looking away from you.Your hand reached up,gripping his jaw and making him look at you. “Didnt I tell you to shut the fuck up?”You asked.He looked away from you,only looking back when your grip tightened. “Yeah.”He muttered. “And you’re gonna be good and shut that pretty mouth of yours,right?”You asked,squeezing harder on his flesh.He hummed. 

“Good.”You mumbled,taking your hand away and getting back to work.You could feel him staring at you,the way your fingers moved as you grabbed your tools.He understood now.He understood the pogues’ fear and admiration of you.He felt like one of them,caught up in your beauty and the way you carried yourself while simultaneously being slightly afraid of you.You walked past him,grabbing one of the monsters.You grabbed a knife from the table.He watched as you cut open the bottom of the energy drink and shot gunned it,wiping your mouth when you were done.You grabbed a lemon from the bag,cutting an end of it off.You pulled a container of a white powder,opening it and coating the lemon slice in it. “Dont stare at me like that.Its salt,nothing you can snort.”You grumbled,taking the slice out and placing it in your mouth.Your eyes didnt squint and your eyebrows didnt furrow at the taste. “You...you eat lemons in salt?”He asked.You pulled the lemon slice from your teeth,biting the salt coated fruit as it left your mouth. 

“I do.”You replied. “It helps with cravings.”You finished your thought,going to fix the bike seat.Rafe had sat on his phone until one in the afternoon when he heard someone come in. “You havent answered your phone,thought you were dead or something.”A deep voice said.Rafe heard you giggle. “Only on the inside,sunshine.I’m busy with work right now,tell the others ill be around by seven.”He heard the tone of your voice.Friendly,happy and almost excited. “Alright.Did you eat today?”The voice asked. “I had a lemon slice,ive got some doritos so dont worry too much.I’ll see you later.”You had told your friend. “Alright,sounds like a plan.”THe boys voice said before leaving.Rafe watched as you rolled a tire inside,replacing the one he had destroyed.Once you had replaced it you went back to the bag of goodies,cutting open the other monster.You chugged it,sighing as you stared up at the ceiling. “Why do you hate me so much?”Rafe asked suddenly.A smile tugged at your lips.

 “You beat up two of my boys,you come around starting shit and blaming it on us,you think youre just so fucking amazing when youre really just a bitch,you ran over my fucking mailbox,you drink and drive,you gave another one of my boys a fucking concussion and a scar and you wonder why I hate you?”You ranted,fists clenching.He just sat there,hands gripping the arms of the chair. “You just fuck things up.”You sighed.He licked his lips. “You sound like my dad.”He mumbled.You laughed. “Oh dont get me started on your dad.That bitch ruined my life.”You sighed,grabbing another lemon slice.He raised his eyebrows. “What?How?”He asked.You just giggled to yourself. “You really have no idea what your father has done to my family?No idea at all?”You asked.He shook his head.You just laughed again,the sound filling the air.It wasnt like the way you had giggled with your friend.It was empty and sarcastic,hiding anger that was building up inside of you. “You wanna go for a field trip,Rafe Cameron?”You asked.

[carnegiemuseumnaturalhistory]

The 12,000-Year Journey Of The Cheeseburger

In one large bite, a bun, ground beef patty, cheese, lettuce, and tomato could finally fulfill its purpose: to be my lunch. Many people have seen ads for, or even eaten a cheeseburger before. But where do all the ingredients come from? The tasty combination of meat, vegetables, grain, and milk product has 12,000-year-old roots in a faraway land across the sea. From there, over thousands of years and thousands of miles, it made a journey to its ultimate destination … my stomach. As delicious as it is, every good ending has a story.

The Bun

For a proper burger, you need the bun to sandwich all its deliciousness. The main ingredient for the bun is flour, which comes from wheat. Today, there are 25,000 distinct forms of wheat, all descended from a plant called emmer, which first originated in the Fertile Crescent within the Middle East. The earliest evidence for emmer being deliberately grown by humans for food (domestication) was from at least 12,000 years ago.

Ancient humans, just like us today, enjoyed eating wheat products (I love my pizza!). Where it grows abundantly, wheat is easily harvested and can be stored for extended periods of time, making it a stable source of vegetable protein. Thus, some of the first civilizations, like the Babylonians and Assyrians, sprung up in the Fertile Crescent. Emmer wheat spread to Greece, Cyprus, and India by 6500 BCE, and to Egypt shortly after. In fact, the Egyptians are the first people known to make bread.

The Patty

Now let’s get to the deliciousness housed between the buns: the patty. Traditional cheeseburgers are made from beef, which comes from cattle. Unlike emmer wheat, cattle, which descended from wild oxen called aurochs, were domesticated separately in two (possibly three) different places: the Fertile Crescent, the Indus Valley (modern-day Pakistan), and possibly northeast Africa 10,000-8000 years ago. From there, domesticated cattle spread across the continents of Africa, Asia, and Europe.

Cattle were one of the first mammals to be domesticated. They provide many useful products used for consumption (meat, milk, fat) and tool making (horns, hooves, hides). Additionally, their large size allowed them to pull heavy objects like plows for farming. Because of their importance, many religions and cultures considered cattle to be sacred. In Ancient Egypt, many of their gods had cattle forms, including Hathor, Ptah, Menthu, and Atum-Ra, Ancient Greeks often used cattle as sacrifices to the gods. Even today, Hindus do not eat cattle meat.

The Cheese

Finally, a cheeseburger would hardly be a cheeseburger without the cheese (which is made from milk). Although cow milk is the most popular source material today, cheese was originally made from goat or sheep milk. Cheesemaking began over 4,000 years ago, but how it started is unclear. Legend has it that it was an Arabian merchant who accidentally created the first cheese. He put his milk in a pouch made from a sheep’s stomach as he traversed across the desert. Sheep stomachs contain an enzyme called rennet, and when the milk chemically reacted to the enzyme and heat from the sun, it separated into curd and whey. The curd is what we commonly refer to as the cheese.

Although cheesemaking’s origins remain ambiguous, the Romans were the first to make cheesemaking a widespread industry. Aging and smoking cheese extends the product’s shelf-life, enabling Roman soldiers to carry this excellent source of protein with them. As they conquered the European continent, they spread their cheesemaking. At the height of the Roman empire, they were making and trading hundreds of different kinds of cheese. Only later during European colonization was cheese spread to the Americas and Asia.

The Cheeseburger

So what genius put it all together? None other than a 16-year-old named Lionel Sternberger. His father owned a sandwich shop, and one day in 1924, Lionel put a slice of American cheese on one of his father’s hamburgers. He called it a “cheese hamburger.” One decade later, a Kaelin’s restaurant in Louisville, Kentucky gave the sandwich the name “cheeseburger,” which was trademarked in 1935 by Louis Ballast of Humpty Dumpty Drive-In.

The End (of This Story of Deliciousness)

Who knew that there was so much behind a basic cheeseburger? From sheep stomach pouches to Babylonians, each played a role in creating the cheeseburger in your hands. Even Pittsburgh has some cheeseburger fame! Did you know that Jim Delligatti, who owned a restaurant in Uniontown PA, part of the Greater Pittsburgh Region, created the McDonald’s Big Mac in 1967?

Angela Wu is a Teen Volunteer in the Education Department. Museum employees, volunteers, and interns are encouraged to blog about their unique experiences and knowledge gained from working at the museum.

Sources:

The Big Mac turns 40, gets a museum. (2007, August 26). ABC News. Retrieved August 9, 2020, from https://abcnews.go.com/Business/story?id=3524528&page=1#:~:text=The%20Big%20Mac%20was%20first,staple%20of%20McDonald's%20menus%20nationwide.

Cooper, R. (2015, July). Re-discovering ancient wheat varieties as functional foods. ScienceDirect. Retrieved August 5, 2020, from https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2225411015000401

Cownie, E. (2018, August 27). Why cattle mattered in the Ancient World. Medium. Retrieved August 8, 2020, from https://medium.com/@emmafcownie/why-cattle-mattered-in-the-ancient-world-4e27b1c37e58

Hirst, K. (2019, July 9). Wheat Domestication. ThoughtCo. Retrieved August 6, 2020, from https://www.thoughtco.com/wheat-domestication-the-history-170669

History of Cheese. (2020, January 25). International Dairy Foods Association. Retrieved August 6, 2020, from https://www.idfa.org/history-of-cheese

Mitzewich, J. (2020, May 15). Who Invented the All-American Cheeseburger? The Spruce Eats. Retrieved August 7, 2020, from https://www.thespruceeats.com/birth-of-the-cheeseburger-101426

Pitt, D., Sevane, N., Nicolazzi, E. L., MacHugh, D. E., Park, S., Colli, L., Martinez, R., Bruford, M. W., & Orozco-terWengel, P. (2018). Domestication of cattle: Two or three events?. Evolutionary applications, 12(1), 123–136. https://doi.org/10.1111/eva.12674

Roberts, B. (2018, March 5). The Fascinating 7,500 Year History of Cheese. Forbes. Retrieved August 5, 2020, from https://www.forbes.com/sites/brianroberts/2018/03/05/the-history-of-cheese/#4807da304ca1

[scribbuluswrites]

High Brow

I had a sudden burst of inspiration from that photo. Enjoy! :)

Angel made a face, spitting the wine into the little silver bucket. He wrinkled his nose, making a sound deep in his throat as he grabbed for two of flavorless wafers. 

“The fuck is this shit?” he asked, his whisper loud enough to be heard across the tasting room. Coco covered his mouth with his hand, trying not to laugh out loud. 

“I don’t know, bro, but these things suck all the moisture out of your mouth,” Coco chimed in, smacking his lips together.  

“Could you guys keep it down?” EZ complained, nodding an apology to the patrons closest to them. It was his fault. He had suggested they stop at one of the wineries in the tiny town they were driving through. 

“We embarrassin’ you, boy scout?” Coco chuckled, clinking his glass against Angel’s. 

“Pinky out!” Angel chastised loudly, pretending to be outraged at Coco’s hold on the glass. “Get it right, puta.” They snickered, leaning over the low table as they laughed. EZ rolled his eyes, wishing the two of them could pretend to fit in. 

Coco spotted a woman sitting alone, her back leaned against one of the large trees in the garden space behind the tasting room. She had a book rested against her legs, but she was looking around at the other people, grinning to herself as she caught bits of conversations. 

“No,” Angel said loudly, interrupting Coco’s thoughts. He looked back over his shoulder at his brother. “There ain’t a chance in hell that,” he pointed at the woman for emphasis, “would sit with you.” Coco scoffed. EZ and Angel both raised their eyebrows. 

“This I gotta see,” EZ commented, turning his chair so he had an unobstructed view. 

“Watch and learn, boy scout.” He picked up his untouched red wine and sauntered over to her tree. The woman looked up as he approached, curious what he was going to say. “Matches your hair,” he grinned, swirling the deep red liquid. She blinked at him in surprise for a moment before bursting into laughter. 

“Whatever I expected to come out of your mouth, that was not it.” She smiled brightly, shaking her head at him. “Want to join me….” 

“Coco,” he supplied, flopping onto the grass next to her. He leaned back against the tree, his shoulder resting against hers. 

“What’s the verdict, Coco puff?” He blinked at her for a moment, surprised that she wasn’t even the least bit intimidated. Most people took one look at his tattoos and then wouldn’t dare tease him so openly. “The wine,” she continued, gesturing to the forgotten glass in his hand. “It’s either a fresh pour or you hated it.” 

“It’s… maybe I’m… it’s shit,” Coco admitted, struggling not to just blurt that. She took the glass out of his hand, taking a sip. 

“It’s not quite as good as the previous year,” she agreed, giving him a nod. 

“You can taste the difference between years? I think all this wine tasting is dumb as hell, but that’s a skill,” he praised, looking her up and down. She shrugged, a small grin on her face. 

“If you want to be successful, it’s better if you know the shit out of your product.” She handed the glass back to him, tapping the ‘E’ engraved into it. “Elise,” she introduced. Coco’s mouth dropped open a bit. 

“This is your place?” 

“Yup,” she answered, popping the ‘p’ sound. The grin she was wearing had turned a bit smug. “What a twist.” Coco’s mouth opened and closed a few times. He had no idea what to say. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, leaning his head back against the trunk. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t…” 

“I know a way you could make it up to me,” she interrupted, looking mischievous. 

“Anything, querida,” he said quickly, wondering what she had in mind. 

“Do you have a bike to go with that whole look?” she asked, making a sweeping motion with her hand. He grinned and nodded. “Good. I need a date for the dinner I’m going to tonight.” 

“At your service,” Coco chuckled, downing the remaining wine in his glass. He hated the taste, but it gave his head a pleasant fuzziness. 

“You’re just the thing to mortify my mother.” 

Coco walked back to Angel and EZ. They were both staring at him, Angel speaking first. 

“You’re back quick.” 

“Yeah, I’m not picking her up until seven,” he said plainly, pretending to inspect his fingernails. 

**

Elise looked over his custom bike. The full picture, Coco wearing his kutte, tattoos peeking out from his rolled sleeves, was hot. She only slightly regretted her choice of dress, smirking as she pictured the look on her mother’s face when she rode up perched on the back of his bike.

“Can’t wait to see you ride like that,” he said with a chuckle, looking at her from head to toe. 

“I bet you can’t,” she winked, surprised to see him duck his head a little bit. Coco wasn’t quite so assured as he pretended. “You look like every mum’s worst nightmare. It’s really working for me,” Elise grinned, reassuring him. “C’mon, Coco puff, take me for a ride.”

Elise took the helmet he offered, fastening the strap under her chin. She tossed her leg over the bike, situating herself as best she could. Her dress was even shorter than she’d expected. Coco glanced over his shoulder, grinning at her. 

“Anytime, dulce,” he murmured, running his hand over the bare skin above her knee. He felt goosebumps rise on her skin, his confidence suddenly much higher. Elise leaned her head against his back, knowing she was totally screwed. Trying to play hard to get would be pointless. 

Their entrance couldn’t have been any better if she’d planned it. Elise’s mother was outside in the front courtyard, showing off yet another tacky, yet fancifully, trimmed hedge. The topiaries were her pride and joy. 

Coco’s bike roared up the gravel drive, shattering the atmosphere. Elise could just imagine the soft classical music that had been pouring out from the open windows, totally drowned out by the throaty softail. 

He parked the bike next to the fountain in the center of the circle drive, his eyes giant as he stared at the house. Elise pulled off the helmet, handing it to him. Coco didn’t move until Elise reached forward, pressing it firmly against his chest until he wrapped his fingers around the edge of it. 

