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dp-marvel94 · 3 years

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Dan Redemption with a twist

So I'm still geeking out over my ask that @stillebesat answered a few days ago, the one where about an upcoming fic. I've been playing around with a really similar idea, with a redeemed Dan fusing with a clone of Danny, for months now.

Here's my idea:

First of all, my preferred version of Dan is basically Danny but evil. He less fused with Plasmius and more consumed his powers so Dan doesn't have any of Vlad's memories. Next, I'm a big fan of the idea that Dan deeply regrets killing his human half and is, for lack of a better word, haunted by the action. It was the first death of his reign of terror, his final chance to turn back from the dark path he was on and...it was his suicide.

Now, Dan doesn't realize any of this for what feels like centuries. He's trapped in the Fenton thermos in Clockwork's lair, alone with only his thoughts. And the knowledge starts creeping in, all that he'd lost, all that he'd done. He realizes that he misses his friends and family and to his surprise, he hopes his younger self saved them. But then he realized that he tried to kill them. And the guilt starts creeping in. The regret follows and he remembers all the rest of his crimes. He doesn't have enough humanity, enough emotional capacity to be wrecked but he's no longer a rage fueled destructive monster.

Then to Dan's shook, Clockwork releases him without a word. The master of time dumps him in the new timeline, maybe a few months after the events of TUE. To his dim relief, Dan finds that his friends and family are all still alive. He watches them for a while, trying to process where he is and what happened. But then he runs into Danny. And things don't go well. It's a rocky start. Danny does not trust Dan at all. He doesn't trust that the older ghost has no intention of hurting his loved ones. Danny is ready and willing to fight and recapture him. The younger's opinion doesn't change until Dan saves him and Jazz during a ghost attack. The two ghosts, at Jazz's insistence, come to an uneasy impasse. Danny will leave Dan alone if the older ghost leaves him and his family alone. Dan isn't really happy about this arrangement but it's better than being trapped in the thermos again and he does have no intention of hurting his younger counterpart or his loved ones.

So Dan concedes. He stays out of Danny's way. He watches. He catches glimpses of his former friends and family from a distance. And it hurts. Dan feels out of place, disconnected. This isn't his time, isn't his place. He's stuck on the outside looking in... and this timeline already has a Danny, one who didn't make the aggresous mistakes he did. And those mistakes... the guilt's still there but like all other emotions, it's dim and distant. That's how it's been since his death, with every emotion but rage. But still, Dan does not like being on the outside looking in. He needs to do something else with himself, find some place he can belong.

Then Dan remembers Vlad. He had gone to the older half ghost after losing everything. And... Vlad had tried to help him. Separating the then halfa at his request had been a horrible idea but Vlad had been trying. Vlad did care about him. And.... the man must be so lonely now. Lonely like Dan himself is.

It's something of a wim but Dan goes to the older halfa. And at first, it's a surprise to Vlad and then seemingly a dream come true. Here in front of him is a version of Daniel who wants to stay by his side willingly. This Dan is more powerful and experienced than his younger counterpart, though not as experienced as Vlad. The young man is willing to be taught and all he seemingly wants is companionship. Yes, it would be a dream come true except...

Dan will not tolerate any of Vlad's shit. He will not be used to hurt anyone ever again. He will not take part in any of Vlad's schemes against the Fentons. It's a high price to pay but the older man backs off. Vlad is content to not be alone and have a chance to convince Dan to work with him.

So Dan stays with Vlad. With the older man busy with work, Dan has free reign of the mansion for most of the day. In some ways, it's nice. Away from Amity Park, there's no temptation to check on his former loved ones. His longing for a life he can no longer have is diminished. Vlad's mansion provides ample distraction, in the library, the game room, the gardens. But... the days are long and often lonely and the nights... they're even worse. The large building, empty and quiet, it's too much like a time Dan wishes he could forget. The memories are stronger now. After the fiery explosion...weeks of weeping in his room. Somber diners with Vlad where he couldn't force himself to eat. Waking up from another nightmare.

Without his humanity, the grief isn't as soul wrenching as it should be. But it's ever present, the memories on repeat. And there is little to break them up. As a ghost, Dan cannot sleep. He cannot eat. He can't truly feel the sun on his face or the comforting chill of the water on the pool. All physical sensations are dimmed.

And Dan starts to realize, it's excruciating. He feels incomplete, like there's a gapping whole in his chest. The memories of his own death, seen from the outside, return. His own icy blue eyes wide with fear and pain. Red blood spattered on his face. It's horrifying. Or it should be. If Dan could muster up more than the dimmest shadow of the emotion. But he can't, because the part of him that could died 10 years ago. And... this is wrong. He is wrong.

He should have died completely as himself, as Danny Fenton. He shouldn't have watched his death from the outside by his own hands. He shouldn't be this half being that couldn't even be bothered to die properly.

Dan stews, a forgotten anger growing as he longs for something he'd once wanted rid of. His human self, his Fenton, his humanity... he wants it. He wants to be truly, completely himself again. He wants to be whole enough to fade, to move on.

But that is the problem with ghosts, especially one like him. They do not change. They do not move on. As much as Dan acts like he is older, like he is different, he is not. He's the same angry, broken teen that he was ten years ago. And he will never be anything else.

Dan rages, trashing Vlad's training room. Soon enough, his anger is spent and the young man comes back to his senses. Dan huffs in frustration and annoyance at himself. He'd rather enjoyed Vlad's training room and now the man himself will likely be cross with him. Dan does his best to put the room back in order and find something else to do.

But the pain, regret, and longing linger. At some level, Dan thinks he's being ridiculous. All his former loved ones are alive. Dan isn't alone. He has Vlad and the ability to determine his own future. This world wasn't ravaged by his hand. His mistakes have been erased. He should be free. Except...

No, his mistakes are not all erased. His own death returns to his mind over and over. He shouldn't think about, he shouldn't dwell on it but...

One day, Dan goes down to Vlad's secret lab. He knows he shouldn't. This is such a breach of Vlad's trust but... this is were it happened. The young man stares at the metal table. If he was capable of feelings cold, he would shiver. There, where he was pulled out of his body. That wall, he cornered his human half there, the boy cowering in fear. There, that control panel was spattered with his own blood.

Dan wishes he could cry but he's not human enough for that. He's not human at all. But he wishes he was.

Startled by the thought, the full ghost turns away. He shouldn't wish for things he can't have but... no. Dan's eyes flicker around the room, looking for small differences from his memories. Some of the equipment is laid out differently. There are different samples on the shelf and... that door wasn't there before.

Dan walks through and finds... metal and glass chambers in different degrees of construction. A few are filled with ectoplasm and there in the back... if Dan had a heart, it would stop. There in a clear pod with a breathing mask over his face is...Danny Fenton. No, that's not right. This isn't... this isn't his timeline. And his younger counterpart is in Amity Park so....

Dan frantically searches Vlad's computer, his notes for answers. Clones. Vlad had been trying to clone his younger half ghost counterpart. In the tube... clone 3. Fully human. Suffered mental decline from 2 weeks gestation and eventually brain death a month later. Body kept alive by machines since... the week Dan arrived.

Dan wishes he could feel shock. He wishes he could feel relief. From the data, this was the first attempt that even resembled something human. The others were by all measures animals, in no way sentient. And it appears Vlad hasn't continued working since Dan came to live with him. But still...

Dan confronts Vlad, asking about the experiments, about the clone kept on life support.

"I could not bear to pull the plug." Vlad answers, surprisingly sober. "I'd hoped his condition would improve." There is a far away look in his eyes, a longing. "I tried everything I could think of to stop the degradation but..." The older half ghost shook his head. "I'm continuing to monitor 3's status." There was a pain in Vlad voice. "I fear he won't live to see the outside of his chamber."

Vlad was in denial, Dan thinkd. This clone is gone, like his own human half. The heart still beats, the lungs still breath but...

He shock his head. "Before you approach me, I consider...if I could create a viable, ghostly clone and coax the spirit to hybridize with the body..."

The idea was ridiculous and he should be disgusted, hearing all Vlad had done, what he had planned but...

"That is all in the past now." Vlad finished sadly.

All in the past like the loss of his own human half. He shouldn't wish for things that he couldn't have but...

"I'm a viable ghost..." Dan could barely believe the words coming out his mouth. "Not a clone but... I am without a human side."

Vlad is staring at him like he has another head, something which Dan was sure he did not currently have. "Daniel...are you suggesting... what I think you are suggesting?"

Was he? It was ridiculous, impossible. He could not replace his human side by... possessing an animated corpse.

"No. I am not." Dan denied. "Forget I said anything."

Vlad gave a nod, dropping the conversation. But Dan did not forget. This idea... it was wrong. It was impossible. He couldn't be made a half ghost again. But...

The temptation. If anyone could get it to work, it would be Vlad. And if it did...the ghost floats to what had been his bedroom and laid down. If it worked, he could sleep. He could eat. He could go out in public with human. It would necessarily be a replacement for what he'd lost but...

No... this was wrong. This was basically a clone of himself whose body he wanted to steal. But... was it really? This was an empty body, no mind, no soul. It was mad science but... Dan was already the product of mad science.

And if it worked, not as an overshadowing but a hybrization... he could truly age, he could grow passed what happened. And he could feel more than the pale shadows he could now.

The next day, Dan asks Vlad for what he wants.

"Are you sure?" The man asked. "This could have unknown consequences on your body or your mind. You could even destabilize."

That gave Dan pause. This might not work. He might end up in unknown pain or even fade but... "this is worth the risk."

The pair work together, planning and experimenting. They give the body transfusions of Dan's ectoplasm. The younger ghost practices envisioning himself as a halfa again. He prepares himself.

"I will need to reduce you down to your core." Vlafd says solemnly.

Dan places his existence in Vlad's hands. After blowing off seemingly endless amounts of energy in a desolate portion of the Ghost Zone, the older halfa repeatedly shocks him with the Plasmius Maximus. Dan's body pops out of existence, leaving his core exposed.

As just a core, there is no sensation. No input. No output. It's terrifyingly like being in the thermos again. Dan knows he is being moved. Vlad is doing something to him but... there is nothing and too much at the same time.

Dan can not process. He is cradled. There is something beside him, something around him reaching out. Something is changing. He is changing. It is too much. Dan loses consciousness for the first time in ten years. It is not sleep. There is no dream. He can think one moment, separated from the world. And the next...

