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entering-mymind · 5 years ago

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Chapter 8 - The Redemption

This is the eighth episode of the series where I have inserted my OC character (Mando’s daughter) into the Disneyplus television show. With her addition I believe this helps the viewers understand the choices Mando makes in the series. Would love to hear feedback! I do not own these characters and the story and dialogue goes to the respected credit of the screenwriters and creators of the show.

The two Scout troopers sped their way back to the city when they stopped and radioed their fellow comrade.

“Speeder bikes have arrived at the checkpoint with the asset awaiting confirmation,” the first trooper said over his comms when the child began squirming in his satchel, giving the trooper no choice but to punch it, “Knock it off. Waiting for confirmation to continue into town,” he ended.

“That’s a go to proceed, but I advise you to double-check,” the operator began, “The Moff just touched down and already took out a squad of local troopers.”

The two Scout troopers glanced at each other in shock.

“Standing by,” the first trooper replied.

“Did he just say that Gideon killed his own men?” the second trooper questioned.

“Oh, who knows? These guys like to lay down the law when they first arrive into town. You know how it is,” the first trooper pointed out as the child stirred again when the trooper hit it once more, “I said, shut up, geez.”

“What is that thing anyways?” the second trooper asked.

“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe Moff wants to eat it. I don’t ask questions.”

“Can I see it?”

“Did you not just hear that Moff Gideon killed a dozen of his own troopers just to make a point,” the first trooper reminded.

“Okay.”

“I get that point. Do you get the point?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Becoming bored the second trooper decided to practice shooting his blaster but couldn’t hit, for the life of him, the item in the ground. Believing his comrade was inadequate, the first trooper also took out his weapon to hit the target but even he could not hit it.

Baffled the first trooper shook his gun to his ear believing the weapon was the issue, not him. Realizing their target practice was useless they put their blasters away when the second trooper made a recommendation.

“Should we offer that thing some water?”

“You just wanna look at it,” the first trooper pointed out.

“So what? You got to see it.”

“Barely. I mean, I grabbed it up off the ground and I stuffed it in the sack.”

“It’s more than I got to see,” the second trooper pouted.

“Look, I’m not taking it out of this bag until I deliver it to the Moff.”

“Fine.”

“Okay. Stop asking.”

The two Scout troopers got off their bikes and stretched their legs when the first trooper radioed again, “Let me check on this thing. This is crazy. Any update yet?”

“That’s a negative. Still waiting on confirmation. He just killed an officer for interrupting him, so this might take a while,” the operator informed.

“Thank you. Standing by still. Unbelievable,” the first trooper sighed along with his comrade.

“Hey, how long has it been since that thing moved?” the second trooper questioned.

“I don’t know, like a minute of two. Don’t worry.”

“Uh, it’s been way longer than a minute.”

“Oh my God,” the first trooper was getting annoyed.

“Shouldn’t we check and see if it’s still alive? You hit it pretty hard.”

“You just wanna see it.”

“We should check and see if it’s hurt. The last thing you want is to give Gideon a bag and have him open it and find whatever is dead,” the second trooper suggested.

“Okay, okay, look,” the first trooper opened the satchel to revel the coherent child,” Here you go. See? Take a peak. Everything’s fine.”

“What is that,” the second trooper began poking the child with his finger.

“I don’t know. It’s a pet or something.”

“A pet? I thought you ,” but the child quickly bite the finger of the second trooper sending him in yelps.

In anger the second trooper vigorously punched the satchel making the child yip in pain.

“Serves you right,” the first trooper stated when IG-11 approached.

“Stop that,” the droid commanded.

“Identify yourself,” the first trooper ordered when both raised their blasters.

“I am IG-11. I am this child’s nurse droid and require that you remand him to me immediately.”

“A nurse droid? I thought it was a hunter. Aren’t IGs usually hunters?” the second trooper stated.

“Yeah, well, evidently this one’s a nurse. I’m sorry, nurse, but you’re gonna have to get out of here,” the first trooper ordered.

IG-11 made his way towards the troopers as did they when the first trooper shot at IG-11 point blank and still missed.

“Are you refusing my request?” IG-11 asked.

“No, I’m telling you to get out of here,” but the droid responded by snapping the first troopers arm and power driving him into the ground.

IG-11 then disarmed the second trooper and then smashed him into his speeder bike repeatedly. The droid then mounted the other bike, powering it up when obtaining the sack and revealing the child, “That was unpleasant. I’m sorry you had to see that,” IG-11 apologized to the child when he sped off towards the city.

* * *

Gideon stood fierce with his troopers positioned neatly behind him ready to go into battle with the wave of his hand. Trapped, Karga, Mando, his daughter, and Cara all looked to each other for a plan when Cara spoke first.

“Is there another way out?” she questioned to Karga since this was the Guild’s establishment.

“No, that’s it,” Karga informed.

“What about the sewers?” young Mando suggested to her father.

“Sewers?” Karga questioned.

“The Mandalorians have a covert down in the sewers,” Mando revealed, “If we can get down there, they can help us escape.”

“Yeah, sewers are good,” Cara said with hope.

“Checking for access points,” Mando pressed a few buttons on his gauntlet when he began scanning with his visor.

“What the hell are they waiting for?” Cara speculated when she witnessed what the troopers were assembling, “Hold up. They’re setting up an E-Web.”

“It’s over,” Karga declared.

“I found the sewer vent,” Mando stated seeing the access point hidden behind a booth.