“Feeling alright?” He shook his head, hanging the strap over the bars without his eyes ever leaving the palatial home. 

“You grew up in there?” he asked, his voice almost awe-struck. Elise laughed loudly. 

“No way. This is from Gilbert, husband number three. Her true skill is luring in disgustingly rich old men,” she explained, the look of disdain clear in her eyes. “That sounds… awful. She’s just always acting like she built this fucking place with her own two hands,” Elise relented, blowing out a breath. “I’m not a shitty person, I promise.” Coco snorted. 

“Nah, mami. Nobody gets mommy issues like me.” He smiled at her, finally tearing his eyes away. He pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his kutte, offering one to her. Elise shook her head, biting her lip to stop her grin from spreading as she heard her mother gasp. 

“You can’t smoke out here!” she whispered harshly, her voice definitely louder than intended. Elise sighed at the shrill quality. Coco was already getting under her skin, and it was perfect. 

“Why can’t I smoke outside?” he asked, looking thoroughly confused. 

“You’ll ruin the scent atmosphere.” Coco’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked over at Elise. She was barely containing her snickering. 

“Your cigarette might cloud the aroma of motor oil and exhaust fumes,” Elise quipped, cupping a hand around her mouth to direct her words to Coco. “Hello, mother.” 

“It always sounds like something should follow that word with the way you say it,” her mother replied, clasping her hands in front of her. “You couldn’t just attend one of my functions? Must you turn it into a show?” 

“A show?” Her mother made a face, gesturing first to Coco and then to his motorcycle. 

“Johnny,” he introduced, holding out his hand. “Not that I don’t feel totally welcome already.” Elise coughed, covering up a laugh. Coco might be a little shy with her, but he definitely wasn’t intimidated by her stuck up mother. 

“Victoria.” She gingerly shook his hand, obviously wishing she didn’t have to touch him. 

“Nice digs, Vicki,” he complimented, stubbing off the end of his cigarette. He hadn’t smoked much of it and tucked it behind his ear. Victoria looked scandalised. “Give me the tour, dulce.” Coco smacked Elise’s ass, giving her a wink. 

“That was really fun for me,” she confessed, linking her fingers with his as they walked into the house. 

Before Coco could really look around, Elise pulled him into the first room they came to. It looked like a large study. There was a giant wooden desk in front of a large window that looked out onto a courtyard. The other two walls were covered with bookshelves. 

“Holy shit, EZ would…” Elise interrupted his sentence, putting her hands on his shoulders so he would face her. 

“Just… I want to make something clear first,” she began, stumbling over her words. Coco sighed a little, prepared for the speech about him being just a tool to poke at her mother. “I invited you here to upset my mum and keep me company,” she continued, gesturing to the house around them. “But, I invited you because…” she paused, ears going red. “Would you want to have dinner with me?” 

“Thought there was dinner here,” Coco commented, grinning at the exasperated sigh she let out. 

“Just me,” Elise clarified. He made a surprised face, pretending to have no idea what she was intending. 

“Like a date?” 

“No, not like a date. A date.” Coco grinned, glad for a chance to tease her back. 

“My bad,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer. 

“Shit,” Elise swore, dropping her head as she heard her mother shouting from the entry hall. “She considers this a ‘sacred room’,” she explained, imitating her mother’s affected accent. 

“Don’t want to piss her off that much?” Elise shook her head, looking up at him. 

“I absolutely do, but not this early into the evening. Honestly, I’ve always had a fantasy about getting fucked against these bookshelves,” she admitted, grinning sheepishly. 

“You know I’m dragging you back in here later tonight, right?” he said, eyes hungry. 

“You know I’m going to encourage it, right?” she replied, giving him a wink. 

“C’mon, let go horrify mommy dearest while I can still think straight.” 

[flipomatic]

A New World Chapter 9: Study Session

Author Note: Yes, this is another Lisa chapter. I am aware of how many there have been. We’ll get to Yukina’s side when it’s time.

First Chapter Previous Chapter

__________________________________________________________

The train to and from university was usually crowded. Lisa found herself traveling at the busiest times of the day, during morning and afternoon rush hour. She often stood in the crowd, with just a pole or overhead handle to hang on to.

Today she had been lucky enough to get a seat as she headed towards home, after another long day of university classes. Her school bag was heavy with textbooks, a different one for each course. She’d been busy reading them and filling them with sticky notes to mark important pages.

As her professors had reminded her, multiple times over the last week, midterms were soon. They didn’t start until next week, but that didn’t leave a lot of time to prepare.

Even though she’d been studying all semester, Lisa didn’t feel at all prepared for midterms. They were a significant portion of her grades too, so she couldn’t afford to fail them. If she wanted to pass, she needed to buckle down and study.

Lisa looked at her phone, clicking the calendar app. There were two Roselia practices between now and the start of midterms, both long rehearsals. Lisa clicked to her class schedule, with a sigh escaping from her lips.

If she wanted to get enough studying time in, she wasn’t going to be able to attend those practices. She wasn’t even going to have time to practice on her own, which was also quite frustrating.

Lisa had been working hard to step up her bass playing. The extra rehearsal with Yukina had been more productive than she expected, since they were able to focus on just the bass and vocals. Yukina had helped with her with tone, and providing more nuance to match each song. Lisa hoped that they would practice like that again someday.

Now though, she needed to put her music aside for a short while. Her college courses all required her undivided attention. It hurt to do so, especially since she had been putting so much effort into improving for the band.

Lisa clicked out of the calendar app and into her texts. She started typing in the Roselia group chat. “Hey, I’m not going to be able to make practice Thursday or Sunday. Sorry!!!” Lisa included a praying emoji at the end to express her sincerity.

Immediately, a bar popped up showing that Sayo was typing. “I wish you told us sooner.” Lisa could imagine her scolding tone. “That brings us to three for Thursday.” Right, Rinko had already been unable to make Thursday’s practice. Like Lisa’s, her schoolwork had been ramping up as the semester continued.

“Midterms snuck up on me, please forgive me Sayo!” Lisa knew that Sayo wouldn’t be able to stay mad at her if she phrased it like that. At least, she hoped that she wouldn’t.

“Hmm.” Sayo sent that short message, then spent about thirty seconds typing the next one. “Very well, but you owe the band extra practice time.” That was fair.

“Are we still gonna meet Thursday?” Ako chimed in, using a question mark face emoji.

“I will be missing that practice as well.” Yukina’s message popped up. Lisa could hear her voice in her ear, the way she would say those words. What she said was a bit of a surprise though.

Sayo typed quickly in response. “Minato-san, not you too…” She was likely shaking her head, wherever she was. Even if Yukina could go, it would’ve made sense to cancel the Thursday rehearsal. They almost never practice with just three members.

“It’s fine, we’ll still practice Sunday.” Yukina brushed off Sayo’s disappointment. They would have four members on Sunday, even with Lisa cancelling.

“I’ll contact the studio to cancel.” Lisa felt bad as she typed the words, since it was her fault they were cancelling. Though, maybe not. If Yukina wasn’t going to attend, they might’ve cancelled anyway. Lisa jotted down in her notes app to call Circle when she got home.

With that done, she shut off the screen on her phone and let her hands rest in her lap.

Lisa wondered why Yukina couldn’t go on Thursday. She usually had her schedule organized far in advance, including homework and individual practice time. Yukina planned ahead well, always prepared for what was ahead.

Maybe Lisa would ask next time she saw her. If she remembered, since that wouldn’t be until near the end of next week.

Lisa glanced up to check which stop they were at; she would get off in three.

Her phone buzzed against her leg, which was probably a continuation in the group text. Lisa picked it up and flipped it over, surprised to see that her assumption had been incorrect.

A message from Yukina had appeared across the screen, sent only to Lisa. “Do you want to study together?” Lisa squinted at it for a moment, not sure what to make of it.

She tapped the message to open it, slowly typing a response back. “What do you mean?” Yukina was acting so strange today.

The time it took Yukina to respond felt like forever. “On Thursday, I need to study too. Perhaps we could do it together.” She wanted to come study with Lisa? The sound of Lisa’s stop being called snapped her attention away from her phone, and she stood to get off the train.

She exited the station and started walking towards home, which was only a few blocks away. That message from Yukina was still there, waiting for a response.

Though they had just spent time practicing together, this felt like a completely different kind of request. It almost felt like, no, that couldn’t be. This couldn’t be an invitation for a date, could it? The last time they studied together, it was because they were taking the same classes. Now though, Yukina was studying vocal performance. She wasn’t learning about any of the same topics as Lisa.

No, Lisa shook her head, there was no way this was a date. Studying was something friends did together, not romantic at all. Regardless, the offer filled Lisa with warmth. She typed back. “Was getting off the train, I’d love to study with you!” A couple heart emojis followed.

“I’ll bring cookies.” It was a short reply, but it still sent a jolt through Lisa’s heart.

She stopped at the store on the way home to get some snacks, so she would have something to serve on Thursday.

Lisa hadn’t been excited about her midterms earlier, but now she was looking forward to studying.

______________________________________________________

When Lisa got home from school on Thursday, right at 4:00 pm, she immediately started preparing for Yukina’s visit. She had made flashcards for her hardest class, science, which would be a good tool to study while Yukina was there. Lisa set them out on the table in her room, to make sure they were ready.

She also made sure to bring up all the snacks she had bought, just in case Yukina was hungry. Lisa hadn’t had time to bake her own snacks, so store bought would have to do. Whatever kinds of cookies Yukina brought could be added to the plate.

Lisa got some studying done after that, tackling her literature course. It was best to study that one alone, since it mostly involved reading. She was able to put Yukina out of her mind, at least for a while, and read a decent chunk of the assigned reading.

She stopped studying to join her family for dinner, before heading back to her room.

Then, Lisa had to wait. She knew Yukina had class late on Thursdays, with studio time at her school going past 5:00. She would eat dinner before coming over, which meant she likely wouldn’t arrive until at least 6:30, or not until 7:00. It was only 6:15.

The best thing Lisa could do while she waited was keep studying. Now though, it was a lot harder to focus than it had been earlier. Yukina could arrive at any minute, could come into Lisa’s room.

Lisa told herself that she was being silly, that Yukina had just been here last week to rehearse together, that Yukina used to come over and study all the time.

There was a tension in the air today, it felt different. Lisa knew it was probably her own overactive imagination causing it, but she couldn’t help it.

As the clock ticked slowly forward, she had trouble staying focused on her book. Lisa nibbled on one of the snacks, a small cracker, to ease her nerves. She went to the bathroom to reapply some light makeup, then returned to her studies.

At 6:40, the doorbell rang. Lisa called to her parents that she would get it, dropping her book and quickly heading down the stairs.

A familiar silhouette could be seen through the front door. Lisa pulled it open, beaming at her guest. “Thanks for coming!”

Yukina stepped through the open door, the small smile on her face equivalent to Lisa’s. She had her school bag, as well as a grocery bag. She nodded, then walked past Lisa into the house.

Yukina left her shoes by the door and the pair went upstairs to Lisa’s room. As Lisa shut her bedroom door, those nerves from earlier returned.

They didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t shake them. Even as she watched Yukina sit down on the ground next to the table, the same way she had a thousand times before, Lisa felt nervous. This wasn’t a date, she reminded herself. She was just studying with her best friend.

She joined Yukina at the table, opening the plastic bag that she’d placed on it. Inside was a small plasticware container, which was full of cookies.

“These look great.” Lisa commented as she popped open the lid. A wave of freshly baked scents spread through the room. Lisa placed a few onto the place with the other snacks, keeping one to eat right now. It was soft in the middle and firm around the edges, cooked for perhaps slightly too long. The flavor was good though, chocolate and peanut butter.

“What do you think?” Yukina asked, her expression far too serious for the question. Did she make these? That was so sweet of her; Lisa wanted to lean over and engulf her in a hug.

This was another strange behavior though. Lisa could count on her fingers the number of times Yukina had baked for her.

It only set Lisa’s nerves further on edge.

Lisa took another bite, swallowing before replying. “It’s delicious.” Yukina’s face relaxed at the assertion, and she reached for a cookie as well.

Yukina started eating it and seemed satisfied enough to continue.

“What do you need to study for?” Lisa asked as she finished hers, transitioning to the reason they were there.

Yukina flipped open her school bag, lifting out a large textbook. “Music theory.” She said simply, setting the book at an open space on the table. “You have your midterms soon, right?”

“Yeah~” Lisa reached for her stack of flashcards, which were still on the table from earlier. “Science is on Monday.” She had so many things to memorize, and very little time to get it done in.

The two settled into silence as they began studying, not as comfortable as Lisa was used to it being. She flipped through her flashcards, aware of the small sound they made as they were flipped over.

Yukina didn’t seem to notice. She had her eyes locked onto her textbook, and was reading through it. Lisa couldn’t help but glance at her once, then twice, couldn’t help wondering what she was thinking when she asked to do this.

As Lisa returned to her flashcards, she tried to stay focused on them. It was always tempting to flip the card over early, even if she really needed to take time to think about the answer. As she flipped more cards, she discovered that she didn’t know a lot of these terms.

“Would you like me to hold those for you?” Yukina’s voice interrupted Lisa mid card, drawing her gaze.

“That’s ok Yukina, I’ve got it!” Lisa gave her best cat smile.

Yukina didn’t seem impressed. “Can you remember the ones you’ve done so far?” Her hand moved to the small pile of completed cards, snatching them up before Lisa could protest.

“Ummm…” Lisa tried to think back on them, she really did. One had been about carbon, or something. Other than that she was drawing blanks.

Her silence answered the question. “Let me help.” Yukina reached forward with one open palm, the implication clear.

“Don’t you need to study too?” Lisa protested. It would be silly for Yukina to help her with a class she wasn’t taking.

Yukina’s hand didn’t budge. “My tests are a week after yours.”

Lisa sighed, Yukina was just too stubborn for her own good. It was one of the things Lisa admired about her, her persistence towards her goals.

Lisa reluctantly handed over the rest of the cards.

Yukina practically had a cat smile of her own as she mixed the old cards with the larger stack. Then she drew one off the top, showing one side to Lisa.

They continued this activity for a while, with Lisa giving the definitions and answers for each card. She didn’t want to admit it, but this was more productive than studying the cards alone.

Yukina seemed to be enjoying reading the back of the flashcards. She commented sometimes on their contents, about how this science class seemed interesting. Lisa felt more at ease as they worked, settling into the familiarity between her and Yukina.

They worked through the stack of cards, pausing for a break after about an hour.