He is under water. Something is beeping. He feels light but heavy. Cold but warm. His center is fluttering, something straining and pounding. An emotion. Something that might be panic or fear suddenly rises in him, crashing over him as a wave. An equally panicked voice comes from in front of him. Then there's a sting in his neck. Sting? Pain? Pain, it's been so long since he felt pain. And... his neck? He has a neck again. Dan blacks out again.

The young man comes to again. There is still something beeping near his head. He's not under water now but laying on something soft. Soft and warm. Warm....Dan can feel that. His breath hitches. Breath... he feels lungs move on his chest. And...he feel heavy and warm. Something... something happened. He can't remember what...

Dan's eyes flutter open, falling on... Vlad.

The man's eyes met his, relief flashing across them. "Daniel." He sighs. "How do you feel?"

"Feel?" Dan crocks. Is that... is that his voice? "What...what happened?" The ghost (?) thinks he might know. "Did it work?" He whispered.

Dan's voice... his voice is high, like when he was a younger teen. It should feel strange but...

"Take a look." Vlad says, offering him a mirror.

Dan reaches forward with a shaking hand. His hand... it's not gloved, neither is it blue. It's.... he stares. It's a pale peach color like... his hands are smaller and thinner....

"Daniel." Vlad interrupts. "It's alright." He holds the mirror up and...

Dan meets blue eyes. His own blue eyes. Eyes he never thought he'd see again except on someone else. His eyes water as he reaches towards the mirror. "It worked."

His new heart is aching, a thousand emotions hitting him. Joy, happiness, relief, grief, guilt, regret. All of them are bigger, nearer, more real and soul-aching than it's been in years. He should be upset. He looks and sounds like a kid again. But... "I'm alive."

He is alive. And it is a joy. A gift. A promise. He will not waste this second chance.

The newly remade halfa is crying and...it's never felt so good.

#danny phantom #dan phantom #vlad plasmius #i know Dan's grossly ooc here but i do not care.#my post #my ficlet

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insomniac-dot-ink · 5 years

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The Unmaker

genre: modern horror fairy tale

words: 2.8k

summary: a young woman encounters a unicorn in an alleyway

It was closer to midnight than it was sunset and my phone was ringing. The apartment was unlit and smelled of the burnt cheese on toast I made for dinner. The ceiling was a swamp of shadows and I couldn’t remember if I put on pajamas before I got into bed that night.

My cheap IKEA bedside table vibrated violently and I reached over with sightless fingers. Normally, I wouldn’t answer such calls, but it was closer to midnight than sunset and this had to be the fourth call.

“What?” I slurred into the receiver.

“Lilly?” A voice asked in a hush. “Lil, girl, you’re a virgin, right?” I cracked my eyes open and clenched my jaw, “What? Are you calling me just to ask--” “You have to come over here.” Katie Reynolds said slowly. “Like, right outside my apartment, right now.” I glanced down and realized I was still in my rumpled jeans no doubt making topographical maps of my skin. “I literally cannot imagine what you need me for at this hour… And how that’s related to my sex life?” “It’s cool, dude,” she whispered slowly. “But you have to come see this. Remember our classic beasts class? Remember about harvest moons?” I sat up properly and started reaching for a grungy bra I flung to the side earlier or else a heavy enough sweater. “Uh, yeah?” “It’s the harvest moon. It’s by my apartment. Oh shit, gotta go,” something crumpled in the background and Katie squealed, “just get your ass over here!” I fumbled my way out of bed and toward the dresser to put myself together. My tangled hair wasn’t important but my mouth tasted like you could forage for mushrooms in it from the grittiness alone. It hadn’t been an easy few months since I had been kicked out.

I brushed my teeth in lazily circles while I walked around the small apartment and found my shoes on opposite ends of the room as a clearly divorced couple. I got them back together and was out the door and onto the street just as a hazy layer of rain started to come down.

I had sold my car when the first rent payment had been due, but Katie only lived a few blocks from me. It was a Tuesday so the streets were practically empty except for a few cars with their brights on high and the city riff-raff wondering the nooks and crannies of the night. Nameless people passed at a fast-walk and the sky was bulky with heavy clouds. The yellowed street lights appeared faded and unreal through the mist as I walked.

I turned left onto Katie’s block and narrowed my eyes as the sheen of water seemed to grow thicker there. I looked behind me and then back to the street lamps on the block, and then back, the lights seemed to be more subdued on Katie’s block, like their light didn’t quite reach the ground.

I took a deep breath and kept walking.

With every step I took the air seemed to get slightly more shadowed and more hazy from the drizzle. I put my hood up over my damp curls and there was a certain hush in the air: quiet and electric all at once.

“Katie?” I whispered as I came up to the first side street. “Kate?” I stopped as I heard a series of muffled sobs. Someone was sniffing and silently crying to themselves.

I hurried to the next side street where the choked crying grew louder. I turned and found Katie in the middle of the alley with her face in her hands. She was wearing her regular gym clothes and a high golden ponytail with a hundred bobby pins stick to the side of her head.

But she was slumped over. Her generous height reduced to nothing and she was shaking slightly. I put my hand out to pat her but hesitated, “Hey,” I said instead, “it’s Lilly. I’m here.” She peaked through her hands and her mouth was fixed in a pressed frown. She nodded over to the end of the alleyway. The excitement from her original phone call was gone, but there was an urgency to her movements.

I turned quickly and there was a soft glow coming from the end of the short alley. Two hulking trash bins the color of pine needles and green wine bottles sat on either side of the dark street. The concrete led to a couple of black trash bags with slashes down the side.

The area itself was breathlessly dim and there was something thick and textured about the darkness there. Unnatural.

The light was sucked from the air and concentrated on the figure tucked behind one of the huge trash bins. A soft silvery light echoed from the corner-- a rainbow in one color and arches of pale glow that shimmered in the air and hung before me.

I took one hesitant step forward as I remembered what our Classical Beasts professor said: during the harvest moon often classic creatures will be drawn to their historical homeland. They remember feeding there in ancient times and return ritualistically.

My heart stuttered in my chest and skin crawled like ants climbing up my arm. “Hello?” The word barely left my mouth and I slowly rounded the corner of the bin.

A figure came into view and I gasped with a small shudder from my very core. It wasn’t big. It was delicate as a glass figurine in your grandmother’s cupboard and only came up to my waist in height.

The creature was slim and breakable-looking with fur the color of winter mornings and white so white it hurt. It was like looking at the negative of a photograph, it was white but in all the wrong ways. It’s fur glowed softly and its hooves were silver and gnarled.

I would never have called it a horse. It’s legs were too thin and face too fragile, long and regal and with a curling lovely white main that fell over it’s round eyes. They were intelligent eyes with a pink sheen and stars caught in them.

It’s horn was long and straight and wound round and round into an ugly looking point. It slowly raised its head and a tin can was hanging from its lips.

It was grazing as it would have centuries ago when this area was a clearing or a field. Trash lay around it in heaps where it was feasting on rotten meat and broken eggshells. I covered my nose as something foul wafted up in the air.

“H-hello.” I tried to remember my etiquette, but it was hard when I was stuck with a look from a massively ancient and powerful creature. I gave a small bow, “I am Lillian Oke. It-it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The creature kept staring and it’s left ear twitched.

“I was raised, um, not to believe in things like you.” I said with a tremor to my voice, “you were… against god's creation as they said. I was raised Mormon like that.” I tried to explain, as if I had to justify myself. “But I think you’re beautiful.”

I added the last part, but somehow I wasn’t sure I believed it.

“I am a virgin,” I announced to no one. “I was saving myself, before, um, I left the church. Or, well, they left me.”

It kept staring with it’s unblinking gaze and the slight movement of its lips as it chewed on the tin can in its mouth. “So… can I have a wish?” I asked slowly, steadily.

The unicorn must have reached something hard as a loud crunch shuttered through the small space. “Please?” I offered.

Another fraught moment passed and I could still hear Katie crying behind me. Weeping her heart out. I wondered if she had tried to make a wish.

The unicorn, slowly, lowered its head down.

I didn’t know what to do at first as it offered its head to me. Something primal told me to run, to turn around and bolt like a scared rabbit out from under the wheels of a car. This creature's eyes were the starry headlights and the horn was the windshields. But I wasn’t a rabbit.

I was a human. And I was worthy.

I fumbled forward. The stench of rotting meat became sharper and almost made my eyes water as I approached. The terrible wrong glow filled my vision and made me squint. She bowed her head down lower and my hands shook as my fingers slowly reached for her horn.

“I got kicked out by my family recently,” I whispered, “for the church thing and… a lot of things. But I think I was unhappy for a while even before that. Maybe I’ve never been happy.” I confessed to her elegant soft ears, “so this is my wish.” I grabbed onto the horn and it was cool to the touch, perfectly smooth, and seemed to tingled up my arms with an electric pulse. “I want to be happy.”

The unicorn gave a slight snort and pawed the ground. I held onto the horn for a hard moment and the pearl-soft surface seemed to warm under my fingers. “I want to be happy.” I repeated more strongly, “I want to be-- Ow!” I let go as the horn began to burn.

I almost fell on my ass as I backed away from the creature. I checked to make sure my hands weren’t burned, but they seemed as they always did. I looked up again as the unicorn lowered her head and bit down on a broken beer bottle.

Her teeth were charcoal black and twisted like corkscrews.

“Come on,” Katie reached for me. “We gotta get out of here.” Tears were slipping from my eyes without me noticing and I watched as the unicorn gnawed on chunks of glass with its twisted teeth and black spit. I turned, grabbed Katie’s hand, and ran.

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

The sidewalk beat hard against my sneakers and the rain came down in sheets as we entered back into Katie’s block. The street lights were almost all flickering or completely gone out by then and Katie was shivering. “I have to go home,” she said as she looked toward me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and unfocused. “I have to check on my mom.” “Okay?” She looked down at her feet, “I know I shouldn’t have.” She reached for her phone, “but I figured if the wish was for someone else, it would be fine?” I nodded and Katie frowned at me. “I hear you.” I finally said and turned back to my own apartment. “Call me when you get there and let me know if everything’s okay.” “I’ll try.” She looked over her shoulder. “Are you happy with your wish?” I just nodded slowly. “Thanks for calling me.” I said and there was something lighter about my chest, like a weight had been lifted from it.