“Let’s get out of here,” young Mando insisted when her, Cara, and Mando ran at the sewers location dismantling the area in order to expose their escape route. Mando and Cara gripped at the grate but it wasn’t budging.

“The cannon is assembled,” Karga stated seeing a trooper get behind the E-Web ready to fire at will, “How long until the vent is cleared?”

“Blow it,” Cara suggested.

“I’m out of charges,” Mando informed.

“Maybe I could…” but young Mando was cut off.

“No!” Mando enforced.

“Get out of the way,” Cara shouted when she picked up her blaster and started shooting rapidly, but the grate barely cracked.

“Your astute panic suggests that you understand your situation,” Gideon spoke, “I would prefer to avoid any further violence and encourage a moment of consideration. Members of my escort have completed assembly of an E-Web heavy repeating blaster. If you are unfamiliar with this weapon, I am sure that Republican Shock Trooper Carasynthia Dune of Alderaan will advise you that she has witnessed many of her ranks vaporize mid-descent facing the predecessor of this particular model.”

“Or perhaps the disgraced Magistrate Greef Karga should search the wisdom of his years and urge you to lay down your arms and come outside. The structure you are trapped in will be razed in short order and your storied lives will come to an unceremonious end. But maybe not from the latest information given to me,” Gideon said cryptic.

“I am speaking to you Mandalorian hunter, Din Djarin. I am sure you have heard the songs of the Seige of Mandalore when gunships outfitted with similar ordnance laid waste to fields of Mandalorian recruits in the Night of a Thousand Tears, but let us not dwell on the past when we should be looking to the future with our kin.”

By Gideon’s last word he knew what was to come and looked at his daughter in fear.

“You sure do have a tendency for stealing children who are property of the Empire, Din. First the girl and now the child,” Gideon revealed.

“What did he say?” young Mando asked through an escaped breath.

“It wasn’t clear to me at first, where I found it odd that the only bounty hunter in the Guild would deny missions on Tolarian. Why avoid a planet unless you have something to hide. You did an amazing job concealing her from me for fifteen years, but your caution was what made you slip,” Gideon addressed.

“What is he saying? I don’t understand what he is saying?” young Mando was starting to panic when Mando went to her placing his hands on her shoulders.

“I can only guess what you named the asset since Anara never got the chance to tell you. Which I’m sure you can guess it was I who shot her down in that alley,” Gideon reminded Mando, “Ah, of course,” he thought and then came to a conclusion, “Who wouldn’t name a newly adopted child after the first woman a boy never stops loving; his mother. So, Osa,” Gideon addressed young Mando, “How does it feel to finally learn the truth?”

“He’s lying, he’s lying, you’re my father,” young Mando screamed but Mando stayed silent.

“What do you purpose?” Karga shouted at Gideon.

“Reasonable negotiation,” Gideon replied.

“What assurance do you offer?”

“If you’re asking if you can trust me, you cannot. Just as you betrayed our business arrangement, I would gladly break any promise and watch you die at my hand. Or who knows maybe Osa will do that for me,” Gideon stated ecstatic of his accomplishment with her abilities.

With this address, Cara could see objects taking life and the floor beneath them slightly quake, “Mando, calm her,” Cara briefly whispered when Gideon continued talking.

“The assurance I give is this: I will act in my own self-interest which at this time involves your cooperation and benefit. I want both assets back in my possession by nightfall, if not then I will have the E-Web cannon open fire and I will dissect Osa’s body instead,” Gideon ended when he headed back to his ship followed by his Death Troopers.

* * *

“I say we hear him out,” Karga bluntly said without thinking, “Is it true Mando?”

But he wasn’t paying attention to anyone else but Osa.

“You are my father, right?” she said through a tight chest.

“Search your feelings, what do they tell you?” Mando asked wanting her to come to the ultimate conclusion.

“What does that mean? It’s a simple question. Are you or are you not,” young Mando stressed through tears.

“I am your father no matter what, but I need you to give me the vile and syringe,” Mando out stretched his hand seeing the unraveling events. Hesitantly Osa caved and gave Mando what he wanted.

“I’m really sorry kiddo on what you’re going through but the minute we open that door, we’re dead,” Cara informed.

“We’re dead if we don’t,” Karga said, “At least out there, we’ve got a shot.”

“That’s easy for you to say. I’m a Rebel Shock Trooper. They’ll upload me to a Mind Flayer,” Cara said.

“Those aren’t real. That was just war time propaganda,” Karga informed.

“I don’t care to find out. I’m shooting my way out of here.”

“We need to know who we’re up against.”

“I know who he is, its Moff Gideon,” Mando declared.

“No, he can’t be. Moff Gideon was executed for war crimes and experimentation,” Cara clarified but then realized now why Gideon wanted the child and young Mando so bad.

“It’s him. He knows about us and our names,” Mando informed.

“So, what does that prove?” Karga asked.

“Our names are only spoken within the Tribe, never revealed to outsiders, I haven’t heard my name spoken from an outsider since I was a child,” Mando stated.

“On Mandalore?” Karga asked.

“We were not born on Mandalore.”

“But you’re both Mandalorians.”

“Mandalorian isn’t a race,” Cara said.

“It’s a Creed,” Mando confirmed, “I was a Foundling. They raised me in a Fighting Corps. I was treated as one of their own. When I came of age I was sworn to the Creed just like Osa was. The only record of my family name was in the registers of Mandalore. Moff Gideon was an ISB officer during the purge and later was Moff of Tolarian where Osa was given to me at the age of three. That’s how I know it’s him,” Mando said looking over at his daughter who stood frozen while locked in a deadpan stare.