Lisa went downstairs to make some tea, bringing it back up to her room. She prepared Yukina’s exactly how she liked it.

When she came back into the room, Yukina was flipping through the flashcards. She looked up as Lisa approached.

“Thank you.” Yukina took her teacup from Lisa, cradling it in her hands. Lisa sat back down next to her and sipped her drink.

For a moment, they drank their tea in silence.

Lisa broke it, as she often did. “How’ve your classes been going?” It felt like an appropriate topic, since they were there to study.

“Good, for the most part. I’ve learned a lot from my vocals professor.” Yukina said with a small nod.

“That’s great.” Lisa took another sip of her tea. A thought crossed her mind. Yukina hadn’t ever mentioned anything about her new peers. “Have you been making friends with your classmates?” Lisa thought she might as well ask, even if Yukina wasn’t offering up the information.

Yukina’s eyes narrowed slightly. “No, not at all.” That didn’t really surprise Lisa. “They’re not interested in Roselia.” That was a funny way to put it, like she had tried to tell them all about the band.

Another thought came, triggered by the word interested. This one was unwelcome. What if Yukina had met someone she liked? That seemed unlikely too, but the notion triggered a point of pain in Lisa’s stomach, where she carried stress and anxiety. All the emotions she felt earlier, all of her uncertainty, swept back in. “Did you, umm.” Lisa covered her nervousness with a giggle. “Meet anyone you’re interested in?”

Now Yukina raised an eyebrow. “Interested in?”

Lisa regretted asking, but it was too late to back down now. “Romantically interested.” She clarified, rushing through the words.

Yukina’s expression settled into a frown. “I’m not looking for a relationship there. My focus is on my voice and Roselia.” Her tone was low, carrying a hint of irritation at the question.

Of course, why would Lisa ever expect anything different. Just as today’s study session was definitely not a date, Yukina would not be interested in any of her classmates. She was focused on her music, not anyone else, and certainly not Lisa.

Yukina wasn’t interested in a relationship.

Lisa never should have gotten her hopes up. She knew better, after all this time.

She hadn’t said anything for Yukina to reject, and yet it felt like one.

“That’s very you.” Lisa replied, her smile now strained.

Yukina changed the subject, asking about Lisa’s classes. She happily transitioned to the topic, talking about what she was reading for her literature class.

They studied for a couple more hours, making their way through the rest of the flashcards and a dramatic reading of part of Yukina’s textbook.

When Yukina left, Lisa watched out her window until the light came on across the way.

Maybe it was time to give up on changing their relationship. Lisa was too afraid to try, too afraid to mess things up. Perhaps today was a sign that she should just leave it the same.

As long as things could stay like this, and the two of them could stay together, she would be fine. Yukina wasn’t interested in her, she was okay with it. That was what she told herself, looking out at that shining light in the distance.

She needed to be.

As long as she got to stay by Yukina’s side, Lisa could handle it. She always had.

Next Chapter

[writing-the-end]

Exodus- Part 2

Previous Part

An Edolas Hermit AU story (AU belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

Impulse, Tango, and Zed are vying for freedom out of Hermitland. But first they must get through the great walls of the city, and whatever waits beyond. What they don’t know is that their plan has already been discovered. 

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

Part Two? Part Two! I’m so glad people are enjoying this story, I just can’t wait to share it all with you! Red’s story is so incredible, I don’t think my writing can do it justice.

Warning: This story contains general dark elements and language

_______________________

Impulse grabs the nearest thing he could find, a redstone torch, wielding it as he hears footsteps moving down the tunnels. Zed and Tango have been taking way too long. Surely they’ve been caught by Cub, seen leaving the underground. By now, they’re probably in the rehab center, undergoing the same horrible ‘therapy’ that he had to endure. And now? Now Xisuma has sent guards to retrieve Impulse. Or perhaps just to take him out for good. 

So when the two figures round the corner into the team’s hideaway, he swings the torch with all his might. He’s not exactly strong, though, which is why Tango easily grabs hold of the other end, ignoring the electrifying feeling of holding the redstone end of the torch. This isn’t the first time Impulse has freaked himself out to the point of becoming reactionary. “Guess that means you don’t want what we brought you then.” 

Impulse immediately lets go of the torch, relief spreading across his face and body as he sees the cool smile of Tango, the bouncy joy of Zed. They haven’t been captured, they look just fine. “I’m just glad you’re back. How was it above?” 

“We went to your apartment!” Zed pulls something out of his bag, holding it out for Impulse to see. At first, Impulse has to rub his eyes, just to be sure he’s seeing what is in Zed’s hand. His fingertips are just barely able to curl around the brass wall, the moon beginning to rise towards its peak. Almost midnight. The redstone clockwork is shoddy at best, the gears and lines easy to hear within the device. But for Impulse, it’s his most prized possession. 

He built this clock when he decided he wanted to be a redstone engineer. It was his first time using redstone, or any of that sort of material. It sparked his love for inventing, and put him on the path to the man he is now. It’s the start of everything. 

And to have it now, that Tango and Zed thought to get the clock from his apartment, makes tears well in his eyes. It hurts to gulp, but he tries his best to keep from whimpering like a baby at the thought. “Th-thank you guys.” 

“They ransacked your house. Completely torn apart.” Tango whispers, picking up the mess that Impulse had left behind while they were gone. “But luckily it only got dented. Young Impulse was thinking to use brass instead of the usual gold.” 

“Young Impulse definitely didn’t have access to gold. I don’t think current Impulse does either.” He laughs awkwardly, running his finger over the dial on the clock. Xisuma’s guards must’ve been looking for information, evidence against Impulse and the underground. He knows they found nothing. He’s smarter than that. The clock ticks under Impulse’s touch, the moon drawing nearer to its apogee. They need to leave before sunrise. “Where you guys followed?”

“We were fine. Not a soul saw us.” Zed waves off Impulse’s concern, playing catch with an apple then taking a hefty bite from the fruit. 

“Are you sure? They have eyes everywhere, Cub could’ve seen you. He could’ve followed you.” Impulse glances around, as if someone else could suddenly appear in the cave they call their hideout. 

“We were careful.” Tango nods, pulling up his multitool. The same tool that sent the coding to cut Impulse’s noose. “I used the jamming signal you came up with to keep drones from coming near us.” 

Impulse breathes a sigh of relief. He knows that signal works, so he knows his friends are right. They weren’t followed. “Then let's get going. Before someone does start to follow us.” 

“Let’s blow this popstand!” Zed cheers, shoving the apple into his mouth and shrugging his backpack over his shoulder. He bounces in his shoes, blonde hair curling and bouncing across his eyes. “Come on come on come on! No time to waste! The next time we see the sun, it’ll be with the sweet taste of freedom!” 

Tango and Impulse can’t help but smile, Zed’s enthusiasm contagious. They can hear him humming down the tunnels, footsteps skipping and echoing down the road. Tango ruffles Impulse’s hair, forcing his cowlick over his eyes and making it almost impossible to see. When he parts the unruly chocolate hair, Tango is giving him a coy wink. “Last one to the safehouse is a sticky piston!” 

Tango takes off, gilded hair wisping across the horns. Impulse chases after him, grabbing the small bag of his own supplies and stumbling out of their cave. He chases after Zed and Tango, laughing as Zed trips in between skips. He never stops humming, even as he nearly faceplants into the cracked concrete. Tango hardly stops, long lanky legs eloping by and picking Zed up by the scruff like a kitten. Tango was so much taller than others, stood out so much more than any other person in Hermitland. It’s what made him different, it’s what made him awesome. When other people would be nervous with a demon from the nether sitting next to them in class, it was Impulse’s favorite thing. No one dared pick on him and his threadbare clothes at school when Tango’s red eyes would glare them away, his tail flicking menacingly. 

Zed scrabbles up the ladder, into the cool midnight air. The trio can see the wall as they sneak free of the forgotten tunnels, closing the trapdoor hidden beneath a massive, leafy bush. Tango remembers to brush a branch over the mulch, scrambling the chips to clear off the disturbance of the three climbing out. 

The lights of this street have been broken for years, always put to the wayside of maintenance logs in lieu of work for the more affluent neighborhoods. But the people who have claimed this part of the city as home, the farmers and hard working families find joy in the darkness. The freedom that Zed, Tango, and Impulse feel to walk down the streets. Zed and Tango dance and chase after one another, blowing off the steam of excitement. They’re finally escaping. 

But for Impulse, it’s his first time above ground since he was hanged. He’s slower than the others, taking in each deep breath of the cool night air. Fresh, crisp, of the city taking a quiet sigh of relief from the hassle of the day. The moon is in gibbous, nearly full and gazing a single eye down at the world. Stars glitter and shine across the canvas of the night sky. Moonlight wasn’t harsh like the sun. It didn’t burn or scathe against skin the way that electric shocks ran across Impulse’s skin, it didn’t blind him like the harsh lights when he was interrogated. It was a nurturing light, relief from the scathing truth of the day. 

Impulse closes his eyes, stretching his arms out and feeling the night air surrounding him. Lies spoken in the day, illusions under the sun become shadows in the night, transparent and weak. The quiet hush of the night is when truths are whispered, when reasonable voices are able to be heard while the shouting crowd is fast asleep. Impulse always got his best work done at night. Impulse learned the truth at night. 

In the darkness of the night, none of them notice the stealthy drone zooming it’s lense in on the basking boy. They don’t see the antenna rise up, pointing towards Bastion Towers. 

“Come on, mate! You can take a deep breath once we’re beyond the wall!” Zed whispers in Impulse’s ear, tugging him down the silent, open road. All the way to the safehouse. A decrepit little shack, nondescript at best. Even when they enter the toolshed, nothing looks out of the ordinary. Not until Zed picks up a wooden hoe from the racks of stone and iron tools. Beneath their feet, the wood floor slips away to reveal a small tunnel. The boys hop in, dirt falling into their hair as they crawl through the low tunnel. Crawling through the tight quarters, trying not to bump into each other or the wall. Tango has it worst, his horns digging into the tunnel’s soil roof each time he leans back. 

They reach the wall, gazing at all their hard work. The wall wasn’t pure concrete, and with each stratified layer they picked away, they had to figure out a whole different solution to a whole new problem. They picked away at thick concrete, filed down metal rebar, rerouted electrical currents, disarmed alarms, even cut through a whole sheet of metal that sat at the center of the wall. All that, until they reached the other side. Right in front of Impulse, they only needed to dig out a few more shovels full of dirt. Unfortunately, freedom was put on hold when Impulse was captured. 

But now, the boys can finally pick away the last of what separates them from freedom. To finally be able to escape the city, to finally have done what no one else thought was possible. Zed and Tango squeeze on each side of Impulse, pulling the spades they have handy. And together, the three dig the dirt away. Dirt falls and is flung over their shoulders, getting between their teeth and onto their white shirts. But none of them care.

Especially when Zed’s shovel breaks through grass, digging through the roots and pushing into open air. When he pulls it back, the ground crumbles around it. 

They can see the moon on the other side. Unobstructed, save for a distant birch forest across the plains. No buildings, no walls, no streetlights or drones or guards. But there is life. Grass spreads out in all directions, a sea of green visible in the burrow the boys have dug out. Flowers dance quietly in the moonlight, brushed by wind that carries wayward leaves from far away trees. Tango was the first to find his voice. “It’s all real. We did it.” 

Impulse’s mind is tethered to the freedom before him, but gets dragged back to the dystopia behind him when he hears the sound of a door slam. Wooden, hitting something so hard that the lumber cracks and the hinges snap. His stomach and throat tighten up as the sound recalls a not too distant memory. The memory of his door being kicked open, armed guards breaking down his entrance to hunt him down. The sound of footsteps in his mind echoes the footsteps he hears at the entrance to their tunnel. 

The hatch at the other end is opened. “They found us! They're here!” 

“We have to go through now!” Zed keeps digging, trying to open the tunnel. It’s hardly even big enough for one person. 

“We have to use the other tunnel! We’re not going to make it through in time. Not all of us.” Tango points down the even smaller crawl space that they built. It was something none of them thought they’d have to use, but Impulse was insistent on. For a case just like this. 

Zed can hear voices, arguing down the dark tunnel. “Impulse can’t stay here. He can’t stay in the city- he’ll surely get captured sooner or later.” 

Zed and Tango both turn, gazing at Impulse with resolute but despondent eyes. A look that sends chills down his spine and fear through his heart. “What are you two-” 

“Come out now before things get grim. I know you're down there. Impulse, I saw you finally came out of your little hole.” A steady, calm voice hollers down the hall. Cub was here. 

Tango and Zed share a glimpse of each other’s plans within their eyes, and turn to Impulse. Simultaneously, they scoot back. Put distance between themselves and Impulse. Tears begin to form at the corner of both their eyes, and Zed’s lip quivers as Tango picks up his shovel. “We’ll see you on the other side, Impulse.” 

Horrible realization shocks through Impulse. He reaches out for his friends, for them to rethink this decision. But Tango has already struck the dirt above them, yanking it free. Soil collapses between them, and rocks fall soon after. Impulse scrambles back, his arm nearly crushed as the stones fall in. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears hit his hand. He scrabbles against the rocks, digging through the cave in. “No! No, you guys can make it! Don’t leave me!” 

No answer on the other end. Impulse strains to listen. He can hear Zed and Tango retreat, the slow creak of the escape tunnel closing in. They’re already gone, disappearing into the crowd of people. Back into the depths of the city.

But Cub remains. Impulse scurries back as the calm voice speaks through the rocks. “It’s only going to get worse from here, man. We know your every move. We will find you.” 

Panicked breathes escape Impulse’s open lips, his mind a flurry of just about every emotion he can feel. He has to put distance between him and Cub. He needs to run. 

And so he does. Impulse squeezes through the dirt hole, ignoring the grass and mud stains that smear across the white shirt he wears. The ID tag on his arm begins to warm, but he ignores it as he slips into the open field. Impulse clambers to his feet, stumbling into a sprint before he’s even upright. 

But the quiet field isn’t quiet for long. Beneath the red poppies and yellow dandelions, traps have laid in wait. Buried long ago, waiting for the day a foolish hermit decided to try and escape. Impulse vaults free of a snare as it releases, nearly grabbing hold of his leg. A net flings from a buried gun, threatening to weigh Impulse down. 

If the trapped field wasn’t enough, Impulse hears something rise up from the massive blank concrete wall. He knows he shouldn’t look back, but he can’t help his own morbid curiosity. He peeks over his shoulder, and sees something he never even thought existed within Hermitland. 