“Sure,” she said and put her head up. “And Lilly?” “Yeah?” She sniffed and wiped at her face, “I hope it works out alright.”

“Yeah.” I walked in the opposite direction as I left Katie who I had known since we were roommates freshman year and somehow it felt strangely final. A slammed door behind us.

I don’t remember getting home that night, but I did manage to kick off my jeans this time and collapsed into bed.

I smiled into my pillow as I started to drift off. I could be happy after this.

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

My chest was even lighter the next day. A tune was playing in the back of my head and I sat up quickly instead of waiting to force myself awake like most mornings. I stretched and it was only when I lowered my hands that I shrieked. I yelled from deep inside my chest and threw my hands far away from my face. “No, no, no.” I ran to the restroom to look in the mirror.

I slammed into the bathroom door and held both my hands up into the light. I screamed again. Half of my pointer finger was gone and sticking out of the top of the knuckle was some sort of pale silvery shard.

“Oh no, fuck.” I cursed at my missing finger and slowly reached for the shard in its place. I put my finger along its sharp edge and sucked on my bottom lip. It was smooth like glass and seemingly weightless on my hand. “Ah fuck.” There were sayings about wishing on unicorns, but it didn’t feel like the time or the place to start googling them.

Instead, I went back to my pants and fumbled to get my phone out. It was at 7% battery and I used my left hand to flick open Katie’s number.

“Katie?” I said as she picked up on the second ring.

I heard a loud sniffle, “this isn’t a good time.” I gulped, “your mom?” She let out a heavy breath, “meet me at the school. Professor Masterson should be in his classroom today.” She made a strained sound, “I’m sorry Lilly.” I swallowed thickly, “was that not a unicorn last night?” She sniffed, “No.” She said softly, “I think it was.” She hung up the phone after that. I dug up the thickest pair of gloves I could find.

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

Professor Masterson was standing behind his desk with his glasses almost hanging off his nose and the lines on his face looking like canyons written in ink. He had that strain to his expression that he always wore every morning of every class I had attended.

Katie texted me that she was about to be late.

It was a hundred-seat classroom that was empty that day and the bright fluorescent lights overhead were almost pedestrian and slightly uncomfortable.

I looked left and right before jogging down the lecture hall stairs that led to the pit of the room. I wet my lips, “Professor.” I called weakly, “Katie Reynolds said you could meet with us today?” He glanced up and his expression somehow managed to tighten further before he looked back down at the text in front of him. “Did you learn nothing from my class?” He murmured and I looked down at my right hand.

“I’m a virgin,” I said softly. “All the books agree--” He shook his head, “your friend is going to be in a lot of trouble.” “I know.” I whispered, “but I think…” I reached for my hand, “I might be too.” His eyes went wide as the glove ripped off and there was a larger shard sprouting from my hand. The shiny white fragment was longer and sharper now and more of my finger was gone.

“Tsk,” he turned away and strolled over to the white board. “Do you know the other names for the unicorn?” I hung my head, “The protector of maidens?” He seemed to snarl, “The Unmaker according ancient Summerian.” He said slowly and purposefully wrote “The Unmaker” on the board, “The Reality Warper according to physicists.” He continued, “The breaker of matter according to poets.” He scrawled in his messy handwriting. “A protector, yes. Obsessed with purity. But purity… Ancient Chinese texts ironically sometimes refer to it as The Corrupter as well.” I looked down sheepishly at my corrupted hand. “But a wish granter.” He shook his head in disgust and looked down at my hand. “They were here long before we could write though. Long before humans learned to walk and long before this planet even existed.” He said in a hush. “And they do not understand humans in any fashion.”

I clenched my good hand, “alright, I fucked up.” I said sourly, “I wasn’t in a good place. Can you help me or not?” The professor faced the board, “What did you wish for?” I took the last final steps into the pit of the classroom. “To be happy.” I held up my hand and the entirety of my right pointer finger was gone. “What is it turning me into?” “Something that can be happy.” He whispered without looking at me.

His words echoed in my head: Unicorns do not understand humans in any fashion.

The silence that followed was all-consuming.

“What is it turning me into?” I repeated and somehow found that I couldn’t cry. I blinked and rubbed at my eyes but the tears weren’t coming. They never would again.

He turned back to me. “I don’t know.” I looked back to my hand and watched in slow horror as more of my finger receded into nothing and more of something else appeared there. “But if I were you I would make calls to who you need to make calls to before the end of the day.”

My chest was even lighter than before and I realized it wasn’t my depression disappearing. But perhaps the process of being slowly unmade was always going to be painless one.

#horror #fairy tale #writing #urban fantasy #magical realism #horror fairy tale #short story #my work #cw: body horror

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ktheist · 5 years

Text

prologue: straight into hell

angel!jungkook x soon-to-be-demon!reader. 1.4k words. fluff (or angst if you see it that way) & comedy!

A lot of people don’t know this, but angels are actually God’s hitmen. And the misunderstood demons are merely soul guiders. (x)

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

Jungkook’s eyes are flecked with silver, his smile, like that of a fascinated child. It sends chills to your spine. The sight before you had not been all too familiar. A child weeps beside his mother’s dead body, a man drags himself across the street, paralyzed waist down. A young boy who would look you and Jungkook’s age had you been mortal, tells his friend he hadn’t seen his cousin when he saw familiar red shoe attached to a leg.

“Let’s go back.” You say dryly, the nearest trees trembling as your wings flare.

“Listen, can you hear them?” Jungkook whizzes past you with excitement, “ah, music to my ear.”

At this speed and height, the air pressure is strong enough to burst a mortal’s eardrum but you can hear just fine. The newscasters’ rushed sentence, the shouts to evacuate, the crackling of fire not too far from the city which ether Jungkook had split into two with his bare hands.

“There are people dying,” you regret snapping at him the moment his expression drops.

“You’re distressed,” he asserts as though he’s surprised, “the council-”

“-Has changed. It didn’t used to be like this, we only take lives when we need to. You’ve changed.”

Before he gets the chance to say anything, you spread your wings, cutting through the air.

“H-hey, I almost fell!” Jungkook calls out when the wave almost blew him off like a leaf.

Your wings are made of a Fae’s blood. Strum with gold feathers, it catches the rays of the evening sun and calls for the mortals who sail the seas. In your youthful days, you would soar across the horizon so the ocean would look as though there were treasures at the bottom. Men had jumped off their boat in greed only to either drown or be caught by the sirens.

Your wings, they easily overpower Jungkook’s.

Taehyung’s already waiting for you as you truck your wings together. His face is marred with the centuries he’s lived. His wings, made of the moon’s gleam, are getting duller than when you first saw him - almost grey.

“They’re here. They’re ready. You know you don’t have to -”

You cautiously eye the marbled frames where the doors are supposed to be, “I don’t but I want to.”

He shakes his head, a fragile smile on his lips, “It doesn’t have to be you.”

“The revolution has to have a face,” you grimly return his smile, “it just so happens that I’m more popular than you.”

Jungkook’s booming voice yells for you two “love birds” to move aside. He’s probably winked at approximately two Seers and an Ashura before he does actually land.

You roll your eyes, treading towards the door only to have him squeeze between you and Taehyung, resulting for the latter to trail behind you two, “what a day at work.”

“Stop slacking off, you have to report to Gabriel, remember?”

The boy groans as though dreading the meeting with the lion - you wouldn’t blame him, Gabes isn’t fun at parties.

“Why can’t I report to you like I always did? Why do you have to upgrade?”

You give him a hard look which he doesn’t seem to be affected at all, “we’ve talked about this, there-”

“Can’t be two archangels the same sky, yeah yeah.”

A sigh escapes your lips when you see the pout he’s making, “Besides, Taehyung’s staying, right Tae?”

When you look over your wings, the last thing you see are midnight black nails. It happened too soon, the searing burn on your back as though someone’s thrown a ball of hellfire right at your wings, the blurred vision of Jungkook yelling for everyone to get out of the way as the world spins.

You don’t know how long it’s been - time runs slower for you. A day on earth is a minute in heaven. If they hadn’t banished you while you were blacked out. You refuse to believe it but there was no mistaking those talons - they were once objects of fascination; while the Seraphs shine brighter than the dew drop of a moon, Taehyung had come to you in a beautiful midnight that engulfs the milky way.

Now, you wince as you sit up; the pain in your back numbs only by a notch. Now, you suffer the consequence of falling for something that was never meant for you.

“They’ve captured the rebels and banished them. You’re the only one left. Taehyung -” his voice breaks and he’s forced to take a breath to calm himself, “Taehyung says you’re the leader. The only reason they haven’t banished you is because Gabriel wanted you to have at least a fair trial - it’s the least the council could do after all that you’ve done.”

You laugh dryly, “what exactly have I done in my hundred centuries of living?”

“You started the great wars and ended both when not even the Seraphs could,” Jungkook’s voice cracks again - that’s a second.

“I didn’t like it - causing so much death. I was carrying out orders until I realize I don’t want to anymore,” the chains on your ankle lights up as you shuffle around, “it was nice of Gabes to give me the benefit of the doubt. What about you though, do you believe Taehyung?”

His gaze trembles but he keeps it on you as though thrown off by what you’re implying, “you’re joking, right?”

“Do you see me laughing?” You hiss at the sizzle the chain makes when you stand, ignoring Jungkook’s scrunched up expression as though it physically pains him to see you rot in this dungeon with metal chains absorbing your livelihood with every minute.

You stand in front of him, the only thing separating you are the bars though no silver could overcome the moon flecks in his eyes.

“I would rather die than feed on the fake sympathy of the council.” You glower, fangs that you never have now bare and ready to snap Jungkook’s pretty little neck, your vision is bright red and the chains on your ankles and wrist crackle as the smell of burning flesh fills the air, the pounding headache you felt when you wake up slowly dissipating as you feel something growing on your head, “You and the rest can go to hell.”

Jungkook takes a step back. And another. and another until he’s wheezing down the hallway like he’s seen you grow another head.

Well, they’re actually thorns.

Taehyung never looked at you throughout the whole trial. That’s fair, you wouldn’t want to look at the hideous creature you’ve become. Overtime you’ve grown talons as nails - one not as pretty-looking as the ones Taehyung used to rip your wings (and got away with it on the ground that you were a traitor). You’ve also grown a tail which had flail and accidentally lit an Seer’s satin dress on fire. It’s been flailing around behind your back as though it has a mind of its own and it wants every celestial in the room burned alive.