“So Osa’s the reason why you never took jobs on Tolarian?” Karga questioned.

“I wasn’t sure if I had been marked, so I never went back in order to ensure her safety, but Gideon says he needs us, which might mean the child got away safely plus Osa is with us. I was worried when the Ugnaught didn’t respond but if they captured the kid we’d already be dead,” Mando declared.

“Ummm you might want to rethink your statement,” Cara said while pointing to Osa who suddenly fell to her knees hunched over.

“What’s wrong with her?” Karga asked when he noticed a cup floating in front of his face. Perplexed he tapped at the object when the cup flung in the opposite direction, hitting other free floating objects.

“Osa!” Mando screamed about to get the syringe ready when she glared up and raised her hand.

“No!” Osa knew what he was going to do and froze Mando mid-step.

“What are you doing?” Mando questioned through clenched teeth unable to move his body.

“Finally getting control,” Osa declared when she forced Mando, unwillingly, to the ground with her abilities.

Mando tried to fight off the hold that the invisible force had on him, but was unsuccessful. His body contorted to the floor when Osa slide him to a corner of the cantina pinning him to the wall.

Cara discretely reached for her weapon, just wanting to hit Osa in the armor to distract her, but Cara’s motives were revealed. Osa rose to her knees and noticed Cara’s actions, Osa pointed her other hand at Cara and performed the same motion, forcing Cara to the ground and sliding her in the exact corner Mando was pinned to. Seeing both their fates, Karga put his hands up in surrender when all Osa did was nod her head in the same direction her other two hostages were kept.

Complying, Karga sat next to Mando when Osa rose to her feet in a stagger and looked at them in sadness. It appeared Osa was gaining control over her episode and transferred the hold she had on Cara to the exact same hand where she held Mando, she grunted in pain by feeling the force surge through her body and knew the time had come.

“Osa, please, Mi Pequeno, let us go. We have to fight together,” Mando said broken and afraid of what his daughter was going to do.

“No, this time I’m going at it alone,” young Mando approached the shot out window, one hand still pointed at the three when her other hand extended towards the band of troopers, ready to release havoc.

* * *

Seeing an individual draw near, the Stormtroopers were unclear of what to do, put this person down or engage against Gideon’s orders? Some of the troopers raised their weapons for a scare tactic but they were the ones that should have been afraid.

Like an instinct, Osa listened to what the energy inside of her told her. She focused on all the tiny shards of glass scattered on the floor and picked them up with her mind. As if she was a ticking time bomb she could feel the energy wanting to release from her core. Osa would use this to her advantage in order to add extra strength to the glass so it could easily pierce through the trooper’s armor, taking them out.

Finally the moment arise when she let out a bellowing scream, more out of anger than from not being in control. Like a bomb exploding, the troopers didn’t know what hit them as they were punctured by glass and blown off their feet. With the massive blow, the TIE-fighter was propelled backwards and banged itself into an adjacent building.

With the lose of her consciousness, Mando and Cara were immediately released from Osa’s hold, but Karga still sat there frozen as if he had now been pinned by her abilities.

Mando instantly went to his daughter’s aid while Cara witnessed the destruction but was lost for words. Believing they were out of the woods, Cara peered from the window when back up troopers moved in taking a shot.

“Get down!” Cara exclaimed but the trooper’s attention quickly turned to something fast approaching, a speeder bike with IG-11 and the child occupying it drew near coming to their rescue as well.

Throughout the droids journey through the city it took out the surrounding troopers making them scatter. Knowing they would have to get in on the fight, Mando positioned his daughter out of harms way when he ordered Cara to cover him.

Quickly complying Cara hopped on a table rapidly firing her weapon at the new swarms of troopers while Mando instructed her to protect Osa. Cara nodded in approval when Karga and Mando left the cantina to join in on the, now even, fight.

The two held up their own where Mando saw IG-11 being hit several times and going down with the child secured around its chest. Mando wouldn’t lose anyone today and saw the E-Web cannon unoccupied. Seizing his opportunity Mando picked up the heavy artillery and began rapidly firing anything in white or black armor.

Giddy with glee, Cara chuckled and continued firing her own blaster when the door to the cantina was blown open, sending Cara flying to the ground. The sound of the blast got everyone’s attention realizing the cantina had been breached.

Cara immediately collected her weapon trying to keep out of view from the impeding Death Troopers entering the cantina. Just about to round the corner and take her shot, Cara was pulled back from a conscious Osa as the Death Troopers opened fire.

The two pressed their backs against the bar when Cara waited for an opening from the troopers fire. She peered around the corner ready to take aim but was grazed in the arm.

“Ah!’ Cara shouted slamming herself against the bar.

“Are you alright?” Osa was about to tend to Cara’s wound but she suggested something else.

“I’m okay, can you throw them or disarm them somehow?”

“I can try but I need a visual,” Osa stated when she caught a reverse glimpse of the troopers helmets in a wine glass, the reflection reveled an exposed pipe located in the ceiling above them.

Immediately Osa concentrated on the heavy steel above the Death Troopers dropping it on them with a smack and taking them out of commission. Relieved that they were, for now, out of harms way, Osa approached the window to see how their team was doing when she saw Gideon walk towards Mando who wasn’t aware of his exposure.