A door to outside. The concrete walls open up just enough for a black vehicle to slip through. It’s not just Cub that’s after Impulse- Doc stands in the bed of the vehicle,  a thin barrel pointed at Impulse. 

Impulse doesn’t stop running. He can’t outrun Cub or Doc, but he can outmaneuver them. The weapon fires, a dart filled with sloshing liquid burying itself into the ground next to Impulse. It’s not a bullet, thank god, but Impulse knows that if Doc is involved it’s something much worse. The escapee skids to the side, forcing the black vehicle to change direction as he focuses on his goal. 

A forest, just beyond the edge of the plain. Tall, thick birch trees that will be the guardians against the attacking leaders. Barriers for those who wish to keep Impulse from escaping. The hair on Impulse’s head sticks out in all directions, his body electrified as a shock shell detonates beside Impulse. The zapping sound of electricity makes him run all the harder. Flee from what he knows is already awaiting him if Doc gets his hands on Impulse...again. 

Impulse meets the treeline, but he doesn’t stop. When he hears the vehicle screech to a halt, he doesn’t stop. When he hears Doc and Cub yelling, swearing and arguing, he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop running until the sound, the sight of the city are long gone. Until his legs give out from under him, and all the emotions spread ruin within him. 

They’re gone. Zed and Tango, they gave up their freedom for him. Forced him to leave them. He’s alone, lost beyond the wall. Everything he’s ever known is now behind him. His entire life, his entire world. Every person he’s ever known, ever seen. 

He’s alone. Lost, on the run. And without the only people he wanted to do this with.

[papa-rhys]

By Chance (Javier X Reader)

Note: First fanfic I’ve posted in a looong while. It’s a rare occurrence lmao I don’t have plans to come back to fanfic writing. This just came to me as a dream so here ya go. Enjoy!

Category: fluff? 

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2411

The air in the train car is bitterly cold, biting at your skin and turning your fingers pale, despite it being well into the spring months by now. The open-ended cars and thinly sealed windows are to thank for that - West Elizabeth’s Central rail is known for many things, but luxury and decadence are not on the list.

You’re sat at the very pack of the fourth passenger car; right where you’re supposed to be. After all, behind you is nothing but luggage and payroll. No room to fit seating back there, so here you’ll stay until it’s your time to shine.

With your eyes out the window, surveying the mountains that drift by in all their white-dusted glory, you make a mental note of your surroundings. It pays to be careful around these parts. Beyond the couple bickering a few rows ahead, the child pestering her mother up front, and the two men chunnering about their work hours, there isn’t much threat lurking within the trains rickety wooden walls.

Save for the rather handsome man watching you, of course.

You dare to glance over at him, taking in every element of him in the fraction of a second that it takes for your eyes to flick over him and snap back to the window at your side again.

Bowler hat, blue waistcoat, gold-capped boots poking out from where he sits with his legs sprawled across both seats, back pressed against the window - not well dressed enough to be a bigwig, but definitely not strapped for cash with boots like that on his feet. Dark skin, darker hair, and a smirk on his lips as he watches you; visible even from your peripheral. He taps his fingers in a rhythm on the backrest, eyes locked on you.

He’s definitely flirting.

Your stop isn’t for another 43 minutes. You can afford a little fun before then. After all, being all business and no pleasure would be a painfull dull way to live, and if an unsuspecting deer is to walk into your trap, then who are you to deny a hearty stew?

A strategical lip nibble here, a well-thought-out hair tuck there. Eventually, he comes to the right conclusion: you’re flirting too.

The man swings his legs off his bench and rises to his feet, making his way to the back of the car with his hands steadying him against the push and pull of the train in motion. At least once, he ducks into a row to wait out the pull of the train curving around a mountain, hand gripping the backrest for support until the tracks straighten again and he’s on the move once more.

He stops beside your seat and you wait one, two, three seconds before slowly pulling your gaze from the window and looking up at him as if his presence wasn’t noticed.

“This seat taken?” he asks, nodding his head towards the empty seat beside you. 

“Doesn’t appear to be, does it?”

His lips curve upwards until the smile reaches his eyes, making deep brown pools narrow. Without another word, he sinks into the seat next to you and spreads his legs out in front of him. His casual demeanour makes him a much harder mark, but a more exciting one for certain. Anyone can charm a stray dog, easy. But a peacock - they’re the tricky ones. Complimenting someone is the easiest way to win their affection and there aren’t many compliments you can use on a peacock that they don’t already think about themselves.

“Do I recognise you?” you ask, shifting in your seat to angle towards him.

He blinks at you for just a second too long, the cogs turning inside his head as he mentally churns through every possibility that could arise if he answered the question. 

He’s a wanted man, then. That’ll explain the fancy clothing. 

“I don’t think we’ve met,” he says.

The corner of your mouth quirks upwards for a moment and you allow him to see it. You pull your voice low, keeping it light but quiet. Flirtatious. “That isn’t what I asked, is it?”

You watch him for a few beats and then he relents, turning away and surveying the car that’s folded around you both; the people occupying it, with their newspapers and hats and talk of the weather. The man beside you takes a breath and you wait for what he’ll say.

“I think I would've noticed if I’d met you before,” he says, eyes still scanning the car. “Someone as good-looking and out of place as you. You don’t strike me as the type of person I’d forget.”

A regular Romeo.

“Good-looking?” You don’t bother hiding the smile in your voice. It comes so naturally and it’s a tool worth using. “Well, aren’t you a flatterer?”

Romeo chuckles softly and you risk a sidelong glance, taking in his smile. It’s slightly crooked, one side rising higher than the other, and there’s something sweet about that; something real and grounded among the façade created by his shiny, polished boots and perfectly tailored waistcoat.

“Not flattery, just the truth.” He returns your sideways glance and catches your gaze, thoughtful eyes meeting yours. Your pulse quickens and starts off a drum beat thumping in your ears.

You turn your head towards the window, finding trees gliding by, rays of morning sun seeping between them. “There aren’t any guards in the luggage car,” you tell him. The hairs on the back of your neck tell you he’s turned to watch you.

“How do you know that?” he asks.

You turn back to look at Romeo once again. “If you feel like making your morning commute a little more interesting, then we could always relocate to the luggage care for the next, say, 20 minutes?”

A devilish smile blooms across his face, teeth gleaming. “Make it 30 minutes.”

You stifle the urge to giggle, keeping it locked deep in our chest and opting for a smile instead. “You think big of yourself, huh? In that case,” you rise to your feet, smoothing out your clothes, “it’ll probably be more like 10 minutes.”

“You’ve wounded me,” he says, allowing you to slip past him and into the aisle before pulling himself up off the bench and following you back to the luggage car.

_______

The two of you tumble into the wall of the luggage car, hitting the wood with an audible oof as the air is shoved from your lungs. But you’re too busy thinking about the hands on your waist, the lips at your shoulder, to even contemplate how badly that collision will bruise you tomorrow.

Romeo, it turns out, is a very good kisser. 

His breath comes in shallow huffs and the air from lips brushes against your skin, warming you against the chill outside. 

The train car rocks and rumbles, tossing you from side to side every now and then, but Romeo is on hand to steady you, keeping you o your feet. It’s not long before the train hits a bend and the two of you are unceremoniously thrown towards the other wall with the momentum. Romeo’s smile widens as he watches you clutch the window frame for support, the two of you momentarily separated. His smile is infectious, it seems, and soon enough you’re mirroring his gleam - your smile just as dreamy as his could ever be, according to the soldiers at Fort Wallace.

“Do you often find yourself frolicking with strangers in the luggage cars of trains?” you ask him.

“Depends on the stranger,” he shrugs.

“And I satisfy, yes?”

Romeo’s smile brightens a fraction. “Ay, I suppose.”

“Well, then I think maybe you should come over here and -” You cut yourself short as the scenery outside the window gives way to open land; trees dissipating, replaced by open grassy hills littered with low-lying shrub. You must have lost track of time. Your stop is close, now. 

Into action you spring, pushing off on the balls of your feet and flying by Romeo, leaving him with a confused smile and a face full of your flowing scarf. 

You’re all quiet muttering and business-like focus as you flip up the hollowed-out floorboards at the back of the car to retrieve the bag you’d stowed in it before boarding the train. Romeo joins you at the back of the car just as you come up to stand again, bringing the back with you and shoving one hand deep inside it to rummage through its contents.

“You might not want to be here much longer,” you say; eyes flicking up to Romeo briefly and finding him with a puzzled look.

“Why?” he asks, voice teeming with suspicion. 

Your fingers brush against the thing you’re looking for and you pull out your trusty neckerchief from the bottom of the bag and begin tying it around your face, stowing the bag between your legs while you work.

“You’re here to rob the train?” Romeo blurts, amusement and surprise mingling on his features, accompanied by… is that lust? Jesus, is this guy getting a thrill out of this? He’s even more curious than you’d thought.

“We all get our jollies off one way or another,” you flirt. “You jaunt around with strangers; I rob people blind. If I must go to hell for it, then, well… C’est la vie.”

With that, you promptly turn your attention to ransacking the surround cupboards, which may hold the odd trinket, but don’t contain the main prize. You move back a car, past the catatonic guard you’d generously shared a drink with at the start of your journey. Of course, you hadn’t drank from the same flask, but he didn’t know that.

You don’t even have to search the car to know where you’re heading. Eyes locking onto the bulky safe at the end of the car, you press forward, paying no mind to Romeo trailing behind you. 

After tipping a handful of gunpowder on the lock of the safe, you find view obstructed by Romeo’s arm, extending a lit match towards your pile of black powder. Looking up, you’re met with a very different man than the one you were sat next to in the passenger car not half an hour ago. With a black neckerchief covering his nose and mouth and a shiny six-shooter held lazily by his side in one hand, it’s his turn to baffle you. Oh, how the tables have turned. 

“C’est la vie,” he shrugs. 

Neither of you can see the other’s smile behind your masks, but you both know it’s there; lips curled up against the fabric.

You nod. Take a step back. Watch. In a heartbeat, he’s set your powder alight and the mound burns bright white like the centre of the sun for a few moments before fizzling out into a glowing molten mess. With a quick smack with the butt of his revolver, the lock gives, and the view before you is enough to send you skipping around the car singing praises for the Lord.

Gold bars sit on the top shelf of the safe, neatly arranged into rows like little gleaming soldiers. The bottom shelf holds bags; one of which has spilled from the safe and now leaks its contents over the floorboards - gold coins, freshly forged and on the way to the bank.

It’s a beautiful sight. 

Shame the bank will never see it.

The two of you stand in a stupor for a few moments, captivated by the sight of riches and all of the lavish ways of spending it that your brains come up with, and then you shake yourselves out of it and get moving. 

Stuffing handful after handful into the bag, the two of your work double time. A quick look at the passing scenery tells you that your stop is rapidly approaching. Romeo grabs a few of the bars, but you shake your head. “Too heavy. I can’t carry them.”

“Then I’ll take the bag,” he says.

“You will not.” You pull the bag close to your chest as if he might rip it from your hands at any moment. “This is my job.”

His shoulders deflate, frustration taking hold for a moment. “You can trust me.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Javier,” he says. “Javier Escuella.”

Jesus Christ, you’re really in trouble, now. 

He’s got an even higher price on his head than you have. Hell, you could leave this loot behind and turn him in for 10 times the amount of anything in this train. A small voice points out that he trusted you with his real name, which means you can probably trust him in return. No crook would have dobbed himself in like that if he had intentions of stabbing you in the back right after.

“Okay,” you sigh, handing over the bag. “Grab as many as you can.”

Whistles cut the air as Javier fills the bag with bars. The further down the length of the train have caught wind of something being wrong. If they’re close enough for you to hear their whistles, they’ll be here in force soon enough.

“We need to go,” you tell Javier, tapping him on the shoulder and prompting him to hurry. As a smear of blue appears in your peripheral, you pull up and haul him away from the safe by the shoulder of his jacket. “Now!”

You head for the back end of the train and find tracks staring back at you. 

“Jump,” you tell him.

Without another word, Javier leaps from the back of the train, landing in the centre of the tracks with his knees bent in a crouch and the bag in one hand. You turn the face the oncoming guard and offer him a quick salute before leaping from the train and leaving him in the doorframe.

Javier joins you in the spot where you landed and pulls you to your feet by the arm.

Before the guard has the chance to call out to his friends, the two of you duck into the passing forest that surrounds Heatherfield Station - your stop, chosen for the cover it offers via the trees.

And with that, you can add one more job to your resume and enjoy the fruit of your labour in whatever local pigsty you pass through next.

You’re not sure what you’re going to do with Romeo, though.

You suppose you can think of a few things.

[therealmadblonde]

October 31

And so the day arrived, cloudy, and with a small wind out of the north. I told myself that I was not nervous, that as an old hand at this there were no jitters of anticipation, rushes of anxiety, waves of pure fear. But I had gone down to the basement to begin my rounds when I realized that there were no rounds to make, and I found myself returning to check our assembly of ingredients and tools over and over again.

Finally, I went out and visited Larry’s place. He was gone from his grove and the house seemed empty.

I went looking for Graymalk, and when we met we took a walk together.

We hiked for a long time in silence before she said, “You and Jack will be the only closers there.”

“It looks that way,” I said.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

“Jill and I will be going to a meeting at the vicarage this afternoon. Morris and MacCab will be there, too.”

“Oh? Strategy session?”

“I guess so.”

We climbed to Dog’s Nest and looked around. An altarlike raised area of boulders had been built up before the big stone. Heavy boards lay across it. Some kindling for the banefire was already stacked, farther off.

“Right there,” she said.

“Yes.”

“We’re going to protest the sacrifice part.”

“Good.”

“You think Larry will be able to do what he plans?”

“I don’t know.”

We climbed down a different way than we’d gone up, discovering some fresh misshapen footprints. “I wonder what’ll become of the big fellow now,” she said. “I feel sorry for him. That night he picked me up he didn’t mean to hurt me, I could tell.”

“Another lost one,” I said.

“Yes, sad.”

We walked again in silence, then, “I want to stand near you in the arc,” she said. “I believe the vicar will be at the left end, with Morris and MacCab next to him, Tekela and Nightwind with them, then Jill. I will stand to her right. I will assume a position three paces forward. That would put you and Jack beside us.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’ve been working for this arrangement. You must be to my right and slightly back— that is, to Jack’s left.”

“Why?”

“Because something bad may happen if you stand to his right.”

“How do you know this?”

“My small wisdom.”