“The council hereby banishes you,” Gaberial, in his elderly wise voice says, his slit-like eyes not bothering to hide the disappointment you’ve caused him, “to hell.”

Whispers break out a second later. The Archangels remain quiet but the angels don’t bother looking away as they lean to the person next to them and whisper - not that you can’t hear them.

“Despicable!”

“Who would have thought? ____? A traitor?”

“Lord Taehyung had to rip the wings of his own fiance to stop her from betraying the cause.”

“Look at the thing she’s become. If I never knew she was an Archangel, I would’ve believed her to be a full flesh demon.”

You don’t expect for Jungkook to speak up, lips curled condescendingly, “Angels! You’re in the presence of the council, at least have some class.”

When he meets your gaze, the muscles of your face relaxes as you shoot him a smile of gratitude to which his lips twitch ever slight.

Gaberiel clears his throat, before asking you if you had any last words.

“I’ll never understand how the council could be so fucked up as to order a mass massacre. Being banished to hell is better than taking the lives of millions and calling it a purification. We’ve strayed too far from the course - I pray one day you’ll see the light.”

A few physically winces at your choice of word - good.

With two taps of Gaberial’s paws, the ground before you opens up to an ocean of scorching hot flames. You wince only to realize they’re nowhere as scalding as the chains you’re bound to while the angels that trash talked you leap for the door, unable to take the heat and the higher class angels struggle to maintain their composure.

You take a look at Taehyung for the first and last time and your heart still skips a beat when you realize his eyes are on you. Still as warm as the evening sun.

Then you’re plunging a hundred million feet straight into hell.

#bts senarios #jungkook scenarios #bts #jungkook #networkbangtan #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook #bts x reader #bts x you #jungkook x you #bts fanfic #angel!jungkook #demon!reader #would you look at that #another series

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girl-in-the-library · 4 years

Text

Rambling about Doctor Who? In this economy?

I’m in the process of catching up with Doctor Who. I had stopped a while ago most of the way through Capaldi’s second season, after having stopped for a long time before watching his first season and a half.

Well, I just watched Capaldi regenerate into Jodi Whittaker and I have some things to say. This is primarily focusing on the end of Clara’s run as a companion and Bill’s story, because it’s been a while since I watched that first part of Capaldi and Clara, and even longer since I watched anything before that. I came back to catch up because I’d been seeing gifsets of Nine and Ten, and I miss them so, so much. But I decided I wanted to catch up before going back and doing an entire rewatch of New Who (I have no idea anything about Classic Who, honestly...and there’s so much that’s missing and I have no idea where to get the rest of it anyway).

Point is. I have feelings. Some good. Some bad. And they’re going under the cut.

First things First: I hate Steven Moffat.

All his episodes are the worst! Whenever his name would come up as the main writer credit, the episode was trash! Of course, some were more trash than others, and some were good ideas, but they all got the Doctor so, so wrong.

Two egregious examples that I hated, both from Moffat written episodes:

In “The Husbands of River Song,” River gives this whole big speech about how she’s the woman who loves the Doctor, but he will never love her, because that’s like looking at a sunset and asking it to love you back...or something like that. The Doctor would never come for her, because she wasn’t important enough.

That’s wrong on two big levels. 1! The Doctor is the Doctor because he loves. Nine was broken because he was so hurt, and he had forgotten how to love. Rose taught him to love again, and brought him back from the brink of self-destruction. I dislike the idea of the Doctor and River being a couple because I think Steven Moffat wrote it very, very badly (just like...a random woman comes out of nowhere and claims to be the Doctor’s wife! And then she is...because she is?) However, she is, in fact, the Doctor’s wife, as written, and he /does/ love her. She /is/ important to him. And the fact that she doesn’t think so just proves a misunderstanding in character and out of character. The second point? That she’s not important enough? She’s obviously important enough for the Doctor...but the other point is that that shouldn’t matter.

Nine once said that he had never met anybody who wasn’t important. But later on in the episode about the Monks that had taken over, Bill asks why the Doctor puts up with humans if he finds them so ridiculous. And the Doctor says something about “every so often I meet one like you [Bill]” and that makes up for putting up with the rest. No! The Doctor loves humanity! AND EVERYONE IS IMPORTANT TO HIM.

The thing about the Doctors that Moffat has written...both Eleven and Twelve (and the War Doctor, I guess too) is that specific people are important to those Doctors, and the Doctor would do anything for them. Anything for Amy, for Rory, for River. For Clara. For Bill. And they fail, but they fail doing things to save these specific people, not necessarily for their sakes, but for his own. And then they would die, and he would be sad, but there would be no consequences for his actions.

Nine and Ten loved Rose, but Ten left her behind /twice/ because he needed to. Martha got herself out. And Ten erased Donna’s memories to save her life. He lost them, in the end. And it hurt him. And he continued on, learning because of it. He died and regenerated twice because of his love for people. But there were still consequences for everyone around him, as well as himself. Sad things happened.

But Amy, Rory, River, Clara, and Bill? He hung on to them until they were burned away, but they were all fine in the end. Amy and Rory were there for a long time, but then the weeping angels sent them back, and the Doctor couldn’t see them anymore, but they were totally fine and grew old together. River died the first time the Doctor met her, but he clung to her for centuries (without proper character development, I tell you!) until she eventually died, but her whole life was centered around the Doctor. Clara he did everything he could to save, including break the laws of time. And he still lost her but also she was totally fine at the same time, traveling across time and space with Asheildr/Me in their Diner TARDIS. And Bill? Bill literally was turned into a Cyberman because of the Doctor’s hubris. He couldn’t save her. But she ended up okay anyway.Why? Because after she died as a human, then died as a Cyberman, she lived as something else, along with Heather, and got some sort of happily ever after (until she ultimately died again, but that’s off screen, we see her memories.) And then the Doctor got HIS memories of Clara back! So there were no consequences!

The Doctor as Moffat wrote them had no regard for life. They loved specific people, and specific conditions, except when Humanity was in Danger, and then he was The Big Damn Action Hero. But he also turned all of humanity into murderers when he basically brainwashed them into killing the Silence on sight, because otherwise they wouldn’t remember seeing them (this happened in Amy and Rory’s time, but it’s relevant).

In one episode, he tells the executioners to look up the Doctor under cause of death, and they flee out of fear for just how many people wound up dead because of him. In the next, he berates Missy for just how many people has she killed? It’s inconsistent.

The Doctor is a Perfect Hero, when he needs to be, and a Perfect Killer, also when he needs to be. “The Doctor of War” - as the glass memory people call him (I can’t even remember what they were called even though I just watched the episode) - isn’t who the Doctor is...but it’s who Moffat made him.

And of course, almost every major plotline ends up with Moffat’s favorite trope: The Big Friendly Reset Button. Because what does it matter if things happen? There’s time travel and everything will be okay for Earth in general and the people we care about, even if it’s not actually okay.

I hate Steven Moffat. I do think he has some good ideas! The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances were some of my favorite episodes! I just think he can’t be allowed to be in charge.

I also hate Clara’s Magic Tears that make the Doctor do something he wasn’t going to do (that it would have made sense for him to do) just because she cried. Like...in the 50th. When she cried and told the Doctor that pushing the button wouldn’t be like him. That he couldn’t do that to his entire civilization. But the thing is...he already did. His character development was based on that. And it changed him. But then, Clara cried, and he didn’t. And it was like the Time War never happened. (What I think would have been great would have been if the three Doctors decided to push the button together. They had made the decision in the past as Eight/the War Doctor. Now, together, as the War Doctor, Ten, and Eleven...knowing everything they had been through and everything the universe had been through...they pushed the button to make the decision they knew needed to be made. But they didn’t do that. Clara cried and they didn’t do that. And then it wasn’t like the War even mattered anyway, because literally nothing changed). But I digress. There was another time or two that Clara cried and the Doctor did something stupid, but I forget the specifics right now.

Now, from the bad to the questions.

Why are the Time Lords? Where are the Time Lords? If they’re back, how come they’re not interfering more, especially as they were looking for the Doctor? If they’re not back, then why are they there?

What was with the orphanage thing on Gallifrey? Is that where the Doctor grew up? Is this a question that was answered in Classic Who, or earlier New Who that I just don’t remember, or did Moffat just shove in a confusing backstory then not answer questions about it?

Why was Missy being executed? And speaking of Missy, why couldn’t she still call herself the Master, just because she was female?

Who was that child in the picture on the Doctor’s desk in the office at the university? The one in the frame next to River’s frame? I feel like this is something I just don’t know...not something that wasn’t explained.

How old is the Doctor? That’s been all over the place for a long time now.

How did Bill survive the mind-thing with the monks?

I had more questions but I forgot them.

And from the questions to the good.

I liked Bill! I liked Bill a lot! I feel like I never got the sense that she developed any sort of relationship with the Doctor, that it was just like...she was a student and then suddenly they were super important to each other, but I guess that’s how it goes sometimes.

I actually really loved Capaldi! I thought he could be a great Doctor if he wasn’t hindered by the writing. But I definitely enjoyed this run and will miss him, which is honestly more than I can say for Matt Smith. Not that I don’t think Smith did a good job. I like Smith well enough, but not enough to miss him as the Doctor when he left.

The episode Hell Bent was really, really good.

And overall, I just enjoyed it.

I know I listed a lot of problems up there, and not a lot of good stuff down here...but I was having fun watching Doctor Who again! I was just taken out of it sometimes by the Moffat garbage fire.

But I cried when Bill died. I cried when the Doctor died. I cried when he said, “What about me? Don’t I get to rest?” I cried when he regenerated, though his speech to himself was stupid.

I liked Bill better than Clara, but Clara still had a lot of good moments!

I am /happy/ that I got back into Doctor Who. And I can’t wait to see what comes next.

#doctor who #the twelfth doctor #this is not a pro-moffat blog #I'm gonna catch up on Doctor Who #then I'm going to rewatch Doctor Who #I'm gonna watch Doctor Who until I puke #oh the inanity!#review of sorts

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espere-peticor · 5 years

Text

Happy Birthday, Milan

I had to step outside the bar when she said she did not believe in magic. I was too drunk to apologize or maybe it was too early. In 125, yes, one hundred and twenty-five, years, I learnt, in between other things, that old souls forget where they come from, in order to see where they go. That would not happen to me because I carried a special diamond in my pockets, which I had to sew in another life, to the clothes I do not remember buying.