In surprise, Mando was hit in the back by Gideon’s blast but the Beskar held up, getting Mando’s attention he turned the cannon right at Gideon ready to end him, but Gideon struck first. With one shot Gideon hit the fuel tank, which operated the cannons fire power, engulfing Mando in flames and blasting him into the air several feet and onto his back, going lifeless.

“DAD!” Osa shouted in a frantic, hopping out of the cantina window and straight for her father.

Karga and IG-11 saw Osa and covered her as more troopers began to encircle them. Osa made it to Mando putting her hands underneath his shoulders and trying to lift him, but he was too heavy for her. She immediately fell to the ground with Mando in her arms when blaster fire was directed their way. Without hesitation Osa covered her father’s body with her own absorbing the shots with her armor.

“Obtain the asset,” Gideon pointed at Osa when a team of troopers headed her way.

Seeing the ranks collapse, Cara exited the cantina and shouted for Karga and IG-11 to cover her as she made her way towards the Mandalorians.

“I can’t carry him,” Osa said defeated.

“It’s okay. I’ll get him to safety, here,” Cara handed Osa her blaster signaling for her to take out the advancing troopers.

Cara put her arms underneath Mando’s shoulders and dragged him inside the cantina, the rest followed but was ambushed from another team.

“Stay with me, buddy. We’re gonna get you out of here,” Cara said trying to encourage Mando when Karga dove in as IG-11 and Osa continued firing, taking out as many troopers as they could.

Karga headed for the sewer grate and questioned Cara, “This is our only path out. Can you clear it?”

But her attention was solely on Mando, “Stay with me.”

“I’m not gonna make it,” Mando responded through a strained voice.

“Shut up. You just got your bell rung. You’ll be fine,” she said shaky.

“Please, protect my daughter and the child, she won’t leave me, you have to convince her,” Mando said when Cara removed her hand from behind Mando’s helmet, which was covered in his blood.

“I’m gonna need to take this thing off,” Cara said in certainty.

“No,” he gripped Cara’s hands, preventing her from removing his helmet, “You make sure the children are safe. Osa knows the way in the sewers, once you get to the Mandalorian covert you give my daughter this,” Mando dug underneath his tunic and revealed a necklace with a Mythosaur emblem attached to the end, it seemed symbolic.

“No, you give it to her yourself,” Cara declared when IG-11 entered along with Osa who locked the secondary door behind them.

IG-11 set the child down and confronted Karga who he was unfamiliar with, “If you go near this child, I will have no choice but to kill you,” the droid threatened.

“I understand. Can you do anything to move the grate?” Karga asked in panic.

“Yes, of course.”

“Oh, I love IG units,” Karga praised as IG-11 began welding through the metal.

“Papi!” Osa shouted running at Mando and falling to her knees. She started to look him over when she glared at Cara and noticed her bloody hand, “No, no, no,” Osa said in distress, “IG I need you to scan my dad.”

“Osa,” Mando stressed her name trying to get her to focus on him.

“IG-11, now!” she screamed, rattling the building’s structure.

“Osa, look at me,” Mando placed his hand on the side of her helmet as if he was caressing her cheek and turned her to face him.

Cara could sense a last goodbye and didn’t want to ruin their intimate father/daughter moment.

“Osa, please, you must leave me,” Mando instructed.

“No, I won’t, I can’t. I don’t care, I’ve searched my feelings. You’re my father. You will always be my father,” Osa rested her head on his chest and he placed a hand on her helmet when a burst of flames erupted through the cantina window.

Everyone took cover realizing they were losing time where IG-11 was still chiseling away at the grate.

“You know this is the way,” Mando began raising his daughter’s head, “I can hold them back long enough for you and everyone to escape. Here,” Mando handed Osa the Mythosaur emblem, “You have earned your independence and the title, now you are the Mandalorian,” Mando said proudly.

“No, I won’t leave you,” Osa declared when the cantina door burst open and more flames erupted.

Upon entry, one single Flame Trooper stood in the doorway ready to incinerate the place to the ground. The trooper raised his flame thrower, not giving anyone time to protect themselves when he ignited a ball of flames.

Everyone stared at their demise as Osa would die a warrior’s death at her father’s side when the child, heroically, stepped in front with both hands stretched out. With one flick of his wrist, the child propelled the ball of flames back onto the trooper, igniting an explosion and sending the trooper out of the cantina engulfed in his own fire. In exhaustion the child fell into unconsciousness when IG-11 kicked open the sewer grate.

“Come on! It’s open, let’s go!” Karga informed.

“Go,” Mando tried to convince his daughter.

“We have to move! Now!” Karga shouted.

“I have an idea,” Osa said releasing her grip on her father’s hand.

She went and picked up the child cradling him in her arms, Osa approached Cara placing him in the satchel and then handing it to her gently.

“Take him and this,” Osa gave the emblem as well.

“I’m not leaving both of you,” Cara stated.

“You’re not. My father won’t remove his helmet around others, but he will around me. IG-11 I need you to run a medical diagnostic on him while I go over the plan with Cara,” Osa instructed.

“Of course,” IG-11 said and walked over to Mando kneeling in front of him.

“Do it,” Mando suggested.

“Do what, your daughter has instructed me to run a medical diagnostic on you,” IG-11 informed.

“Don’t bother. I know my fate. Just get it over with. I’d rather you kill me than some Imp.”

“I told you. I am no longer a hunter. I am a nurse droid.”

“IGs are all hunters.”

“Not this one. I was reprogrammed by the late Ugnaught named Kuiil. I need to remove your helmet if I am to diagnosis you,” IG-11 placed its hand underneath Mando’s helmet when he pulled his blaster on the droid.