I thought about it. The old cat in the Dreamworld was obviously on her side, and she was an opener. Therefore, he could be setting me up for something. However, his remarks concerning the Elders had almost seemed disparaging, and he had seemed kindly disposed toward me. Reason stopped here. I knew that I had to trust my feelings.

“I’ll do it.”

When we neared our area, I said, “I’m going to walk over again to see whether Larry’s back. Want to come with?”

“No. That meeting…”

“All right. Well — It’s — been good.”

“Yes. I never knew a dog this well before.”

“Same with cats and me. I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yes.”

She headed home.

I searched all around Larry’s place again, but there was no sign of his return. On my way home, I heard my name hissed from a clump of weeds.

“Snuff, old boy. Good to see you. I was on my way over. Saved me a trip…”

“Quicklime! What have you been up to?”

“Hanging out in that orchard, eating the hard stuff,” he said. “Just stopped by for a quick one, on the way over.”

“Why were you coming to see me?”

“Learned something. Wanted you to know.”

“What?” I asked.

“I picked up a bad habit from Rastov, I guess. Look at me. I feel like I’m shedding my skin.”

“You’re not.”

“I know. But I really liked him. When I left you, I headed for the orchard and just started eating the old, fermented ones. It was — snug — with him. I felt like somebody needed me. The fruit’s almost gone now. I’ll come around. I’ll be all right. But I’ll miss him. He was a good man. The vicar got him — that’s what Nightwind told me. Wanted to narrow the field. That’s why the Count disposed of Owen — to send the vicar a message. You’ll get the vicar, won’t you?”

“Quick, I think you’ve had too much. Owen was killed after the Count was staked.”

“Clever, isn’t he? That’s what I was coming to tell you about. He fooled us. He’s still around.”

“What? How?”

“When I reached the peak of my indulgence the other night,” he replied, “I suddenly felt terribly lonely. I didn’t want to be alone, so I went looking for someone, something— lights, movement, sounds. I went over to the Gipsy camp, which was perfect. I curled up beneath a wagon, planning to spend the night there and sleep it off. But I overheard parts of a conversation from the wagon which led me to make my way up between its floorboards. I had chosen the wagon, and a pair of guards were in it. Sometimes they’d speak in their own tongue, sometimes in English — the younger one wanted the practice. I spent the night in there instead of below. But I learned the story. I even found an opening that gave me a view of the casket.”

“He’s with the Gipsies?”

“Yes. They guard him by day as he sleeps, guard the casket at night when he’s away.”

“So he’d faked it,” I said. “Dressed the skeleton we’d found in his garments, put the stake into it himself.”

“Yes, the crumbly skeleton that was already there.”

“…And that’s why the ring wasn’t on it.”

“Yes, and he was safe in that, too. Anybody finding the remains would assume that the staker had taken it.”

I felt a chill.

“Quick, he did make this arrangement after the death of the moon, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Your calculations would be unaffected.”

“Good. But this I don’t understand — the Count killed Owen because the vicar killed Rastov. Owen was an opener. Does that reflect a particular sympathy on the part of the Count? Or was he simply out to check the vicar and keep the violence from spreading?”

“I don’t know. Nothing was said on the matter.” I growled softly.

“This is a complicated one,” I said.

“Agreed. Now you know everything I do.”

“Thanks. Want to come with me?”

“No. I’m really out of the Game. Good luck.”

“’Luck, Quick.”

I heard him slither off.

It rained a little that afternoon, and stopped shortly after sunset. I went outside to look for the moon, and Bubo came with me. The clouds still veiled her, however, and all we could see was the big area of brightness she shed in the east. The wind blew chill.

“So this is it,” Bubo said. “By morning it will all be decided.”

“Yes.”

“I wish I could have been playing all along.”

“A wish on the moon,” I said. “It may be true. You have been playing, in a way. You’ve traded information, you’ve watched things develop, same as the rest of us.”

“Yes, but I didn’t really do important things like the rest of you.”

“It’s mainly the little things — all added up — that give us the final picture, that make the difference.”

“I suppose so,” he said. “Yes, it was fun. Do you think — Could I possibly come with? I’d like to see it happen, however it goes.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We couldn’t be responsible for a civilian, too. I think it’s going to be a rough one.”

“I understand,” he replied. “I’d guessed you’d say that, but I had to ask.”

I left him there after a time, watching the sky. The moon was still hidden. And so…

We left before midnight, of course, Jack and I, he in a warm coat and carrying a satchel containing the equipment. Under his other arm, he bore a few small logs for the fire. We left without bothering to lock the door.

The sky was beginning to clear overhead, though the moon was still masked. There was sufficient light just from its glow-through, however, to show our way clearly. There was a chill, damp breeze at our backs.

Soon, Dog’s Nest was before us, and Jack decided we should circle it and mount its eastern slope.

We did that, and as we came in sight of the top a small glow was already apparent off in the circle toward the stone with the inscription. Moving nearer, we saw that Vicar Roberts and Morris and MacCab were tending a small fire they had obviously just gotten going, nursing it to achieve greater compass. The vicar’s ear was unbandaged now, and light showed through two high perforations in it. The heap of kindling was much larger than when Graymalk and I had been by earlier.

The banefire is a necessary part of our business. It goes all the way back into the misty vastness of our practices. Both sides require it, so in this sense it is a neutral instrument. After midnight, it comes to burn in more than one world, and we may add to it those things which enhance our personal strengths and serve our ends. It attracts otherworldly beings sympathetic to both sides, as well as neutral spirits who may be swayed by the course of the action. Voices and sights may pass through it, and it serves as a secondary, supportive point of manifestation to whatever the opening or closing object may be.

Customarily, we all bring something to feed it, and it interacts with all of us throughout the ritual. I had urinated on one of our sticks, for example, several days earlier. There are times when players have been attacked by its flames; and I can recall an instance when one was defended by a sudden wall of fire it issued. It is also good for disposing of evidence. It comes in handy on particularly cold nights, too.

“Good evening,” Jack said as we approached, and he added his contribution to the woodpile.

“Good evening, Jack,” the vicar said, and Morris and MacCab nodded.

Lynette lay on her back upon the altar, head turned in our direction, eyes closed, breathing slow. Well drugged, of course. She had on a long white garment, and her dark hair hung loose. I looked away. Obviously, the protest had been overridden. I sniffed the air. No sign of Jill or Graymalk yet.

The fire bloomed more brightly. Jack set his bag down and moved to help with it. I decided on a quick patrol of the area, and I made a big circuit. There was nothing unusual to be found. I went and stared at the huge stone. Just then the edge of the moon appeared from behind the clouds. Its light fell upon it. The markings had become visible again — dark, upon the illuminated surface. I went and sat by Jack’s satchel. The vicar had on a dark cloak which made a swishing sound as he moved. It did not conceal the fact that he was a short, slightly fat man, and it neither added to nor detracted from his appearance of menace. That was all in his face, with its intense expression of controlled mania. The moon was doubled in his glasses.

Under their joint ministrations the banefire grew to a respectable size. The vicar was the first to toss something into it, a small parcel which crackled and flared bluely. I took a sniff. It involved herbs I’d encountered before. Morris added two parcels, which I could tell involved bones. Jack added a very small one which produced a green flash. I tossed in one of my own, along with the pissed-on stick. The moon slid completely free of the clouds.

The vicar went and stared at the inscription, not even glancing at his stepdaughter. Then he backed away, turned to his left, took several paces, halted, turned back toward the stone. He adjusted his position slightly, then scuffed at the ground with his bootheel.

“I will position myself here,” he stated, glancing at Jack.

“I have no objection,” Jack said. “Your associates will be to your right, I presume?”

“That was what I had in mind. Morris here, MacCab to his right, then Jill,” he said, gesturing.

Jack nodded, just as a dark shape swept past the face of the moon. Moments later, Nightwind dropped out of the sky, coming to rest atop the woodpile.

“Hello, Snuff,” he observed. “Care to switch?”

“No, thanks. Yourself?”

He did one of those unusual rotations of his head.

“I think not, especially when we outnumber you in all respects.”

Shortly, Tekela swept in with a caw, landing upon the vicar’s left shoulder.

“Greetings, Nightwind,” she said.

“A good Game to you, sister.”

She looked at me and looked away. She said nothing. Neither did I. Everyone added more kindling and more ingredients to the fire. Finally, a pair of fairly large logs were set upon it. Many-colored flames played about them, and soon the logs darkened and the fires danced upon their surfaces. A mixture of odors reached me as powders, bones, herbs, fleshy samples of anatomy — both human and other — were added. A few vials of liquid were also dumped upon it, to smolder and produce heavy, crawling ropes of smoke, to flare brightly, briefly. Within the crackling, I seemed to hear a subliminal whispering begin.

I heard Jill’s footsteps mounting the northern slope long before she appeared. When she did she was hard to distinguish against the night for several moments, as she had on a hooded black cloak over a long black dress. She looked taller, more slim; and she carried Graymalk, though she set her down immediately when she achieved the level area.

“Good evening,” she said, in general. All four men responded.

“Hi, Snuff,” Graymalk said, coming up beside me. “It’s a good fire already.”

“Yes.”

“As you can see…”

“You were overridden.”

“Did you find Larry?”

“No.”

“Oh my.”

“There is a backup plan,” I said, and Nightwind came by just then, to greet Graymalk.

I felt a strong desire to howl at the moon. It was such a howlable moon. But I restrained myself.

The smell of incense reached me. Jill had just begun casting parcels into the banefire. The moon moved nearer to midheaven.

“How will we know when it is time to begin?” Graymalk asked me.

“When we can talk with the people.”

“Of course.”

“How’s your back?”

“It’s all right now. You look fit.”

“I’m fine.”

We watched the fire for a time. Another log was added, and more packets. The smells became a sweetly seductive bouquet. The flames leaped higher now, changing colors regularly, flickering in the wind. Sharp, tinkling musical sounds came sporadically from their midst, and the sounds of voices rose into and out of audibility. Looking away from it, my gaze was attracted by a new light source. The inscription was beginning to glow. Overhead, the moon had reached midheaven.

“Jack, can you hear me?” I called.

“Loud and clear, Snuff. Well-met by moonlight. What’s on your mind?”

“Just checking the time,” I said.

Suddenly Nightwind was talking to Morris and MacCab, Tekela to the vicar.

“I guess it’s time,” Graymalk said, “to take our places.”

“It is,” I replied.

She went off to collect Jill, who was tossing a final packet into the fire. The air was distorted above its colored flames now, as if it were burning in more than one place simultaneously, and in the shimmering area just about it one could catch glimpses of some of those other places. From somewhere to the north, I heard the howl of a wolf.

The vicar went and stood at the spot he had indicated. Morris and MacCab moved to take up their positions to his right; Nightwind stood atop a rock between them. Then Jill moved to stand beside MacCab, Graymalk next to her but three cat-paces forward. I went and stood near her, Jack to my right. The line was bowed, out away from the big stone, with Jack and the vicar across from each other. Lynette dozed on the altar about ten feet in front of me.

From somewhere within his cloak, the vicar removed the pentacle bowl, which he placed on the ground before him. Then he withdrew the Alhazred Icon, which he propped against a rock to his left, facing the glowing stone. Nightwind moved to a new position, back behind the pentacle. The openers always begin things, as the closers’ work is purely reactive.

Jack’s satchel, to his right, was already open, from the removal of various ingredients for the banefire, but he leaned and spread its mouth fully, for easy access.

MacCab knelt and spread a piece of white cloth upon the ground before him. As it was windy, he weighted its corners with small stones. Then, from an ornate sheath which hung from his belt beneath his jacket, he drew a long, thin blade which looked to me like a sacrificial knife, and he placed this upon the cloth, point toward the altar.

Then the moon went out. We all looked upward as a dark shape covered it, descending, rushing toward us. Morris shrieked shrilly as it fell, changing shape as if dark veils swam about it. And then the moon shone again, and the piece of midnight sky which had fallen came to earth beside Jack, and I saw that vision-twisting transformation of which Graymalk had spoken — here, there, a twist, a swirl, a dark bending — and the Count stood at Jack’s side, smiling a totally evil smile. He laid his left hand — the dark ring visible upon it — upon Jack’s right shoulder.

“I stand with him,” he said, “to close you out.” Vicar Roberts stared at him and licked his lips.

“I would think one of your sort more inclined to our view in this matter,” the vicar stated.

“I like the world just the way it is,” said the Count. “Pray, let us begin.” The vicar nodded.

“We shall,” he said, “to its proper conclusion, with the Gate thrown wide.”

The Count tossed a twig and a small parcel into the flames. The fire moved in its colorful dance, crackling and chiming, burning a hole in the night, through which the voices — now chanting — emerged. Shadows constantly moved past us, over the altar, and across the face of the stone. I heard the howl again, much nearer.

I looked at the vicar and saw him flinch. But he straightened and performed an opening gesture. He spoke a word of power, deeply, slowly. It hung in the air and resonated afterwards.

The inscription on the stone began to glow a little more brightly, and now — very faintly — I could discern the formation of the door-like rectangle come to frame it, that configuration which earlier had sucked Graymalk and me through to our Dreamworld adventure.

The vicar repeated the word and the rectangle came clear.

Within the chanting, I could now hear faintly “Iä! Shub-Niggurath!” being repeated, as if in response. Ahead of me, Graymalk had risen to her feet and was standing very stiffly.

The vicar turned then, rather than proceeding to the next phase, and moved slowly to the cloth on which the sacrificial blade rested. To his rear, I noted that the Alhazred Icon had also begun to glow. He knelt and raised the blade with both hands, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. Then he rose and turned toward the altar, Tekela still upon his shoulder.

And there came a movement from my right, beyond Jack and the Count. Another dark shape was moving to join us.

The vicar had taken but a single step ahead when a great, gray wolf moved into the firelight and rushed past him toward the altar. Larry Talbot had arrived, apparently in reasonable control of his faculties.

He seized hold of the girl’s left shoulder with his teeth and dragged her down from the altar. With that rapid backing motion I had seen him employ before, he dragged her quickly before us toward the north, whence he had come, to my right.

The report of a gunshot filled the air and Larry staggered, a dark blot appearing and spreading high upon his left shoulder. The vicar held a smoking revolver, pointed in his direction. Larry continued moving almost immediately, however, and the vicar fired again.

This time there was blood on the top of Larry’s head, and he uttered a moaning sound as his jaws fell open and Lynette dropped to the ground. Larry slumped forward then, and the shiftings of firelight and shadow swam over him. The chanting continued — “Iä!