I have no idea who my parents are, or which was my first home, I do not even know if this is my first home. I do not remember how I learnt to read. I do not remember the first hands I held. I do not remember the first time I wrote. I do not remember the first time I kissed. I do not remember how I started to walk. I do not remember how I got my cozy and blue apartment which, yesterday, after a strange urge I decided to paint yellow. I guess it is almost time. I knew this when food did not taste good anymore, and when I did not stay more time in the crowded bar. I do not remember the first time I drank coffee, or the first time I ate apples in the early morning. Maybe I saw it in a movie. Maybe it was never me. I do not remember my first name, but that means I can have any I like. My name for this life has been Milan, and people like it.

When I encounter people on the street, and I tell them that my name is Milan, they stare at me with wonder. They like that city in which I have never been. A city I have never been. But it made feel good in my skin from the very first time, and I decided to keep it. I always decided to keep the things that I liked, like the heart shaped diamond which I would also keep in my pockets. It reminded me how good it felt to have a soft one. Maybe if I lost it, I would cry, but it would make me happy to know somebody else, who needed it, would find it. Anyhow, I know it is almost time.

Every Sunday morning, I enjoy a short trip, walking, to the city’s pool. It makes me happy to know I can still feel the cold water in my bones. It makes me feel good to know I have the possibility to die inside of it, because I am alive. And it is so much better than arriving to the office. I tried to make the office the back of my hand. I pasted my favorite photos, and I had the balloons my friends would always give me when my spirits broke. Once one told me that my laughter was so loud and contagious, that its silence could make the buildings in the city cry.

I liked the buildings in the city; they never seemed to age, but they were fragile. Maybe I am not a person, but a building. Maybe next time I wake up, I won’t be able to think. I am starting to feel odd because my birthday is coming. My hands are shaking, and I cannot remember how to get home. I do not remember how to get home. Maybe I do not need to remember how to get home.

I need to sleep, so I will now lay in the landfill next to me. Trash is only things we do not know how to use anymore. I think my phone is ringing, but the clock is also ticking, and I know it is my birthday now. Happy birthday, Milan.

Suddenly, it hits me. All the memories. The memories of five lives, and now one more. The future memories, the present memories, grief, loss, stones, diamonds, pressured carbon, my childhood, or maybe more, my lovers, all of them, I weep, my friends, my family, my mothers, my sisters, my future self, my old self, my new self, my imagined self, my real self, the one I deny, the one I embrace, the one I love, the one I lost, the one I found, I could see everything in the ball I was now holding. And I closed my eyes. Happy birthday, Milan. Happy 25th birthday, yes, twenty-fifth.

Now I know why I did not stay with the stranger at the bar. Why I did not try to explain the magic in my hands. Old souls forget where they come from, but I could never, because I kept my origin in my pockets. Inside the diamond was my favorite city. We must leave the places we love, but sometimes they never leave us. We are all a place, a building, a beach, a sea, a space, a Jupiter, a sofa, a couch, the floor, a bar, a country, a tree, a cabin in the woods, and, even, a person. I did not stay because it was one day to my birthday. Because when we age, and lose, and love, and grief, and cry, and dance, and live, and feel, and see wrinkles, and get corrupted, and get loved, and unloved, and learn how to undress a person, and we die, and when we are born again, but deep down remember everything, and dream of it, every night, we are not innocent anymore, and magic cannot survive.

I forget everything each quarter of a century, because magic is made of innocence, and somebody must protect it, and corruption comes with the years. But now it is a new life, and I will forget everything. The sixth one, but I will remember it when I die again, and I will forget it all once I hear time saying: “Happy Birthday, Milan”.

#december 2019 #shortstory #fiction

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leiascully · 6 years

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Fic: Home Again (Part 5/5)

Timeline: Season 10 (replaces Home Again in its original order in the All The Choices We’ve Made ‘verse - Visitor + Resident + etc.) Rating: PG Characters: Mulder, Scully, Bill Scully, the Trashman (established MSR) Content warning: canon-typical body horror (dismemberment) A/N: This story is an alternate Home Again that cleaves fairly close to the original but reflects M&S’ growth/change in the ATCWM ‘verse and makes reference to past cases. I’m weaving canon dialogue into the stories in an attempt to keep the reframing plausibly in line with canon.

Here’s the end of it, and here’s the link to all of it on AO3:

She spends the entire drive to Philadelphia staring out the window as tears roll down her cheeks. She isn't even actively crying, just leaking. Lachrymose. Lagrimosa. If she were a statue, it would be a miracle. She wishes she were a statue.

At the lab, Mulder introduces her to the lab techs. She smiles politely, eyes dry at last, but she can't remember their names, even when she looks at their nametags. She has one hand in her pocket, worrying the coin necklace like a talisman, and her phone in the other hand, waiting for Bill to call. Their mother may be dead, but her life isn't over. There will be loose ends to tie up, certificates to file, legal documents to be read and analyzed. Her body was, in some ways, the least significant part of her existence, until it failed. It's a lesson Scully has learned over and over as a forensic pathologist.

"I broke down the paint samples you chipped away from the Trashman's signature," says one of the scientists, gesturing at an expensive-looking machine. "I used vibrational spectography to analyze it. It defines binders, pigments, and additives that are in spray paint. The binder present in this breakdown was patented by a brand called Cannonz - that's with a z - and used only in their high-end spray paints."

Scully Googles it. Cannonz with a z makes a lot of spray paint, but when she puts in Philadelphia, the results narrow. "Product locator indicates there's only one store in Central Philadelphia that carries it," she announces.

"Then it's time for a visit," Mulder says, and they're off. The forward motion feels good. It feels productive. When she's still, her insides churn and her mind slips inevitably back to the hospital.

"You want to stake out the store?" Mulder asks.

She opens her mouth to say yes, please, let me work, but then reconsiders. The few times she's been in a hardware store, she's been too noticeable. Men assume she doesn't know what she wants, or that she's a DIY blogger, or that one way or another, she needs their attention. It'll be better if Mulder does it and she stays in the car.

"No," she says. "It's a little conspicuous. Better if I drive."

"Okay," he says.

+ + + +

Mulder lurks in the hardware store, pretending to look at sandpaper and paint. It's easy and absorbing to flip through the paint chips. Maybe they should redo the bedroom. He hasn't, since she moved back in. Maybe it's time for a new look to go with the reboot of their old life. Something to signify that the times have really changed. They've never really lived anywhere that had color on the walls.

He knows she's right and she would be conspicuous. A beautiful woman in a suit in a hardware store is unlikely to be an everyday occurrence, especially one who occasionally weeps in an understated and elegant way that breaks hearts. As far as he's concerned, she's always the center of attention.

Movement catches his eye. There's a young man by the spray paint. He knocks cans of Cannonz Premium into his basket: black, light grey, dark grey, white. There's no hesitation in his movement. Mulder follows him, walking casually with his fistful of paint chips, moving toward the front of the store. The kid looks back over his shoulder. Mulder detours down another aisle, glancing at a display of fans. When he catches up again, the kid has ditched his basket of paint and is headed for the front door. Mulder trails him. He follows the kid out the front door at a reasonable difference. Scully's in the car. Her head is bent, looking at something she's holding, probably the necklace her mother will never get a chance to explain. He whistles, wishing he didn't have to, and her head snaps up. She shifts out of park and follows him.

Mulder runs, wishing he wasn't wearing dress shoes. Scully catches up to him and pulls over a hundred feet away. He flings open the door and climbs into the passenger's seat.

"That way," he says, panting. They run the kid to ground at a warehouse in a fenced-off wooded lot. Mulder jumps out of the car and regrets it as his knee twinges. Some parts of them are getting too old for this. But he glimpses the kid and takes off in pursuit, Scully close behind him. They clamber through a hole in the chain-link fence. The kid stops to unlock a door. He's polite for a vandal and potential murderer.

"Federal agents!" Mulder calls, just as the kid gets the door open and vanishes through it. Mulder shares a look with Scully and they go in. It's dim inside the warehouse, like most of the warehouses he's been in, but his reflexes are still sharp and he reaches for his weapon almost without thinking as he sees the kid draw a gun. Scully has the kid in a headlock almost before either of them can react. He wonders if she took up jujitsu in the time they were apart. She's impressive. Then again, she always was. She hands him the kid's gun and cuffs the kid.

"We're looking for the Trashman," Mulder says.

The kid sighs. "Why would I know where he is?"

"You had the paint," Mulder tells him.

"Is it a crime to buy paint?" the kid snarks.

"No, but it's a crime to deface other people's property," Scully says.

"With the same paint the Trashman uses," Mulder points out.

"Why are you looking for him?" the kid asks.

"We believe he may be a key witness in a murder case," Scully says, looking at Mulder.

"There might be compensation in it for the person who could help us find him," Mulder says.

"Lead with that next time," the kid grumbles. "You want the Trashman? Take the cuffs off and I'll take you to him."

"How do we know we can trust you?" Scully asks.

"You're the ones with the guns," the kid says.

She raises her eyebrow at Mulder. He shrugs. They've had this discussion more times than he can count. It hasn't needed to be verbalized for decades. The potential reward outweighs the risk. He's pretty sure Scully could throw this kid. She uncuffs him and the kid rubs his wrist.

"We kept our end," Mulder says.

"Right this way," the kid says, like a sarcastic maitre d'. He leads them through the warehouse to another door that he unlocks with his jingling ring of keys. There are stairs dimly visible beyond it. The kid points down to them. Mulder pulls out his phone and turns on the flashlight. He should have brought a real one. There were years when he never went anywhere without a flashlight. The one on his phone is brighter, but harder to balance across his gun. Twenty-first century skills.

"I'm just letting you know," the kid says, "from here on down, there's no light. Power's out."

"Crime doesn't pay the bills," Mulder jokes. The kid pretends to laugh. The three of them start to ease down the stairs. It's dark, but the stairs seem to be in good condition, and they're even. The light from their phones casts dizzying shadows around their feet, but that's something Mulder can deal with. He spent decades in the shadows. When they're what must be most of the way down, the kid shoves them suddenly into the wall and pelts back up the stairs. Mulder sighs. Scully shoots him a sideways glare.