“Try it and I’ll kill you. It is forbidden. No living thing has seen me without my helmet since I was sworn back into the Creed,” Mando revealed briefly reliving the tender moment he shared with Anara when he glanced over looking at his pride and joy.

* * *

“The sewers can be very confusing,” Osa started, “If I’m visualizing my whereabouts correct, in order to reach the covert you must head straight and then turn right. You will have to make a left at the third corridor and then at the fork you must go left, now this is where it gets tricky.”

“Aren’t you going to lead us?” Karga questioned.

“Yes, okay scratch that, just head straight until you can’t go any further and then turn right. I’ll meet you there.”

“Promise me you’ll both be there,” Cara said.

“You have my word,” Osa swore and then watched Karga, Cara, and the child leave the cantina.

She sighed in sadness and then turned to see her father’s blaster pointed at IG-11, “Papi, no, don’t,” Osa put her hand on the weapon signaling for him to lower it.

Surprisingly he complied and just gazed at his daughter in taking her image for one last time, but she had other intentions. Without thought Osa removed her gloves believing this would give her additional assistance to heal her father.

“What are you doing?” Mando was slowly fading.

“I’m going to heal you, but I need IG-11 to run a diagnostic on your head so I know where to concentrate, which means I will have to remove your helmet. You’re not going to try and shoot me too?” Osa attempted to joke but could sense the light slipping from her father.

Mando tried to chuckle when Osa placed her hand underneath his helmet and clicked it open. Slowly she lifted it off not wanting to cause him further damage or discomfort. Osa placed his helmet beside her and looked upon her father’s face, which she hadn’t seen in almost a year.

He was still very handsome, even through all the blood that stained his skin and ran from his nose. She smiled wide while glaring at his round face that had stubble slowly growing back, his brown hair –that had a touch of white on the sides- was disgruntled and drenched in sweat while it slightly curled at the ends. His brown eyes beamed with pride up at her and glistened over, believing this would be his last image of his daughter and he didn’t want it to be of her helmet.

“Let me look at you,” Mando said through a shaky voice.

“But it’s not my date of existence,” Osa assured.

“No, it’s not,” Mando replied not caring.

Without hesitation Osa immediately clicked her helmet open revealing similar features he possessed but feminine. Osa couldn’t understand how she could not be Din Djarin’s daughter, she had both his hair and eye color, the same quirk of the ends of her hair curling from the humidity, to even sharing the shape of his nose and jawline.

Immediate tears filled her eyes when she removed her father’s glove and placed his actual hand finally on her cheek, absorbing his touch and smelling his skin. Din wasted no time and finally caressed her cheek, in taking the smoothness of her skin with his thumb while feeling her tears rain from her chocolate eyes.

Osa smiled into his palm and then placed it on the ground so she could dig her face into the crook of his neck, slightly crying. Din put his hand into her hair truly embracing her closer when he placed his nose beside her head. There, right above her ear, was always a distinct smell she always possessed.

He remembered when Osa was little and would fall asleep in his arms, he would rest his nose in that exact spot inhaling her scent; Anara’s scent, the only trait she inherited from her mother. He would brush Osa’s hair out from her face, hoping to relax her from the horrid nightmares that invaded her dreams. He would even hum a tune that he remembered his mother use to sing to him as a child, in order to bring his daughter solace.

Even now, Din wanted to brush his hand through her hair and hum the melody in order to bring her closure, but Osa quickly rose and noticed the touch of white coloring the sides of his hair. She went and smoothed the area with her thumb showcasing a half smile.

“Oh no, I hope this isn’t due to me,” pointing out how stressful she had made his life.

“Never, Mi Pequeno, just getting old,” Din replied finally seeing her fully smile; his smile.

In reaction he smiled back reaching for her once again when she didn’t waste the chance, kissed his palm and then placed his hand on her cheek. Realizing time was of the essence, Osa set her father’s arm down and instructed IG-11 to run the medical diagnostic. The droid ignited a red beam and scanned from the top of Din’s head to the bottom of his chest.

“He has suffered severe damage to his central processing unit,” IG-11 informed.

“English please,” Osa declared confused.

“His cerbal matter is fried,” IG-11 tried to be funny.

“I don’t speak medical.”

“He means by brain,” Din clarified.

“I tried a joke. It is meant to put everyone at ease,” IG-11 clarified.

“We will need to reprogram your sense of humor later,” Osa stated when she nodded her head for encouragement to herself and placed her hands under her father’s head, “IG-11 once I heal him still spray him with bacta incase I can not close the wound. It’s just me this time. Okay, here we go.”

Osa secured her hands behind her father’s head and closed her eyes, sensing the injury, seeing the injury, and then willing it to heal by transferring her source of energy into him. Through her touch she began propelling her own essence into her father, sending him in discomfort because it was happening faster than his body could handle.

He closed his eyes, concentrating not to pass out when the blood on his face started to retract up his nostril and reenter the cuts on his face when even those sealed. Osa was deep in concentration, deeper than she had ever expected to go and saw the very thing her father always kept hidden from her; the memory of when he received her.

The event played out like a film, she could see through his eyes, the commotion of chaos, and dead Stormtroopers lining the alley. There in the distance a woman stood, mouthing words he couldn’t hear, she prevented his advancement with a hand of warning when she was gunned down. The memory continued rapidly as it imprinted within her mind, but the overload was too much when Osa dropped to the ground unconscious, unable to register the rest. Once her hold on him was released, Din opened his eyes and breathed heavy, exhausted and yet rejuvenated at the same time.