Shub-Niggurath!” — against the strange music. The vicar pulled the trigger again. There followed a clicking sound from the pistol, but no discharge. Immediately, he drew it near and worked the hammer. Suddenly, as he released it, there was a sharp report and the round kicked up dirt near the south end of the altar. The vicar hurled the weapon to the ground, perhaps having cast only three rounds. Homemade bullets…

“Get her back onto the altar!” the vicar ordered. Morris and MacCab immediately departed their positions and moved toward the supine girl. Larry’s sides were still heaving heavily, and his eyes were closed. There was a lot more blood, on his head, neck, shoulder, now.

“Stop!” the Count said. “Players are forbidden to move a sacrifice once the ceremony is in progress!”

The vicar stared at him. Morris and MacCab halted, looked back and forth from the vicar to the Count.

“I never heard of such a restriction,” the vicar said.

“It is a part of the tradition,” Jack stated. “There must always be a small — even if only symbolic — exit open to a sacrifice in this. They may go as far as they can. They may be stopped. The place where they fall becomes the new altar. Do otherwise and you destroy the pattern we have created. The results could be disastrous.”

The vicar pondered for a moment, then said, “I don’t believe you. You’re outnumbered. It’s a closer’s bluff, to make things more awkward for me. Morris! MacCab! Put her back!”

The Count stepped forward as they advanced.

“In a case such as this,” he said, “the opposing parties are permitted to resist the desecration.”

I heard heavy, clumping footsteps in the distance, but they seemed to be passing the hill rather than approaching it.

Morris and MacCab had hesitated but then they moved forward, reaching for Lynette.

The Count flowed forward. No single limb seemed to stir, but suddenly he was there beside them. Then he raised his arms, out to the sides, his cloak dependent therefrom; and he moved them forward, completely engulfing the men within its folds. He stood thus for only an instant, arms across his chest, before a succession of snapping sounds could be heard.

He opened his arms and they fell to the earth, to lie at odd angles, blood emerging from their ears, noses, and mouths. Their eyes were wide. They did not breathe.

“You dare?” the vicar cried. “You dare to touch my people?”

The Count turned his head slowly, raising his arms again.

“You presume,” he said, “to address me so.”

He flowed toward the vicar, but much more slowly. The music came clearer and clearer, the chanting louder, the inscription brighter. And as he moved, I beheld a silent form in the shadows to my right, whose presence had first reached me in the form of his scent, which I recognized from an encounter in a wood by moonlight. He approached soundlessly, the stranger wolf.

The vicar’s hand snaked out from beneath his cloak, casting something toward the Count. Immediately, the flowing ceased and the Count stiffened. In the meantime, shielded from the vicar’s view by the Count’s body, the stranger wolf entered the firelight, took hold of Lynette’s shoulder and continued what Larry had begun, dragging her back into the darkness.

The Count was suddenly less than graceful. He swayed. He took an awkward step toward the vicar, whose hand dipped beneath his own cloak to emerge and repeat whatever he had done.

“What — is it?” the Count asked, reeling toward the vicar, who retreated before him. Then the Count fell.

“Dirt from one of your own caskets,” the vicar replied, “mixed with pieces of my church’s altar stone relic, left over from more papish times. Fingerbone of St. Hilarian, according to the records. You require your consecrated soil, but overconsecration is like the difference between a therapeutic and a debilitating dose of strychnine. Do you not agree?”

The Count muttered a reply in a foreign language, as the wolf disappeared with Lynette; and I realized that, from all his talks with Larry, plus his knowledge of drugs, and the samples he had obtained, he had succeeded several days ago in developing his own ideal dosage, and I had just witnessed the Great Detective’s greatest disguise yet. I howled a “Well done!” into the night. Later, a “Good luck!” came back to me.

The inscription glowed brilliantly now. Whether the deaths of Morris and MacCab had contributed to this was hard to tell. The vicar looked up and saw that Lynette was gone. He glared at Jill.

“You should have told me,” he said.

“I didn’t notice till now,” she replied.

“Neither did I,” said Nightwind.

The vicar picked up the sacrificial knife which he had dropped, moved back to his position, and drove the blade into the ground at his feet.

He straightened then, repeated the word of power, and said another. Immediately, his face became the snouted, tusked visage of a boar with a shredded ear. This lasted for perhaps a minute before Larry’s eyes opened. He turned his head, saw that Lynette was gone, looked immediately to the altar, saw she was not there either. He tried to rise, failed. I wondered how serious his condition was. True, there was a lot of blood, but head wounds are often that way. Even a silver bullet still has to hit something major.

Larry tried to crawl forward, succeeded in moving perhaps half a foot, paused, and panted.

The vicar spoke another word. Graymalk was suddenly striped like a small tiger. This, too, passed quickly. Tekela was starting to look like a vulture. Suddenly, Jill was an ancient hag, bent far forward, hooked nose almost touching her jutting chin, strands of white hair hanging about her face. I glanced at Jack and saw that he suddenly wore the shaggy head of a great brown bear, yellow eyes staring forward, saliva running from the corners of his mouth. Looking downward, I saw that my fur was blood-red and moist; and I felt as if horns jutted from my brow. I had no idea what I might resemble, but Graymalk drew back in alarm. The boar spoke again, and the word rang like a bell in the chill air. The Count was suddenly a skeleton wrapped in black. Something unseen  passed high overhead, laughing like a demented child. Pale mushrooms sprang up all about us, and a shifting of breezes brought me sulfurous scents from the fire. A green liquid flowed outward from that blaze, spreading in bubbling streams. The chanting now seemed to contain all of our names. MacCab had become a woman whose painted face began to peel off in long strips. Beside him, Morris was now an ape, his long hairy arms reaching to the ground, and he leaned to rest upon his knuckles. His mouth was opened wide, showing an enormous expanse of teeth and gums. Larry was now a bleeding man sprawled upon the ground. The air before us shimmered and became a mirror, giving this entire prospect back to us. Then our reflected heads detached themselves and drifted leftwards. It was a strange feeling, passing out of one and into another, for I seemed unmoved, though I felt the sudden weight of the bear-head, saw the hog’s drift by to settle upon Jack’s shoulders. Graymalk suddenly wore an overlarge one, horned, demonic; Jill, a small striped cat’s head — and so on along our crescent. Then the bodies shifted to the right, and I was a cat with a bear’s head, lying flat because of its weight, my heart thudding like a steam engine. Jack had become a boar-headed demon. Again, the laughter rang from overhead. If I were not my body or my head, what was I — sprawled there amid the mushrooms and the stench, another wave of chanting rolling in my ears? Illusion, it must all be illusion, mustn’t it? I never knew before and I still didn’t know. The mushrooms blackened, shriveled, and fell when the hot green flow reached them. Our images in the mirror wavered, became splashes of our dominant colors, flowed together. I looked downward again, but everything was hazy. Upward then, at some half-noted change. The moon had gone blood-red and was dripping upon us. A shooting star cut past it. Another. Another. Soon multitudes of them rained down the heavens. The mirror cracked, and Jack and I stood alone at our end, our forms returned to us, as a great gust of wind out of the north blew away the haze. The others came clear, also, restored, in their piece of reflection. The starfall lessened. The moon grew pink, then turned back to butter and ivory. I sighed and held my place, felt Graymalk’s gaze pass over me. The green tendrils from the fire began to congeal, lavalike. For a moment, I seemed to hear a collection of animal sounds from within the flames — baas, nickers, whinnies, whimpers, a sharp barking, several varieties of howling, the coughing of a giant cat, a croaking, a mewling cry. There followed a stillness, save for the fire’s own cracking and snapping.

I felt a familiar tingling in the air. The time had come for the opening. I glanced at Jack and could tell that he felt it, too.

Larry dragged himself another foot forward.

I was looking at the vicar as he spoke the final word. I saw the Count’s left hand twitch. But apparently the vicar did, too, and he stooped and raised the pentacle. Something dark fled forth from the Count’s ring, but the vicar caught it in the pentacle bowl and it was reflected off into the night. It was probably too late for killing the man, anyway, for the opening was definitely beginning. The vicar stooped again, raised the icon, and placed it upon the Count’s chest. The ring did not flare again. All in all, as I regarded both Larry and the Count, I was forced to a sort of grudging respect for the fellow. He was much better at his business than I’d have guessed.

“Jill,” he called out, “use the wand now.”

Jill reached inside her cloak, produced the wand, raised it. Oddly, the growing brightness of the stone halted for a moment. Jack had his wand out in an instant, raising it and training it upon the same target. I heard the heavy footsteps again, this time approaching us. The rectangle began to brighten once more, and a great depth occurred within it, swimming with colored lights. The cries from the banefire grew louder and louder: “Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Hail to the Black Goat!” The music also increased in intensity, and the moon blazed like a beacon overhead. Larry began dragging himself farther along. The experiment man came into view off to the right, heading toward us. I glanced at Jack. Beads of perspiration had formed upon his brow. I could tell that he was pouring his will and spirit into the wand, but the opening continued. The experiment man lumbered up to us.

“Pret-ty kit-ty,” he said, pausing in front of Jack, which might have killed anyone else, but he already smelled of death and seemed aware of nothing untoward.

Suddenly, the opening was arrested, the Gateway lost some of its depth. The experiment man stooped and quickly snatched up Graymalk.

“Pret-ty kit-ty,” he repeated. Then he turned and walked away in the direction whence he had come.

“Put me down!” she cried. “I can’t leave now!”

He sat down just beyond the firelight and commenced petting her.

Larry continued his crawl, steady now. Depth returned to the Gateway. I thought I saw a tentacle stir within it. Then something large and amorphous seemed to be drifting our way.

“This isn’t working well,” I heard a small voice say. I sought its source.

Bubo’s head had emerged from the left side pocket of Jack’s coat.

“Bubo, what are you doing here?” I asked.

“I had to see it,” he said, “to learn whether what I’d done was right. I’m not too sure now.”

Yes, it was a tentacle, extended from the dark, approaching mass, reaching for the Gateway…

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’m a pack rat,” he said. “I thought you were outnumbered and outgunned, and I wanted your side to win. So I did the only thing I know how — ”

“What?” I asked, already beginning to guess.

The dark mass was much nearer, and I smelled a deep reptilian musk. The experiment man had put down Graymalk and risen. He was approaching us again. Larry had moved much farther to my left. A tentacle emerged from the Gateway, groped about, located Morris’s right foot, wrapped about it, dragged him back inside. A moment later, it returned for MacCab. Slurping sounds followed.

“I fixed it so they’d defeat themselves after they’d disposed of you,” Bubo said.

“How?”

There were great masses of tentacles now, all of them writhing toward the Gateway.

“I sneaked about last night,” Bubo said, “and I switched the wands.”

I seemed to hear the odd sounds of a cat’s laughter. It’s so hard to tell when they’re smiling. The old cat hadn’t been telling me to fetch a stick…

Carpe baculum: Seize the wand.

I sprang into the air, catching it in my teeth, twisting it out of Jack’s grip. I could see the astonished expression on his face as I did so.

A terrible wind began to blow past us. I heard the vicar cry “No!” Tekela sprang up from his shoulders, wings beating.

Turning my head, I saw that the Gateway was closing.

There followed a roar Growler would have been proud of as Larry leaped at the vicar. They rolled upon the ground, passing right over the Count, knocking the icon from his breast. Then the mighty wind caught them and they were carried toward the closing Gateway and on through it. Jill looked puzzled as she continued to wield the closing wand, hair and cloak streaming forward. Jack had braced himself. Then his arm moved, hand dipping into the satchel and out, emerging quickly, casting the wine bottle of slitherers into the Gateway, to gunk it up. He grinned at me. “Any port in a storm,” he observed. I felt the wind pushing me forward. Nightwind was trying to get behind a rock.

Then the experiment man came up and halted before us and the pressure was suddenly eased.

“The — Count?” he asked. Had Graymalk sent him after our ally?

“The man on the ground!” I replied. “Take him away!”

He continued past us, swaying but holding his own against the wind. He stooped and caught hold of the supine figure, raised it in his arms. I glanced at the Gateway. It had already grown somewhat darker. The fire, scattered, flamed at a dozen small points, glowed from as many more. A few of these faded and winked out as I watched.

Jill stared at the wand that she held, and I could read the realization coming into her expression.

I heard Graymalk’s voice from the shadows:

“Come on!” she called. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

Bubo had already ducked back out of sight into Jack’s pocket as we moved to take her advice.

A single note, as of a crushed crystal goblet, filled the air. The stone was blank again. Abruptly, the wind ceased. The voices had already died away.

We made our way northward toward the slope. Overhead, the moon seemed enormous.

“Let’s go!” Graymalk urged, as we came up beside her. And she was right. The hilltop would remain dangerous till dawn.

I turned and looked back in time to see the experiment man start down the southern slope, carrying the Count.

“Hi, cat,” I said. “I’ll buy you that drink yet.”

“Hi, dog,” she said. “I think I’ll let you.”

Jack and Jill went down the hill. Gray and I ran after.

[lunamusings]

Gravity Well

A Loki x Lithium Fanfiction (CanonxOC)

Set before the events of Thor, Loki receives as large mysterious crate of alcohol the day before his birthday. What seems like a strange yet benign gift from an anonymous person ends up being more than he, or the woman at the bottom of the crate bargained for.

Chapter Warnings: mild language, the occasional innuendo (because Loki)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first glance, the crate was nothing particularly unusual or special.  Just a rough-hewn wooden box that had the sharp smell of being made of new boards. It was large but not so much as to cause alarm about what it might contain.

Not like the last time a larger container was in his room. Despite how many years had past, Thor still found it hilarious that he had pranked him with a box of angry water fowl.

So Loki was cautious of this crate that had appeared while he was at dinner. He circled it , head tilted at a quizzical angle, looking for any indication of what this strange delivery could be. The opposite side bore a brand that indicated it was from Binary Star Brewery, whatever that was.  He leaned his long frame over to examine it further and popped back up in surprise. If the brand was to believed, this mysterious delivery was from Midgard.

Who would be sending him anything from a realm so rarely visited anymore?

His curiosity piqued, he circled it once more, finding an envelope attached to the side opposite from brand. The paper was light and flimsy, like something mass produced with little care or attention, with basic black ink addressing it to him, care of the palace.

Loki opened the envelope as he sat down in the chair by his writing desk, leaning the chair on its back legs.

"Dear Customer, Enclosed in this crate is our Imperial Package-“

A smirk spread across his face. “I am already in possession of that, I assure you.”

“- of assorted house brews from our award-winning collection of fine alcohols, ordered for you by an anonymous individual in honor of your up-coming birthday."