"What?" he says. "I wasn't going to shoot him. He's a kid and it's dark. You want to do the stairs, be my guest. I'm too old for that shit."

She rolls her eyes. "Mulder, back in the day, I used to do stairs in three-inch heels."

He glances at her feet and shines his phone at them. "'Back in the day', huh. Three inches not enough for you anymore?"

She rolls her eyes again.

"Go for it, G-Woman," he tells her.

"I'm not leaving you alone in the dark," she says.

"By all means, ladies first," he tells her, making a sweeping gesture. She comes down the last few stairs and steps onto the warehouse basement floor. They make their halting way across it, but the floor is mostly clear. It's the dark that's the danger. The light washes it away, but it flows back around them as they move. Mulder's shoulders tense. There's something down here, or someone; he knows it with a certainty he can't shake. His nerves twang. Suddenly, there's a flicker of white at the edge of their pool of light. It freezes as the light touches it, and then flees, straight into a wall. It hits with a thud and falls to the ground. They run to catch up, but it's gone. There's only a pale puddle, a muddle of cloth. He nudges it with the toe of his shoe. It leaves a smudge.

"What the hell?" Scully says.

Mulder shrugs, already proceeding. At the end of the corridor, there's a locked metal door. Mulder locks eyes with Scully and then bangs on the door with his fist, hoping his phone won't fly out. "Federal agents! Open up! If you're in danger, we're here to help."

"I am in danger," say a voice inside. It's a baritone, slightly raspy. "Go away."

Mulder glances at Scully. She nods. He kicks open the door, creaky knees be damned. He's just lucky this one opens in. He's made the mistake before of trying to kick in a door that opened out. They burst into the room like they're on a movie set. There's a statue in the middle, human-sized, of a human-shaped figure with a trash bag shirt and a Band-Aid on its nose. Mulder gets chills down his spine, remembering other statues with other faces inside them, wet clay plastered slashed-open faces, a muse like a demon that drove an old mentor to murder. He takes a step toward the statue.

"Put the guns down!" says the voice. "They don't work on them! Put them away! They don't work. I've tried. I've tried to shoot them."

Behind the statue, there's a man. He's hiding behind a shopping cart full of spray paint cans. The shadows stripe his face, cutting him into checkers. They aim at him, guns and lights trained toward him.

"You the Trashman?" Mulder asks.

"Turn down the light, man," the Trashman says. "Turn down the light. If they don't see me and I don't see them, they can't hurt me."

"What's the opposite of hiding in the light?" Scully murmurs. She points her light toward the floor but holds her weapon steady. Mulder turns his flashlight off.

"Thanks, man," the Trashman says. "Hold on, I've got a candle. Candles aren't enough to attract them."

He straightens up from behind the cart, pulling himself up on the wire frame, and shuffles over toward a workbench. He strikes a match and lights three little candles. Scully reluctantly turns off her light, but she doesn't holster her weapon.

"We can place you near the scene of two different murders," Mulder says. "Why don't you explain that to us."

"The people on the streets - the homeless people, the street people - they ain't got no voice, right?" the Trashman says, leaning against the workbench. "They get treated like trash. I mean, actual trash. It's like this. You throw your grande cup or your Coke bottle in the right trash can under the sink - if it's recyclable, if it's not - you tie it in a bag, you take it outside, you put it in the right dumpster. You feel good about yourself. You saved the world, a little bit. Kept global warming at bay, spared a sea turtle or two. Garbage truck comes to take the trash away. One way or another, it's not your problem. Just like magic. But it is your problem, because it piles up in a landfill, or it gets floated out to sea on a barge, or it gets incinerated, and now there's toxins in the water and in the land and in the sky. But you don't see the problem, so there is no problem."

"Is someone incinerating the homeless population?" Scully asks.

"It's a metaphor," the Trashman says. "People treat people like trash, like if they can just sweep them somewhere else, there's no problem. They don't fix the problem. They just try to eliminate the symptoms."

"So you fixed the problem?" Mulder asks.

"I did my part," the Trashman says, some kind of pride in his voice.

"By killing Joseph Cutler and Nancy Huff?" Mulder asks.

"There were two art thieves too," the Trashman says. "The ones who stole the billboard. They've been taking my work for months, selling it to the people who cause the problem. That's why I switched to brick. Can't steal brick." He pushes a hand through his hair. "I was just trying to give those people a voice the only way I know how. Through art, not violence. I wanted something I could put around town so they wouldn't be forgotten. A stencil that looked over the Bad Suit Building Man, the Lawn Gnome Suburban Lady. A reminder for them. A stop sign."

"Why'd you put up the art after the fact?" Mulder demands. "We've got footage that shows that the graffiti on the billboard wasn't painted until the morning of Cutler's murder."

"I didn't do it," the Trashman protests. "That wasn't me. I made the stencil, but I didn't paint the billboard. I only thought him up, you know? Those people who got killed - that was him. Only him."

"Who, exactly, is him?" Scully asks.

"You saw those things in the hall," the Trashman says. "I heard you."

"Yeah," Mulder allows.

"I made them," the Trashman says. "I didn't mean to, but I made 'em. They'll go away, eventually. They're kind of fading out, the less I think about it. But the Band-Aid Nose Man...he's different. He's got a life of his own."

Mulder turns to look at the statue. It doesn't move.

"Tibetan Buddhists would call him a Tulpa," the Trashman continues. "A thought form using mind and energy to will a consciousness into existence."

Mulder glances at Scully. Motor oil and coffee grounds, he thinks, red footprints staining the plush white carpet in a perfect suburban McMansion. "Tulpa is a 1929 Theosophist mistranslation of the Tibetan world 'tulku', meaning 'a manifestation body'," he says. "There is no idea in Tibetan Buddhism of a thought form or thought as form. And a realized tulku would never harm anyone. That's antithetical to the Buddhist tradition."

"A thought form made of trash seems unlikely at best," Scully murmurs, and Mulder knows that she remembers it too.

"Okay," the Trashman says. "But Buddhist or philosophist or whatever, I'm telling you, I spend a lot of energy on my art. I meditated on it. I put all my energy into the Band-Aid Nose Man, and somehow, I willed it to become what the street people needed. Someone who didn't see them as trash. Someone willing to deal with the problem."

"That's a powerful wish," Scully says.

"I thought about what I wanted him to look like, what I wanted him to be, and why I wanted him," the Trashman says, shuffling through a pile of papers. He holds up a sketch of the Band-Aid Nose Man, beaming like a proud parent, and Mulder feels a pang in his heart. He remembers Maggie holding up a photo of William like that. Their son, no less a miracle, no less a thought made form. They wished devoutly for him, prayed for him, and he was made flesh.

"I didn't bring him here," the Trashman says. "He came to me. I didn't expect him, but he told me what he wanted to be. What he wanted to do. All we do is hold the pencil, or the clay, or the words, or whatever the medium. I think there must be spirits and souls floating all around us. And if you think real hard or you want them so, so bad that you can't think of anything else...they come to you. They pass through you on their way to existence. And then they become alive with a life of their own."

Scully's breath hitches like a hiccup and Mulder knows she's thinking of William and of her parents, of the spirit she saw when her father died and of the way her mother slipped away.

"This is what came to me in my dreams," the Trashman says earnestly. "From some other place I can't fathom. It's more powerful than I even imagined. But now it's alive and it's out there, right down to the Band-Aid I used to hold the clay in place while it dried. Who would copy this? Who could? And did you smell it? It smells like nothing on this earth. It has its own life now. Does what it wants. Goes where it wants. I just wanted to scare anyone who took dignity away from the homeless, who treated them like trash. I just wanted them to know that fear. That's where the violent idea popped into my head. It was just an emotion, just a notion that went through my head while I was making it. They treat people like trash, so they should know what it feels like. But ideas are dangerous. Even small ones. It uses that violent thought now. It thinks that's what it's supposed to do. Put them in the trash."

Scully looks mesmerized. She shakes her head. "You are responsible," she says. "If you made the problem, if it was your idea...you're responsible for whatever destruction it causes. You put it out of sight, so that it wouldn't be your problem. But you're just as bad as the people you hate."

Mulder doesn't think the Trashman can hear the ache in her voice. He wants to tell her that their son was never a problem. But it isn't the moment, and he wasn't there. She's told him of the moving mobile, of the powers their son might have shown, of the danger inherent in those abilities. He can't believe that Scully's child would have used those powers to destroy or to harm, but he could believe it of his child. Maybe they called to the universe and a spirit answered, and they just didn't have the time to understand its purposes. Benign or malign, William is out of their life, but Mulder isn't sure if that kind of connection can ever be broken. He kept looking for Samantha. Maggie asked for Charlie. The act of creation is powerful. Maybe that tie can't be severed.

"If what you believe is possible," he says, returning to the Trashman, "the last person involved in the relocation would be Landry."

"He got the injunction lifted," the Trashman says. "He was bragging about it in front of the HUD office, letting everybody know. They're moving people out to Franklin Hospital tonight. There's signs posted and everything."

"Don't leave the state," Scully says. "We may need to speak with you again."

The Trashman laughs. It's a hollow sound. "Got nowhere to go."

"That's what they all say before they run," Mulder says dryly. "I think we'd better bring you along with us."

They take the candles as they climb back up the stairs. The Trashman seems convinced any more light will attract more of his ghouls, or tulpas, or whatever they are. They don't seem to have as much power as the Band-Aid Nose Man. Still, Mulder would rather avoid any delays. He gets out his phone and looks up the number for Landry's firm. The secretary, alarmed, gives him Landry's cell phone number, and Mulder dials quickly.

"Mr. Landry," he says when his call goes to voicemail, "this is Agent Mulder with the FBI. I need you to call me back. It's urgent."

Scully's on the phone with the Philly PD. "We're looking for Daryl Landry," she says as she opens the door and gestures the Trashman into the back seat. The GPS sends them on a convoluted route back to the HUD office. Mulder checks his watch. By the time they pull up in front of the office, the yellow school bus is gone, leaving only a cloud of diesel fumes. Scully, with a grim set to her mouth, puts Franklin Hospital in the GPS.

"Just trash," the Trashman says. "That's what he thinks of them. Put them in the right bin and they'll disappear, like magic. Put them in the right bin and they'll be somebody else's problem."

"Thank you," Scully says. "Very helpful."