Seeing this as his cue, IG-11 sprayed the bacta ointment on the back of Din’s head when he suddenly realized Osa was not in his sight. Faster than he expected, Din sat up, noticing his daughter’s body twisted and not moving.

“Osa,” Din got to his knees and cradled her head in his hands, noticing the exact same white that painted the sides of his hair now colored hers, “What happened?”

Din caught a glimpse of his reflection in his helmet noticing a completely healed face and a full head of brown hair. He brushed the white with his thumb on Osa’s head hoping to smear the color out, but it had become permanent.

“I must run another diagnostic on you to make sure you have healed completely,” IG-11 declared.

“I’m not worried about me, scan my daughter now!” Din commanded and the droid complied.

IG-11 performed the exact same scan as he did with Din, from the top of her head ending at the bottom of her chest, “She is completely healthy, just depleted, the reason for her unconsciousness.”

“But how did she receive the white from my hair?”

“It appears the only logical answer would be is she absorbed some of the years you already lived.”

“You’re suggesting she de-aged me by taking years off from my life and absorbing them herself?” Din questioned in anger.

“Yes.”

“How do I take them back?” he shouted in frustration.

“I believe you can not because you do not possess abilities like her.”

Din exasperated in sadness, he brushed Osa’s hair away from her face and kissed her forehead, he then placed his own forehead on hers feeling defeated because it was his duty to protect her, not the other way around.

Understanding there was nothing he could do, Din reassembled both their armor and helmets ready to rejoin the others in the sewers.

* * *

Cara, Karga, and the child waited, becoming a bit impatient, Cara was starting to get worried when she heard loud clanking footsteps draw near. Around the corner they noticed a light shine as Mando had his helmet flashlight illuminated. He staggered a bit due to carrying Osa in his arms.

Cara approached in concern, “What happened to her? Are you alright?”

“We’re both fine, she’s just unconscious,” Mando informed.

“Will she recover soon?”

“I hope so,” when everyone moved out.

All five of them walked aimlessly through the tunnels and became frustrated.

“Do you know which way to go Mando?” Karga asked.

“No, I don’t know these tunnels like Osa. I’ve only entered from the bazaar.”

“Well, if we get the smell of sulfur and we follow it, it’ll lead us up to the plains where the river flows,” Karga suggested as everyone continued walking.

“If we keep this up the Imps will catch us before we make it to the ship. We need the Mandalorians to escort us to safety,” Mando stated.

“Ugh, this place is a maze. What did Osa say before? Go straight and then turn right, then at the third corridor turn left,” Cara began going through the instructions Osa briefly laid out, “There was something about at the fork we go left.”

“Which we did, but then she said after that is where it becomes tricky,” Karga chimed in.

“Tricky is right.”

“Wait, I think I know where we are,” Mando was starting to get his bearings because these corridors was where the younglings liked to play hide and seek, and the place he would always find his daughter, “We’re close, turn here.”

Everyone followed Mando when they rounded one more corner and then stepped down into an abandoned area that was only occupied by a pile of battle scorned Mandalorian helmets and armor. Shocked and then saddened, Mando slowly approached and knelt before his fallen comrades. He placed Osa in front of him when he picked up an empty helmet analyzing the damage and who use to wear it.

Slowly Cara drew near afraid of Mando’s reaction when she suggested that they leave.

“You go. Take the ship. I can’t leave it this way. Did you know about this?” Mando turned to Karga, “Is this the work of your bounty hunters?” his voice became angry.

“No. When you and the kiddo left the system and took the prize, the fighting ended and the hunters just melted away. You know how it is? They’re mercenaries. They’re not zealots,” Karga explained.

“Did you do this? Did you?” Mando laid Osa down when he rose to his feet digging his finger into Karga’s chest and getting into his face.

“No!” Karga shouted back.

“It was not his fault,” the female Armorer exclaimed while stepping out of the Armory, “With your daughter’s pleas we revealed ourselves. We knew what could happen if we left the covert,” The Armorer approached the pile, “The Imperials arrived shortly thereafter. This is what resulted,” she glared at the armor also in sadness.

“Did any survive?” Mando questioned and put Osa back in his arms.

“I hope so. Some may have escaped off-world,” she began placing the armor into a bin.

“Come with us,” Mando suggested.

“No. I will not abandon this place until I have salvaged what remains. What happened to your daughter?”

“She is unconscious.”

“Why?”

Confused Mando believed everyone knew of her episodes, “You know why.”

“Hmm, I know more than what you think,” the Armorer said cryptic and then pushed the bin into the Armory.

“Wait,” Mando rushed after her as everyone else followed.

Mando handed Osa to IG-11 so he could pursue the conversation more freely.

“All these years and you’ve known something about her?” Mando started but the Armorer was busy melting down a chest plate and began her own topic.

“Show me the one whose safety deemed such destruction,” the Armorer commanded when Cara unfolded the satchel the child was kept in reveling it, “This is the one that both of you hunted, then you saved?”

“Yes. But it helped save me as well,” Mando reminded.

“From the Mudhorn?”

“Yes.”

“It looks helpless just like when your daughter was small, but we all witnessed what she can do.”

“He can do the same and move things with his mind, tell me what you know,” Mando was getting frustrated, “For fifteen years I have searched for answers to help her, so she wouldn’t live in fear of herself and this whole time you have been with holding necessary information.”