He took a moment to consider this, staring back at the crate in question. It was tall enough to reach his knees. How much did this "anonymous individual" think he drank anyway? Hopefully the awards won indicated quality or he was going be quite literally knee-deep in bad fermentation.

"Please accept a bonus gift as our thanks for your business, packaged with the bottles.

Sincerely,

Bartholomew Kranston, Owner and son of the Founder of Binary Star Brewery.

PS: Don't forget to leave positive reviews of our products on social media!"

Loki arched an eyebrow at the canned sign-off. What was this social media and why was this Kranston guy soliciting his opinion on the wares?

He looked up at the crate again, dramatically crumpling and tossing the paper into the small waste bin next to the desk. “May as well see what I’m stuck with for who knows how long.”

The construction of the box was simple enough and the boards as flimsy that he had no need of tools or assistance to remove the lid. He held a spell in reserve in case the contents proved to be more sinister than a ridiculous number of alcohol bottles.

He was not about to be chased through the palace by rabid geese again.

It proved unnecessary as removing the lid revealed a pleasing pattern of brown glass bottles in a stiff  multi-layered paper honey comb of slots to protect them. Another piece of paper sat atop them with a three layered diagram.

The first level contained something called “craft beers”, the former word having no meaning he could understand from the context. What did they do, knit the beer? There were also a line of bottles labeled as ciders of the alcoholic persuasion as well. Those were familiar enough, he figured, even if the names of the individual kinds left him baffled. The beer labeled “Hair of the Dog” was going straight to Thor because the literal visual was completely unappetizing to him.

The second layer sounded more his speed, with a selection of wines of different fruits. Asgard had none of them so those would at least be an interesting experience. There were a few more ciders, including a mix of cider and dark beer which also sounded intriguing. One corner was entirely a variety of rice wine, which from the context was a grain rather than a fruit.

But what was most interesting about that was the name of that layer’s line. All were created by a particular brew master from Binary Star, who called their work “Cute But Deadly”.

“Sounds like a person I could get along with with.”

The last layer was labeled as the bonus gift, and that it was meant to be a surprise. As much as that was intriguing as well, it was late and the next day would be boisterous as it would be busy. Royal birthdays were events for all to share and his was the one being celebrated.

At least in theory.

He placed the paper back in with the bottles and slid the lid back over. He would dig farther into it tomorrow, along side the other surprises the day would hold, probably share the mysterious beverages with his mother.

And not forget to give Thor the “Hair of the Dog”.

No sooner were the lights out and he tucked under the linens and furs did the rattling and thumping start. Loki cast his gaze to the crate, only to watch it jump slightly as another thump followed by the rattle of the bottles floated ominously across the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lithium woke to darkness, the smell of pine wood and the rough feel of burlap against the side she lay on. The only familiar sensation was the smell of her old messenger bag, tucked under her arm, the novelty pins on its flap cool against her skin. Every other smell she discovered was foreign and set off alarm bells in her fog-muddled mind.

She did a mental check of her body. She felt no pain aside from a dull headache, but when she tried to stretch a leg out, it hit a wall with an audible thud. Glass rattled above her.

She kicked the wall near her foot harder, to the same effect. Breath suddenly ragged at the realization there were walls in every direction, she kicked until she heard splintering wood. Low light flooded into whatever held her captive and more scents filled the rush of air.

A person? But not a human…but faint…their place but they aren’t home maybe?

Regardless, Lithium figured shape-shifting into her human disguise was safer than not, before she went inching out of the hole she made. She listened intently, her surroundings were too quiet for comfort.

But what choice do I have? Stay curled up where ever this is and turn into five feet of cramped muscle?

Her feet went out first. Sure, they were easy to grab but kicking was still an option. Part way out, she wished she had not chosen to wear the fancy bra that day instead of her usual sports bra for work.

I just had to have a bad self-esteem day and now I’m not sure I’m going to get out of here because boobs only compress so much in this double-cupped death trap that attempts to defy gravity…

She wiggled around until she was on her stomach, letting gravity deal with the compression she needed. A few more shimmies and she was out, facing a delicate window with little moonlight shining through it.

She whipped her head around, the faintest flicker of movement sending a chill down her spine. Had she been in her normal form, no doubt the fur on her back would be standing on end.

She turned toward the movement, slowly backing away from it. Goosebumps made their way down her arms as she stepped to put the thing she had crawled out of between her and whatever had been moving.

And backed right into the person behind her.

She jumped away and spun, now facing said person’s chest with arms crossed tightly across it. Her head jerked up and kept going for a bit until she found a face.

A face with one hell of an eyebrow game.  

He, as her nose told her that much, stared  back at her one eyebrow raised in the silent question of the moment. Dark hair fell into his face, tousled by sleep if she had to guess, considering he was standing in front of a partially unmade bed.

He held her gaze for a few moments too long, just the right amount to unnerve her. She held up her hands and took a step back, but any words she had were held back by the lump of fear in her throat.

Mercifully, he spoke first, in a steady soft tone that made him seem more dangerous than he was just staring her down. “Care to explain why you just crawled out of that crate of Midgardian alcohol?”

Lithium looked back at what she now knew was a crate and then back at this stranger whose bedroom she had apparently wandered into via her own brewery’s product packaging.

“I would care to, but I’m not entirely sure myself…I have a guess…but nothing for certain…”

“Guesses are acceptable, given the unusual circumstances.” His tone was no less molten, but the touch of curiosity softened the edge it carried.

Lithium looked back at the crate once more. “I am on the losing side of a hostile brewery take-over, it seems.”

“The papers said it was owned by some Whatshisname Kranston.”

Lithium ran a hand down her face. “Bart…that asshat, he really did it…dammit…”

The man tilted his head. “Am I to believe that you were the mentioned “bonus gift” that came with this Imperial Collection…thing?”

“Oh lord, he’s calling it that again?” She heaved a sigh and shook her head. “I’m not usually the bonus gift of what was supposed to be called the Galaxy Collection. I’m sure you can see I’m not branded drink ware for the different offerings in the collection.”

“Alcohol is not typically what one drinks from a woman.” His eyebrow raised again as she looked down at the floor in hopes he missed her blush at that veiled innuendo. “Galaxy is also a far superior name, given the name of the business.”

Lithium looked back up at him, her eyebrow now raised. “I appreciate that, but this conversation seems far too casual given I don’t know where I am or who you are but I just popped into your room out of a crate of product.”

“Would you rather I yell and demand answers you do not actually have?” He took one smooth step toward her. “Because if that’s your wish, I can oblige, though I would much rather not as the hour is late and the night guards tend to be less amicable than their daytime counterparts.”

She waved her hands and shook her head frantically. “Ah, no no this is fine, please continue as you were, I hate yelling.”

He took another step forward, the beginning of an arc around her. “Well then, I would like the name of the woman I watched get stuck half way out a wooden box for a truly entertaining though brief few minutes.”

“Lithium. Just Lithium.”

His circle narrowed as he went around her again. “Well, Just Lithium, I am afraid that intrepid crate of yours has landed you in the personal chambers of Loki, Prince of Asgard.”

He stopped to give her the most sarcastic shallow bow she had ever witnessed.  “The question, lady, is what do I do with you now that you’re here?”

Lithium made the mistake of meeting his gaze again and quickly looked back down at the floor.

I would land myself with some stranger with a deadly smirk…end me now…

“Well you could direct me to the nearest bathroom because the last thing I remember before waking up in a box was drinking my weight in coffee and it has run right through me.”

He straightened back up with an amused chuckle, gesturing to a door at the opposite end of the room. “It’s over there. When you’ve finished, we can discuss what else should be done with you, my little unintentional intruder.”

Lithium tried not to dwell on that ominous statement as she vaulted the crate to get to the bathroom as fast as she could.  She also tried to ignore the fact that she almost fell three times in her haste.

I am forever without a shred of dignity, I swear…

[theliberaltony]

via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

The battle against COVID-19 has laid bare the limitations of modern technology in the face of a pandemic. We can’t accurately track the disease’s toll in real time, nor can we accurately predict where it’s headed. We are told that developing a vaccine will take 18 months — which seems excruciatingly slow — and that the only truly effective weapon we have for now is widespread social distancing, which, of course, has its own painful economic side effects. We always believed our modern tools would protect us from catastrophe, but they have proven startlingly inadequate against this invisible enemy.

In some ways at least, technology has been able to tell us more about how and where the virus is spreading. Mostly, this has involved creatively harnessing the power of big data — using temperature readings from smart thermometers to detect COVID-19 hot spots, or aggregating cellphone location data to point to the areas of the country where people are staying home. But against a backdrop of debate between civil liberties and public health, we also need to be asking where the line is digitally: How much surveillance is acceptable in the service of the greater good?

To be clear, the types of data being tracked now are usually anonymized, aggregated in large groups according to, say, geography. They are also collected with the consent of users. But long before the new coronavirus emerged, critics of big tech companies were already pointing out that users typically give such consent through labyrinthine terms-of-service agreements, often not knowing what their data would ultimately be used for. In today’s world, data is an extremely valuable commodity that rewards its collectors in many ways. Even as individual data profiles that provide search suggestions, traffic directions and health guidance help improve daily life, that goes hand in hand with more nefarious motives companies might have for recording user activities.

Again, those were the worries being raised prior to the pandemic. Now, COVID-19 has revealed much starker trade-offs between personal privacy and the collective benefits of technology. In South Korea, for example, the ability to retrace an infected person’s steps using credit card transactions and cellphone tracking data is part of the country’s (largely successful) response to the virus. Other countries are also ramping up digital surveillance at an individual level in the name of public health. Although such measures may seem less likely to be used in the U.S., one recent Harris poll showed that a sizable, bipartisan majority of Americans would favor a public coronavirus registry and be willing to share phone location data to get alerts about infected people being nearby.1

These efforts might seem appealing because they represent an effective use of technology against a threat we’re struggling to otherwise control. If less aggressive tracking — such as the aforementioned smart-thermometer data — has been useful in measuring the effects of social-distancing policies, even stronger versions have the potential to assist in contact tracing and ultimately help contain the virus for good. If we can bring the power of our growing data-collection apparatus to bear in the fight against COVID-19, shouldn’t we?

“This is a genuine emergency, and that justifies a lot of things that would not normally be justified,” Jay Stanley, a senior policy analyst at the American Civil Liberties Union, told Bloomberg. “But we have to make sure that these temporary powers do not become permanent in a way that hurts everybody else.”

During the coronavirus pandemic, this tension between safety and freedom is playing out across more than just the technology space. Because a patchwork of policies are being implemented largely at the state level, the rules around actions like quarantines — and their constitutional enforceability — are somewhat open-ended. “Right now, between states, there are different protocols in terms of how to handle something that might be a health crisis such as this,” said University of California, Irvine School of Law professor Michele Goodwin on a recent episode of Slate’s “Amicus” podcast. “There isn’t necessarily coherence in terms of states’ laws. There isn’t any coherence vis-a-vis state and federal law in this domain.”

But Goodwin stressed the need to maintain individual protections even in the face of an extraordinary crisis. “Our civil liberties don’t just simply go away because there is a virus that is afoot that might affect many people,” she said. “You don’t lose your civil liberties simply because there is something in the air. You don’t lose your civil liberties simply because you become sick. It’s important to understand the primacy of due process.”

So what does a policy that balances data privacy and the public good look like? “We ask three questions about proposals to use data about people in new ways in response to COVID-19,” Adam Schwartz, a senior staff attorney for the Electronic Frontier Foundation, told me over email. “Would it be effective? Would it excessively intrude on our liberties? Are there sufficient safeguards?”

“Some proposals would not be effective — e.g., use of cell-site location information for contact tracing, because it is not sufficiently granular to place two people close enough together to transmit the disease,” Schwartz wrote. “Some proposals would excessively intrude on our liberties — e.g., China’s compulsion that every resident download a tracking app. [But] some forms of aggregated data might be a tolerable way to inform decision-making about the outbreak, provided [there are] sufficient safeguards to protect privacy.”

Because the coronavirus has been so difficult to stop, it’s tempting to fight it by whatever means are available — and there’s a case to be made for that, at least temporarily. (After all, the whole concept of flattening the curve is about giving up freedom of movement and activity in order to save lives.) But it’s important to also remember that individual rights ceded during a crisis rarely return, even when that crisis subsides.

“We are very troubled by the historical precedent that new powers given to government in times of crisis tend to stay in place,” Schwartz told me. “Two decades after the 9/11 attacks, the NSA [National Security Agency] is still engaged in dragnet internet surveillance. So before we support new forms of high-tech surveillance of personal data about location and health, we must think hard about whether the surveillance would actually be effective at solving the problem at hand. And even when the answer is yes, sometimes the impact on our liberties is intolerable.”

And as tech companies were already under fire for collecting too much data before COVID-19 — and officials were already interested in using that information — that means being wary of what kind of information they’re able to gather, even if it offers creative ways to help combat the pandemic right now.

[yellowmagicalgirl]

Juliet Dies in This Chapter Five: Bargaining

Be careful when making deals with the darkness.

I'm gonna admit, this chapter is a little different from the others. It's still dark, though, so trigger/spoiler warning: it contains canon-typical violence and attempted sacrificing of a baby (whether or not the sacrifice goes through, you'll just have to read and find out.)

AO3

FFN

He was not a cultist, thank you very much. He didn’t huddle in dark robes like the cults of old, and he didn’t try to trick people out of their money in promise of salvation like the newer cults. He wasn’t even like the fallen Janus Order. Unlike the changelings, who had served the Mistress of Shadows out of a blind loyalty to their Lady Creator, he chose to follow her.

He was a sorcerer, always looking for more power. He probably would have done well as a businessman, had he never been blessed with the magic that set him apart from the rabble that was most of humanity. As it was, he wouldn’t need his job at the chemical plant for much longer, since its only use was potion ingredients, occasional weaponry, and the rent. Not now, moments before he would be given far more power. He could soon quit his current job to rule the continent.

But for now, he had to hide in the shadows, using magic to keep the baby in his arms silent. Was it even a baby, anymore? It could run now. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t the age of the child that mattered, it was what the sacrifice would give to the sorcerer.

The Trollhunter burst into the room. He had his silver sword in his hands, waving it around for what? Light? Intimidation? “I know you’re in here,” he growled. “Where’s Enrique?”

The Trollhunter looked around, exposing his side. The sorcerer grinned, and with a flick of his wrist three bolts of red magic sped in succession toward the Trollhunter. The first one hit, and the second and third were caught by the Trollhunter’s shield.