The hospital is a big building, half of it lit in the dim of the evening. They run in through the doors, the Trashman behind them.

"Landry?" Mulder bellows. "Where's Landry?"

"He took my dog," a man says. "He sent my dog to the shelter. I need my dog. I told him I wasn't coming if I couldn't have my dog."

"I tried to tell him," a woman says. "I tried, but he kept going."

"Which way did he go?" Scully demands.

The woman points. They clatter down the hall, dress shoes noisy on the tile.

"Ugh!" Scully says. "That smell!"

"Like nothing on this earth," the Trashman says. "I told you."

There's a scream. They burst into a room. It's tiled, lined with showers, with benches down the middle. There's no exit except the one they came through. On the floor of one of the showers is a heap. That's the best way Mulder can describe it. The heap was a person until recently - that much is clear - but that person has been...disassembled. Next to the heap is a phone, blood splashed across the illuminated screen.

"There's only one way out of this room," Scully says, easing forward, peering into the stalls. "He screamed just seconds ago. How did we not see whoever did this to him leave the room?" She scuffs her foot like there's something on her shoe. "Mulder," she says.

When she moves her foot, there's a Band-Aid stuck to the floor.

"I told you," the Trashman says.

"How do we find him?" Mulder demands.

"How the hell would I know?" the Trashman says. "I didn't plan this. I didn't tell him to do it."

"Are you willing to say that in a sworn statement?" Mulder asks.

"Yeah, man," the Trashman says. "Call me in."

"We can hold him overnight," Scully murmurs. "Talk to him in the morning."

"Let's do it now," Mulder says. "There'll be somebody to talk to him at the police station. We'll turn him over to them." He looks at her. "Let's go home, Scully."

He sees the gleam of tears in her eyes. "Home," she says quietly.

"Yeah," he says. "Let somebody else write the report. We'll fill in what details we can, but...." He shrugs. "It's an X-File. It's unexplainable. I'm learning when to let go."

"It's not easy," she whispers.

"I know it's not," he says.

"Are you letting me go?" the Trashman asks.

"No," Mulder says. He picks up his phone. "Can I speak to Detective Dross? We've got a situation out at the Franklin Hospital that relates to his case."

They wait at the old hospital until Dross shows up, fielding questions about dogs and when people will be able to go back to their usual spots. The Trashman seems calm. Maybe the Band-Aid Nose Man's murder spree is over, the violent notion having run its course. Maybe the Trashman's a sociopath. Either way, they're turning over the case. Someone else can run the truth down to its burrow. He's taking Scully home to their own house, where she can cry her eyes out in peace, and he can hold her in his arms and cry too for a kind woman who held him close when no one else understood what he might lose.

+ + + +

The funeral is sweet, but short. Bill gives a speech. It's surprisingly gentle. Scully gives a speech too. She stands at the lectern, hands braced on the sides.

"Mom was always there for me when I needed her," she says, keeping her voice deliberate and low. "She was always there for all of us, no matter how far away we went. And I know that she's still here for us. For her children, her grandchildren, and all of us. Her heart...her heart was so big. And I'm going to miss her so much."

"You should take the ashes," Bill says at the end. "You knew her the best. You were at Dad's funeral. Just take them to the same place."

"I will," she says.

Mulder holds out his hand. "Sorry to see you under these circumstances," he says.

Bill, after a moment, reaches out and shakes hands. "Maybe next time there will be better ones."

"Let's hope so," Mulder says.

"I've got to get to the airport," Bill says. "I couldn't take any more time away. But I know you'll do the right thing."

"Thank you," Scully says.

Bill hugs her, a little stiffly. She hugs him back.

"I wish Charlie had come," she says.

"It's a little far," Bill says.

"I know," she tells him. "Still. You made it in from Germany."

"You of all people should know that Charlie's different," Bill says.

"Melissa was different," she says, her words curling into each other with remembered affection. "Charlie's just...Charlie."

"You're all different," Bill says. "I guess we're all different. But you're the one who went the farthest, Dana."

She scoffs. "I'm the one who stayed home."

"Not physically," he says. "You're the only one who did the unexpected."

She draws back a little. "Bill, I don't know what to say."

"I was a little envious," he says. "We all were." He hugs her again. "Take care of yourself, Dana."

"You too," she says. "Give my love to Tara and the boys."

"I will," he says.

She looks at Mulder helplessly. He shrugs very slightly and hands her a handkerchief as Bill strolls away. She picks up the urn.

"Where are we going?" Mulder says, pulling out his keys.

"I'll tell you on the way," she says.

They drive to the beach where Scully once watched her father's ashes being scattered. She cues up "Beyond The Sea" on her phone as they tip Maggie's ashes into the waves.

"We should have gotten a boat," Mulder says.

"It's all right," Scully says. "Mom always liked to stay close to shore." They sit on a log and watch the waves wash up and over the sand, distributing the dark smudge.

"I know she's still with you, Scully," Mulder says, putting a gentle arm around her shoulders.

"She is," she says. She sighs. "I've been thinking about thought forms."

"I thought we agreed that the thought form was a stretch at best," he says.

"I know now why Mom asked for Charlie, even though he was out of her life," she says. "She wanted to know before he left that he'd be okay. She gave birth to him. She made him. In a way, isn't that a thought given form? He was her responsibility. And that's why she said what she said to us."

"We gave him form," Mulder says softly. "William."

"Didn't we?" she says. "We wished for him. Mulder, we wished for him so hard. Maybe that's how he came into the world. And she wanted to know that we were okay, that he was okay."

"I'm sure he's okay," Mulder says. "You made sure of that."

"We gave him up to keep him safe," Scully says. "But I can't help but think of him, Mulder. I can't help it."

"Neither can I," he says.

"I'm so happy that we're back on the X-Files," she says. "I knew I would miss it, but I didn't know how much. And I believe we will find the answers to the mysteries we're seeking, side by side." She turns to him. "But our mysteries - some of them can never be answered. I won't know if he thinks of us, or if he's ever been afraid and wished that I was there, the way I wished for my mom so many times. Does he know that he's adopted? Does he doubt that we love him? I have this necklace, this quarter, and I have so many questions, and I'm sure I'll only have more as we go through her effects. Does he have questions? Does he look in the mirror and see us?"

"I'm sure he knows that he's loved," Mulder says. "By us, by his parents. By everyone who knows him, probably."

Her voice falters. "I just have to believe...Mulder, I have to believe we didn't treat him like trash. Our son, Mulder."

He pulls her against his shoulder and she bursts into tears.

"You didn't have a choice," he says as she sobs, her tears soaking into his lapel. "Scully, he knows. You did the right thing. When you meet him, that won't be a mystery." She feels his lips mumble against her hair. "He'll know how hard we wished for him, how wanted and cherished and treasured he was. He couldn't not know that, seeing you."

She cries until she can't cry anymore, and it helps, as much as anything could, and then they go home.

#octoberficfest #xfiles fic #the x-files fic #xf alternate season 10 #mulder x scully #my fic #atcwm verse

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tiredofyourbullshitt-blog · 7 years

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the nightclub

(the old gods are not dead, despite what someone might tell you. old doesn’t mean dead, darling, just like how greek mythology is a mythology now but back then, it was a religion. you just have to look a little closer.)

see, there’s zeus ordering drink after drink and smiling at pretty girls as they dance with their friends. except now instead of falling for his charms, they think of their pepper spray shoved into their pocket and they wonder how they will get home. you can see in his eyes that he misses the skies, but the mortals took those over, too.

and look, standing in the corner with a dress of peacock colors is hera, carefully watching her husband. she wishes she could tell the young girls coming into the nightclub to be careful, but she can’t because they can’t see her now and they wouldn’t trust her. besides, how can she give advice when she herself won’t even follow it, no matter how much she wishes she could?

and if you look out of the window, past the glowing lights of houses shoved next to each other, you can see the dark, raging ocean. poseidon is raging, too, as he walks along to beach and picks up the trash the mortals threw. the moon’s reflection reflects the saltwater of the ocean mixing with his tears. he will never be able to pick up everything. the mortals will keep throwing.

and look there, on the stage, doesn’t that singer look familiar? that’s because he’s been here every night, darling, and he always sings the same song. hear how he sings of heartbreak and young boys and chasing the sun? see his golden instrument and golden clothes and golden hair and how strangely enough, the lights on the stage are dimming yet you can still see him? that’s apollo up there on the stage, you just never noticed.

as the music pauses - but never stops, no, it will never stop - do you hear crying? someone is weeping as she hears the professors go through the motions, as she hears the passion leaving voices and the desire to learn disappears with the coffee students are chugging. someone’s voice is mixing with protesters’ as they fight for what is right because those wild people are athena’s people.

and if you peek over the shoulderof that muscled gentleman over there, you will see tears stain the table. ares is letting people see him cry as he watches the news on mute. the violence in places he used to call home makes no sense to him anymore. the children dying and the shots firing into the sky for each martyr are overwhelming. everything stopped making sense to him. this was not heroic or brave. this was senseless.

behind the nightclub’s brick walls is a young woman. her eyes glint with pain and adrenaline and a quiver is slung over her shoulder. she hesitates at the window, watching the golden singer with a rare tenderness in her sharp silver eyes. behind her are several other young women, all with elegant stances and fury in their fists. artemis and her hunters hunt down a different type of monster now. you remember her now? yes, that’s right, she broke a man’s arm last night. no one saw her move.

it’s dark in this nightclub, yes, but i bet you can still see the burly man helping another to his feet. or, foot, as the other is being replaced by the same burly man. that’s right, it’s hephaestus there. you’re getting the hang of this. he helps the disabled and gives everyone the devices they want. his family hates him no more, because the mortals have made it his age: full of technology and a need for new limbs. he begins to love himself. try to help.

and there - look quickly, look now! slipping through the crowds and then out onto the streets? do you see him, with the curly hair and light bag and feathers on his feet? hermes is young in this age, slipping from here to there to everywhere: london and new york and tokyo and mexico city. there is no place hermes hasn’t been and there is no place that he is turned away. he wears out yet another pair of shoes.

if you listen past the music and the general din, you can hear someone ranting, screaming, begging someone to listen to her. i do. do you? she speaks of global warming and children and monsters in the night. she has sources and proof and her smile is as sharp as her scythe. she tries her best to bring food to the poor. trust me, i’ve seen her do her best. but demeter is fading as more and more people ignore her. don’t let her fade away. listen to her.