“Silence your tongue, unlike yourself I am a descendent from Mandalore so I know the stories of which have been passed down from our history. What I can reveal is the songs of eons past tell of battles between Mandalore the Great, and an order of sorcerers called Jedi that fought with such powers like hers and what you compare with the child.”

“The Jedi, are they an enemy? Is that why you never revealed these stories in order to protect her?”

“Yes and no. Their kinds were enemies, but Osa and this child are not. Just as you were given Osa, by Creed, the child is also in your care.”

“You wish me to train the child?”

“It is too weak. It would die. You have no choice. You must reunite it with its own kind.”

“Where?”

“This, you must determine.”

“You expect me to search the galaxy for the home of this creature and deliver it to a race of enemy sorcerers?”

“You did for your daughter, besides it appears these two are more connected then meets the eye. She will most likely benefit as well. This is the way.”

“Hey, these tunnels will be swarming with Imps in a matter of minutes. We should at least discuss an escape plan,” Cara informed with a hint of panic.

“If you follow the descending tunnel, it will lead you to the underground river. It flows downstream toward the lava flats,” the Armorer instructed.

“I think we should go,” Karga said.

“I’m staying. I need to help her and Osa needs time to heal,” Mando declared.

“You must go. These children are in your care, by Creed, until they have reached their day of independence or reunited with their own kind you are their father. This is the way,” the Armorer finished what she had been forging in the fire and turned to Mando, “You have earned your Signet,” in her design she forged a skeleton in the Mudhorn’s shape and welded it on his right pauldron, “Never have we had a clan of three, lead them well.”

“Thank you. I will and wear this with honor,” Mando said with sincerity.

“We should go,” Karga stated.

“IG, please guard the outer hallway. A scouting party draws near,” the Armorer said when IG-11 handed Karga the unconscious Osa and exited the Armory.

“I have one more gift for your journey,” the Armorer began, “Have you trained in the Rising Phoenix?”

“When I was a boy, yes,” Mando declared.

“Then this will make you complete,” the Armorer held out a jetpack Mando previously desired.

“Thank you.”

“When the time is right you will begin your drills. Until you know it, it will not listen to your commands.”

“I understand,” suddenly a wave of blaster fire and screams could be heard when IG-11 came back.

“You are protected,” the droid clarified.

“More will come. You must go,” the Armorer said.

“Come with us,” Mando hoped.

“My place is here,” she reminded, “Restock your munitions.”

IG-11 took Osa back from Karga when Mando began replenishing his depleted artillery.

“IG, also carry this for Din Djarin until he is ready to wear it. Now go. Down to the river and across the plains. Be safe on your journey,” the Armorer ended.

“Thank you,” Mando replied as everyone left and headed for the riverbank.

* * *

The armorer sat on her knees with her welding tools crossed in front of her chest, a team of Stormtoopers entered her sanctuary uninvited as they commanded to know the whereabouts of the criminals. She sat in silence contemplating which one to take out first when the decision was made for her by the trooper, who clanked his blaster against her helmet, demanded to know where they were.

Like a striking snake, she wielded her tools with fierce blows, smashing metal against armor taking out her assailants with ease. Their blasters didn’t even graze her Beskar due to her quick reflexes and combat skills. She stood in victory as her attackers lay on the floor where they belonged.

* * *

It didn’t take long until they reached the lava river when they came upon a large gondola powered by an R2 unit. Upon inspection the boat didn’t seem in good shape plus the ferry droid seemed unoperational as Mando pointed out.

“Yeah, but if we push the boat out, we can get it to float downstream. Come on,” Karga suggested and began pushing but the boat didn’t move.

“Looks old. Will it take the heat?” Mando questioned for their safety.

“You got a better idea?” Karga said frustrated.

“Guess not,” Mando realized when him and Karga started to push but the boat would not budge.

In agitation Mando kicked the boat and grabbed a pole hoping to lodge the gondola free. Karga and Mando began their tactic again but Cara had a different solution.

“You guys mind getting out of the way?” she said while holding the child in one hand and her blaster gun in the other.

Immediately Karga and Mando moved as she opened rapid fire freeing the boat from being cemented to the edge.

“Good job,” Karga complimented when everyone climbed aboard as it began floating down stream.

“Watch your feet. It’s molten lava,” IG-11 informed while placing Osa down.

“No kidding,” Mando sarcastically said under his breath while checking on his daughter who would have most likely made that comment, “Come on Osa, wake up,” he put his hand on the side of her helmet a bit concerned why she was still unconscious.

Granted the child still seemed depleted from stopping the fireball, it was only logical that Osa was still unconscious because she had healed a massive injury in his head, plus took off years from his life, which meant she absorbed them, possibly even aging herself up.

Suddenly a beeping occurred getting everyone’s attention, drawing their blasters as they watched the R2 ferry droid thrive with life. It broke through the hardened lava that had encased it, revealing arms and legs as it extended to a standing position with a stick ready to steer its passengers.

“I don’t suppose anybody here speaks droid?” Mando asked.

“I believe he is asking where we would like to go,” IG-11 chimed in.

“Down river. To the lava flat,” Karga instructed.

With this the droid complied happily chirping while rowing them down the lava bank. The ride wasn’t long when Karga spotted the opening.

“That’s it. We’re free,” Karga said in enthusiasm.

Mando stepped forward igniting his heat sensor on his visor, spotting a team of Stormtroopers awaiting their arrival.