“Oh,” the sorcerer drawled. “The baby? You’ll have to take him from me.”

He set Enrique on the floor and formed a cage of red light around him. He couldn’t let Enrique run away, and he couldn’t let any harm come to the baby. No, any harm done must be done in exchange for the power the sorcerer would soon be granted.

Afterwards, he goaded the Trollhunter with a few shots. It was a fun trick, let the opponent think they had the upper hand as embers of magic fell to the floor. Like everyone else who fell for the trick, the Trollhunter charged into the trap. The embers burst to life, chaining the Trollhunter into a kneeling position. He struggled against them, but when his hands were chained behind his back he stopped.

How pitiful. This was the great hero who had slain some of the most powerful trolls? He was trembling.

The sorcerer blasted holes in the ceiling of the warehouse in a perfect circle above the Trollhunter. They were just far enough apart that the entire ceiling around the Trollhunter wouldn’t crumble. It was good to have a living audience. An ego-booster for performing dark rituals.

“Not so brave now, eh?” The sorcerer walked up to the Trollhunter and reached his hand through the barrier of sunlight. His pianist fingers reached around the circumference of the amulet and pulled it away from the armor. The sorcerer placed the amulet in his pocket and walked away.

“Try not to burn yourself, okay? I want you to watch this,” he said. He then grabbed the reinforced laboratory glass he had stored in the warehouse. He pulled out the cork and began to spread its contents in a circle a few feet from Enrique and the Trollhunter.

He had scavenged the ruined pieces of the Skathe-Hrün just for this moment. He had gone to the battlefield, hoping that his queen would acknowledge him, only to watch as a girl in purple armor annexed the Pale Lady to the Shadow Realm. Some boy with a warhammer then broke the Skathe-Hrün into a fine powder that the sorcerer had painstakingly picked up from the bridge. It wasn’t an honorable thing to do, to pick up the pieces from a battle like a carrion bird. Whoever claimed that he was honorable, though? Honor was merely an obstacle in the way of more power, and the sorcerer wasn’t a fan of obstacles.

As it was, he had had to wait through the obstacle that was the months between the so-called eclipse and the Winter Solstice in order to do this ritual on the longest night of the year. Was the timing important? He wasn’t sure, but performance and semantics had always helped him cast his spells.

The sorcerer finished drawing the runes that would connect the former Skathe-Hrün to its owner, the trapped Mistress of Shadows. He tugged the amulet out of his pocket and placed it in the center of the circle. He then pulled Enrique out of the cage and held him in front of the summoning circle.

Time for the only damage the sorcerer intended to do directly. And really, it was completely necessary. He was altering an old ritual, and blood magic was rarely vague about just who the blood must come from.

It wasn’t an ornate dagger that the sorcerer sliced a thin line through the baby’s palm. Blood magic didn’t care what type of tool was used to get the blood, so a pocketknife the sorcerer had won in a game of cards was highly useful.

The Trollhunter thrashed against his bonds. It was like he thought he could stop this.

Blood dripped into the circle, and the runes glowed with a dark purple light. Like blood or ink through water, darkness filled the amulet. The Trollhunter cried out in pain, though the sorcerer wasn’t paying attention enough to know if he was that connected to the amulet or if he had merely tried to venture into the sun without the protection of his amulet.

“Baba Yaga, Pale Lady, Eldritch Queen,” the sorcerer began. She had many names, was it not polite to address her by as many as possible? “I bring you the brother of the one who dared to seal you in the Shadow Realm, to do with as you will. In return, I ask that you impart a fraction of your great power into me.”

The sorcerer heard the clinking of five clawed fingers forcing themselves through the portal and resting on the concrete.

Well, if he was freeing the Pale Lady then he would be more greatly rewarded.

Then five more clawed fingers forced themselves through the portal. Did his queen update her armor?

He looked down in time to see those clawed, cracked hands heave the body of a young woman in purple armor through the portal. This was impossible, surely the Pale Lady would have killed her in revenge. The sorcerer stepped back, a precaution as the girl swung herself out of the Shadow Realm.

“Give me back my brother!” the girl said, lunging for him. As she did so, she scuffed the ruins and kicked the amulet out of the center of the portal, ruining his hard work.

Her faintly-glowing black-and-purple eyes were filled with venom. She grabbed her brother and held him to her chest with one arm. For the briefest moment, her cracked face softened as she glanced at the whimpering baby. Then it turned back to a vicious, nearly inhuman expression. With the arm not holding her brother, she swiped with her claws. When she narrowly missed the sorcerer, thin whips formed from the end of the claws. Those stung fiercely as they raked across his face.

He didn’t mind the look of red streaks across his hair and skin, but only when it was other people’s blood or lighting from his own magic. The welts forming from her whips were not appreciated, and so the sorcerer struck back with a blast of red light that she dodged too easily.

She had to tire soon, no practitioner of dark magic could last long when their sclera had become black and cracks littered their chins and cheeks. She would become exhausted soon, and perhaps she would even die. Either way, the sorcerer wouldn’t have to deal with her. Maybe he could even reopen the portal, despite how much she had scattered the pieces of the Skathe-Hrün.

“Claire?” The Trollhunter asked. Claire glanced towards the half-troll as he mumbled an incantation that summoned the amulet and silver armor. Claire jumped, no, flew back into a corner as the Trollhunter rushed towards the sorcerer, blade poised to strike, footing careful. When red chains reached out for her, she threw daggers made of purple light to dissolve them.

The doors to the warehouse were broken down as an attitude of teenagers rushed into the building. They all wielded weapons, from Akiridion serrators to Trollish warhammers, fists full of light to baseball bats.

“Jim, what have I said about going in without us?” the boy with the warhammer and orange armor asked. He flew to flank the sorcerer.

“Don’t get caught in the embers!” Jim called.

“Somehow, I doubt that’s what was said,” the Akiridion prince grumbled prior to shifting his serrator into its gun form. He was a skilled shot, skilled enough that he and the two magic users were able to fire in between the melee combatants.

“Where’s Enrique?” the boy with the baseball bat shouted, checking in crates. As if the sorcerer was just going to go suffocating babies for the fun of it.

The sorcerer was not used to fighting, especially not with so many combatants skilled at fighting wizards. He wasn’t used to bleeding so much, and he wasn’t used to being the one who had to dodge or parry. He didn’t want to use his last resort, but he also didn’t want them to have an advantage.

He reached into his pockets of holding and pulled out vials of iron oxide, aluminum powder, and thin strips of magnesium.

“I wonder how quickly this warehouse will be destroyed by the thermite I can create with this,” the sorcerer announced loudly. Everyone went quiet and still.

A feral scream tore through the warehouse as purple light streaked through it. It was not a single, powerful beam. It split into multiple components, bouncing off walls and crates in order to avoid all of Arcadia’s so-called defenders. The multitude of beams converged in a set of tight fuchsia chains upon the sorcerer. They lifted him up, stretching his limbs in multiple directions. A final chain encircled his neck, loose, more like a waiting noose than a chokehold.

The scream trailed off into a whimper, and the chains unpinned themselves from the walls and his neck to bind his limbs to his sides. The sorcerer dropped unceremoniously. From a corner of the warehouse came the metallic clatter of a person in armor dropping to her knees. A baby shrieked in joy and started clapping.

“I didn’t expect this to be so easy,” the Akiridion prince said. He and the two teenage wizards stayed with the sorcerer, while the rest of their group ran to Claire and Enrique. The wizards began placing their own magical bonds upon the sorcerer.

“It would’ve been kind of cool to see thermite,” the pink haired girl said flippantly, like binding the sorcerer was barely worth her time. It probably was, considering the fuchsia overkill.

“You are such a pyromaniac,” the other wizard said.

“I was a blacksmith, once!” she defended.

“Yeah, in, like, your first lifetime!”

“You two are probably too human to see thermite being made,” the Akiridion prince interjected. “It’ll hurt your eyes.”

The sorcerer grimaced. How had his plan gone so wrong?

Author’s note: You know, every time people have implied that they think there's gonna be a rescue mission, I kept on thinking, "yes, but not for the person you're thinking of."

[julietookoff]

Elvis, Storage Wars and Pandemics - An Update from Las Vegas

Things are good here.  We pay a little extra for a bigger ex-house trailer lot with room to park the van.  We've got a little shade, too.

We watched the weather impatiently and finally arrived at King's Row in early October.  The plan WAS to head north in the spring.  We were going to a buffet once or twice a week and enjoying the huge selection of fast food restaurants (compared to Las Vegas, NM).  Our favorite buffets are at Sam's Town and the Orleans casinos, where we gamble $5 each and get free lunch buffets.  It didn't take long to find the Pink Box donuts, but they are across town and a little pricey.  We got Cox cable set up at our lot, which we sooo much appreciated during the Wuhan virus months.  While in NM I had gotten hooked on dumpster-diving and storage auction videos on YouTube.  I found out dumpster-diving is illegal in Las Vegas, so we started going to storage auctions.  My best finds were three 925 silver rings, each in a different unit.  And the cash.  I found a $20 bill in a BDU top and tons of spare change.  A neighbor who was moving gave us a 10x10 canopy for shade while sorting.

You get tons of household stuff for just a few bucks.  We can't handle mattresses and big furniture with just the little Jeep.  Although the bulk of stuff goes to GoodWill,  I have made over a thousand dollars on eBay and FB Marketplace.  One week I went to the post office four out of five days.  Some Mondays I go twice a day.  We've sold TVs, game systems, games, a Kindle Oasis, a webcam, sets of high-end clothes and Nike/Jordans, Navy BDUs and uniforms, sets of books, lots of bikes, cell phones, IKEA end tables and lots of misc.  At one unit I paid $35 and another bidder immediately bought two folding tables for $40.  

Some of the more odd finds were a Nissan Leaf charger, some HVAC baffles, digital surveying tools, a 4' long aquarium, a digital darkroom timer, a 1972 signed Munich Olympics print (I still haven't sold this), 7 sets of barn door hardware, horse tack, meth,  morphine, narcan, Rx pills (some the same that we take), tons of driver's licenses, Clark County jail IDs and some giant grow lights.  We bought about 25 units until the Pandemic shut them down.  They ranged in price from $5 to $85.  I plan to continue when we settle down in Florida, where we'll have at least three good flea markets where we can sell stuff (last I checked).  Then whatever is left will go to GoodWill.  We were thinking about getting a cargo trailer here, but the BMV is closed and they won't even answer eMails about out-of-staters getting tags for trailers.

I finally gave up my flip phone for a "Smart" phone.  I use it for as little as possible to avoid swearing like a drunk sailor.

Corny went to four Penn & Teller "Fool Us" tapings at the Rio casino.  They will start to air on June 22.

Our Wuhan Virus Experience:

January 25th we went to the Ethel M chocolate factory in Henderson to redeem a "Tasting" groupon.  We pulled into the lot and there was a tour bus parked out front.  Chinese people, most of them wearing masks, were coming and going.  We were aware of the virus at that time and that it was spreading from China.  One of the masked women asked me to take her picture in the cactus garden - I made a rude face and waved her away.  I wasn't going to touch her germy phone.

I signed up at Planet Fitness February 25.  They closed a couple weeks later.

March 9th we went to the last storage auction before the Stay-at-Home season.

We started loading up on TP and food before it was popular.  Before masks, every time I went to Wally's I loaded up on this n' that.  When the shelves started going bare (around March 15th here), we were all set.  I had three boxes of gloves, two from storage units, and a total of seven N-95 masks.  The first Clark County Wuhan virus death was on March 16th.  I found out why our Wal-Mart is so crazy busy all the time.  While I was sitting in the Jeep waiting for Corny to buy and install a new battery, I watched a continuous parade of bus people filing back and forth from the store to the bus stop.  We started going to a less germy Wally's a bit farther from home.

Corny got a second Shingles vaccine at Sam's Club.  I was off wandering around shopping.  Later when he wasn't feeling well I asked him what his temperature had been at Sam's.  They hadn't taken it!  I couldn't believe it.  It's kinda standard you make sure someone isn't sick before you innoculate them!

We each got our $1200 Wuhan checks on the first round.  I donated mine to Chase Bank.  Corny donated his to CitiBank.

There were no casinos, buffets or auctions during "quarantine".  Other than a little boredom, basically we just took our laziness to a higher level.  We were used to laziness.  I feel for the people with kids - and the poor kids.  Geocaching Headquarters cancelled all events and the big August Geo-gatherings in Seattle and British Columbia.  Corny was sad because he couldn't take the van to see State Parks, museums and such.  He finally made it out west and everything was closed!  He wants to stay here through the summer and take van trips to cooler places, instead of moving the bigass RV up north.  I would like to head home to Florida in the fall and see about buying some land and settling down.  Corny will have to use the van for extended trips out west.

Corny took the top of the engine off the Jeep to change the spark plugs.  Turns out one of the cylinder heads may be bad.  If so, it is a $4000 fix.  Or not fix.  We've gotten used to the check engine light.  

Geocaching-wise, we've been to several local events.  At one we donated about a dozen ready-to-go spray painted/repurposed Sam's Club-sized M&M/cashew containers.  I've taken several big solo Jeep trips to complete the NV Delorme challenge.  I found a nice Challenge Row just north of St. George, UT.  All six of us took a nice little van trip on Route 66 (first picture, above) from Kingman, AZ to Seligman to use up the old gas in the tank.  After spending 1/2 hour wiping down everything in a few germy hotel rooms, I started sleeping in the Jeep every other night.  I have a pizza-shaped pool float that fits perfectly.  I was almost done planning a big UT van trip when the auctions started back up.  

Now when I go on a trip, I have to end 60-70 eBay listings.  If I were willing to pay eBay about $5/month I could do it with one click, but I feel like I give eBay/PayPal way more than enough money already.  Certainly more than they deserve.  They charge auctioneer prices because they can, but in reality all they are is a listing service like Craig's List, FB MarketPlace and Offer Up, which are all free.  We do all the hard work.  FeeBay just sits ontheirass and sucks money.  Do I sound cynical?

I've saved geocaching for last because I've got lots of pix.  Here ya' go.

^St. George, UT

New Harmony, UT

Just inside CA from Pahrump, NV

^Donner Party camp

^Lake Tahoe, CA side

^Pyramid Lake, NV

Salt Flats - lots of motorcycles speeding across here.

^Picked up a handsome Travel Bug

Filthy Jeep

^I left a mud ring in the parking lot of Flying J after it rained

^I did a little boulder jumping

^I had a little talk with this sweet lil’ quail in Gerlach, NV

Life is Godd!  We fit out.