hades hovers over everyone, waiting for someone to succumb to alcohol poisoning or an overdose. don’t take it personally, it’s just who he is. but he is strong. one of the strongest here, because people will always believe in death. but there’s another side of him, when the pressure of humanity gets to be too much, and sometimes i see him crying at the graves of those who died before they had a chance to live. but don’t tell him i said that.

some girls and boys and people who aren’t either are dancing with flower crowns. the ones whose innocence fled as the world came crashing down on them. persephone weaves the crowns with her own hands and hesitates before placing one on herself. she dreams of the good-old-days and she dreams of the future. but don’t look for her in the winter months. you’ll never find her.

you see the beautiful lady in the corner, eyes glaring the the disgusting people who don’t know the true meaning of love? her voice is hoarse and eyes are wet and in the centuries her idea of love has changed drastically. but she will still smile when two people kiss for the first time or when two soldiers embrace after months apart. don’t worry, the aphrodite from the stories is still there. but now she’s realized that self love is important, too.

hestia is leaning against the bar - a couple people from you, actually, but have you ever noticed? her shawl is wrapped tightly around her shoulders despite the heat in here and there are flames in her eyes. only no one notices because i don’t remember the last time someone really looked at her. she watches her family and waits for them to come home so she can embrace them and comfort them. but they will never come home. she knows this. still, she waits.

and who am i? took you long enough to ask, but i won’t hold that against you. you’re the first person in a while to ask. i pour the drinks and watch hesita watch everyone else and help the people confused about these pesky things called gender and sexuality. trust me, i have experience with both. and i’m dionysus so i’m used to the long hours and the screaming and the music and the tears. i’ve seen my family drunk more than sober but despite everything, i’ll keep pouring their drinks and maybe one day, i’ll come home.

(so don’t you see? we are the old gods but we are not dead. you’ve just never really looked before.)

#old gods #the old gods #greek mythology #poetry #uhhh idrk what this is but enjoy #olive'spoems

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kp-reading-blog · 7 years

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Four by R.E. Carr Introduces Readers to a Brilliant New World

Four by R.E. Carr Introduces Readers to a Brilliant New World. Get yourself a copy of this and the sequel, Six, and find out why R.E. Carr has been published three times by Kindle Press!

Praise for Four

"The writing throughout was clever, witty, and the dialogue sparkled (even though the vampires didn't)." -IndieHeart "The science and history of the vampires was creative and fascinating, and the ending was totally unpredictable. I loved it!" - T. J. Zalecki, author of Rising Tide (SIRENS, Book 1) "Rich in texture and characterization, Four was a different kind of read for me. My best description of the story? Sookie Stackhouse meets Stephanie Plum." -Maggie Toussaint aka Rigel Carson for Muddy Rose Reviews "Four goes beyond quirky characters, romantic escapades and witty dialogue, to establish a fascinating take on the nature of what a vampire actually is, their long history, and their various views on humanity." - Rick Gualtieri, Author of the Bill the Vampire Series "R. E. Carr takes us through an interesting tale of urban horror and moral ambiguity that may leave you questioning what you yourself would do in that situation." -Tyler J. Dean

A Message from R.E. Carr

Four started out as a dare. I had all but given up on writing and decided that it was time to give up and move on to be an adult with a real job. My mom passed away and I was in a dark place, so my friends all dared me to give it one last hurrah. They gave me a list of ridiculous restrictions - everything from 'cilantro as a plot point' to 'naming a vampire Steve'. Oh yeah, and it had to be a vampire romance because that was the one thing I swore I would never write. I accepted the challenge as a way to work through my grief and prepared myself for giving up once and for all. You can imagine my shock when Kindle Press actually picked me . . .

About Four

Finding a job is never easy, and the only employment Gail usually finds is acting as Girl Friday for the mob. Lucky for Gail, Georgia Sutherland has just the job for her—that is, if she can handle working nights, managing a little blood, and a boss who's been dead for centuries.

In a single interview, Gail's world turns upside down as she discovers that all she’s seen in Hollywood isn’t quite true; vampires don't combust in sunlight, but they do fall in love.

Are Georgia's stories enough to persuade Gail to take the gig catering to an antediluvian vampire who's thirsty for a new personal assistant? If Gail wants to live out the year and retire rich, she just needs to remember the Four Rules that govern undead society.

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Interview with A Vampire's Assistant by R.E. Carr

“Come on, you promised!” Mr. Lambley said, pouting as he held his little tape recorder. A shivering young woman sat on the bench next to him, nursing a steaming cup of coffee. They lounged under a streetlamp in Brookline, watching people duck into the many restaurants and shops that marked this section of town. Their particular strip of greenway was mostly empty, save a few overachievers trying to sneak in a run, or the occasional scavenger looking for precious aluminum in the multitude of trash cans.

“I did, didn’t I?” Georgia, his companion sighed. “You know, I really shouldn’t have let you and Steve watch that marathon of vampire movies. How do I know that tomorrow you won’t start randomly talking in a Hungarian accent or shrieking in horror from crosses and holy water?”

Mr. Lambley narrowed his unnaturally bright green eyes. “Now that would just be silly,” he said, his lip slightly quivering. “You know that I would never imitate that filthy homewrecker or bring the church into this.”

“Yes, that would be totally silly. Shouldn’t I be interviewing you though, Mr. Lambley? It was called Interview with the Vampire, after all.”

The vampire rolled his eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. “We are trying to be different and edgy here. This time the vampire is doing the interview.”

“All right, tell me what you want to know.”

Mr. Lambley burst into a huge grin, showing off his fangless smile. He bounced on the bench, fumbling with the buttons on the old-school recorder. Georgia grabbed his pudgy little fingers and steadied them so he could finally press record.

“Tell me, Miss Sutherland, how did you first come to realize that you were human?” he asked, adopting his best imitation of a terrible American accent. Georgia raised a brow.

“I was born this way,” she replied flatly. Mr. Lambley gave her the biggest, saddest puppy eyes she’d ever seen. She cleared her throat. “Um, I came into being in the year of our lord nineteen-eighty-six. I do not remember much of that time as baby humans don’t have the greatest of memories. I do, however, remember being adopted by the nicest of couples. My adoptive dads treated me like their little princess.”

“Dads?”

“Yes, dads, two of them. It was Massachusetts in the Nineties, truly a different, scarier time - when phones were always plugged into walls and music still had guitars in it.”

“Fascinating. Now, you grew up with these men? Did they teach you the ways and laws of being human?”

“I had both perfect attendance and conduct at school, so I think they did all right. I almost got the perfect attendance award for K through twelve, but I broke my ankle as a freshman. That would have been my proudest achievement, I think. I was never the best at academics, or sports, nor did I have any creative talents to speak of. . . . Wow, that sounds kinda sad when I say it out loud. Anyway, I did learn how to make brownies that kicked ass . . . err that made grown men weep with their beauty. I later expanded upon this by forming a partnership with a certain amateur farmer to make brownies that commanded a higher than average price, if you know what I mean.”

“No, actually I do not, Miss Sutherland. Would you care to enlighten me?”

“Nope, I’m good,” she replied blithely. “Anyway, my life really didn’t get interesting until after I failed at college and walked out with a useless hospitality degree. I even failed working at a donut shop, if you can believe it.”

“I believe it,” the vampire muttered into his recorder. “Truly from this font of sadness, a great story shall emerge.”

Georgia raised a brow. “Thanks, boss.”

“Oh, but I know the details of how you came to be an assistant to a mighty vampire—”

“Mighty, huh?”

“But what makes a vampire’s assistant tick? What do you dream of? Who do you aspire to be? What - and who - do you love?”

“I am so sniffing that bottle of blood when we get back to the house. I think it might be spiked.” Georgia’s face softened as she was assaulted with a fresh round of puppy eyes. She let out a deep breath. “Fine, I will let you in on a little secret, Mr. Lambley.”

The vampire wiggled his fingers eagerly and leaned towards her. Georgia tilted her head back and studied the last traces of browned leaves on the tree above. She watched one flutter all the way to the ground before she continued.

“The truth is, I don’t dream . . . of anything. You work hard, you get burnt out - but if you do nothing, you get nowhere. There is no winning and no losing, and dreams are just torture in a way. I prefer to just take in what’s around me and go with the flow. Hell, it’s worked so far. I don’t aspire to be anything, Mr. Lambley. I just make the best of whatever situation the chaos of the universe throws at me - and as for love, well that is still none of your business.”

“It’s Stefano, isn’t it?” Mr. Lambley said, barely containing a tiny squeal. “You’re being all dramatic because you’ve been spending time with the young Jaeger. Soon he’s going to be all brooding and watching you while you sleep. I know it!”

Georgia buried her face in her palms. “You watched more movies while I was vacuuming and cleaning the upstairs, didn’t you Mr. Lambley? Is that why you asked me to order edible glitter and a hoodie for you? Fess up.”

Mr. Lambley quickly looked at his notes. “I would . . . never. Don’t you want to tell me more of your story? I would love to know how it ends.”

“Mr. Lambley, my story is simple. I work for you and I’m content with what I have. It’s not grandiose nor full of prophecies and destinies, but it’s all mine. Now, what do you think about taking this interview over to the Island Shack - where I’ve heard rumor that there is a blood sausage special tonight?”

“Indeed!” Mr. Lambley exclaimed. He popped his tape recorder back in the pocket of his trench coat and took his assistant’s hand. As they walked towards the bright lights of the sidewalk, he leaned his head on her shoulder and said, “For what it’s worth, Miss Sutherland, I think you have a lovely story to tell.”

“Really Mr. Lambley?”

“Why yes, I think someday I shall write an essay on it. I think my kind will find it rather fascinating. ‘An Interview with a Vampire’s Assistant’. Yes, that will do quite nicely.”

“Mr. Lambley, if there is one thing I know, is that no one in their right mind would ever want to read my story. Now come on, there is a mango smoothie in there with my name written all over it.”

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Who is Georgia Sutherland?

Georgia Sutherland is the heart of Four and the Rules Undying series as a whole. She is a no-nonsense pragmatist thrust into a world of neurotic creatures of the night, and she ends up caring for the down on his luck Mr. Geoffrey Lambley, a vampire from the noblest and most powerful house of vampires, who hasn't really made much of his life.

#SFF #December2017

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