“No, we’re not. Stormtroopers. They’re flanking the mouth of the tunnel. It looks like an entire platoon. They must know we’re coming,” Mando informed.

“Stop the boat,” Cara demanded, “Hey droid, I said stop the boat. Hey I’m talking to you, I said stop,” Cara approached the droid and blasted its dome clean off.

“We’re still moving,” Karga said.

“Looks like we fight,” Cara stated.

“There are too many,” Mando declared.

“Then what do you suggest? Both of our strongest defenses are decommissioned,” Cara pointed to the child and Osa, “I can’t surrender,” she added.

“They will not be satisfied with anything less than the child,” IG-11 began, “This is unacceptable. I will eliminate the enemy and you will escape.”

“You don’t have that kind of firepower, pal,” Mando reminded, “You wouldn’t even get to daylight.”

“That is not my objective,” IG-11 said.

“We’re getting close. Saddle up,” Cara handed the child back to IG-11 when she moved to the front of the boat prepping for battle.

“I still have the security protocols from my manufacturer. If my designs are compromised I must self-destruct,” IG-11 informed.

“What are you talking about?” Mando asked walking up to the droid.

“I am not permitted to be captured. I must be destroyed,” IG-11 said.

“Are we gonna keep talking or get out of here?” Karga declared.

“I can no longer carry this for you,” IG-11 set down Mando’s jetpack, “Nor can I watch over the child.”

“Wait. You can’t self-destruct. Your base command is to watch the child. That supersedes your manufacturer’s protocol, right? Right?” Mando tried to find a loophole for the droid.

“This is correct,” IG-11 confirmed.

“Good. Now, grab a blaster and help us shoot our way out.”

“Victory through combat is impossible. We will be captured. Your children will be lost. Sadly, there is no scenario where the child is saved, in which I survive.”

“Listen, you’re not going anywhere. We need you. Let’s just come up with a…,” but Mando was cut off.

“Please tell me the child will be safe in your care. If you do so, I can default to my secondary command.”

“But you’ll be destroyed.”

“And you will live, and I will have served my purpose.”

“No. We need you,” Mando’s voice almost broke.

“There is nothing to be sad about. I have never been alive,” IG-11 informed.

“I’m not sad,” Mando tried to pass off.

“Yes, you are. I’m a nurse droid. I’ve analyzed your voice.”

IG-11 handed the child to Mando when the droid stroked the tip of the child’s ear with care, without thought IG-11 stepped into the lava river and walked towards the mouth of the tunnel, its legs slowly disintegrating from the intense heat, but he proceeded forward in determination.

* * *

The troopers stood fierce, blasters drawn, ready to take out their assailants when IG-11 emerged from the tunnel and spoke a warning, “Manufacturer’s protocol dictates I can not be captured,” a plate slide down from its chest revealing the thermal detonator already activated, “I must be destroyed,” when IG-11 exploded taking out all the troopers with him.

Slowly the boat glided forward revealing the destruction IG-11 left behind, no trooper survived where only fire burned. Cara had her gun drawn ready in case for a second wave but none followed.

All was quiet when suddenly the sound of a TIE-Fighter soared overhead as Cara stated the obvious, “Moff Gideon!”

Everyone drew their blasters firing at the ship but their firepower did not penetrate the fighter’s steel.

“He missed,” Karga said.

“He won’t next time,” Mando informed.

“Our blasters are useless against him,” Cara pointed out.

“Can you wake up the kiddo? Or let’s make the baby do the magic hand thing. Come on, baby! Do the magic hand thing,” Karga held up his hand displaying three fingers hoping the child would understand but it only waved back at him in glee, “I’m out of ideas.”

“I’m not,” Mando said determined.

“Here he comes,” Cara shouted raising her weapon when Mando strapped on his jetpack.

Gideon approached head on, ready to take them all out, assets or no assets, when he blasted his cannon fire but Mando shot straight into the sky. Immediately Mando released his grappling hook, strapping onto the TIE-fighter and igniting his jetpack so as to get a firm grip.

Mando landed on top of the fighter, getting a visual on Gideon inside trying to blast his way through but the shields held up. With one turn of his wheel, Mando lost his hold and was flung onto the fighter’s wing. Desperately he held on for dear life, grabbing a thermal detonator but the wind pushed it out of his hand.

Gideon attempted a few more maneuvers but Mando was able to secure his last detonator and released his grip. Instantly a rapid beeping informed Gideon of the device but it was to late. The detonator exploded sending the fighter into a wielding spiral and crashing in the distance. Falling hard and fast, Mando ignited his jetpack allowing him to ease into his landing.

“That was impressive, Mando. Very impressive,” Karga complimented, “It looks like both your Guild rates have just gone up.” Mando tilted his head hoping Karga would receive the hint, “Sorry not the kiddos, her secret is safe,” Karga stated.

“Any more Stormtroopers?” Mando asked.

“I think we cleaned up the town,” Cara said in confidence, “I’m thinking of staying around just to be sure.”

“You’re staying here?” Mando questioned with bafflement.

“Well why not? Nevarro is a very fine planet. And now that the scum and villainy have been washed away, it’s very respectable again,” Karga informed.

“As a bounty hunter hive?” Mando asked.

“Some of my favorite people are bounty hunters. And perhaps, this specimen of a solider might consider joining our ranks,” Karga tried smooth talking Cara.

“Yeah. I’ve got some clerical concerns regarding my chain code,” she informed.

“And if you would agree to become my enforcer, clerical concerns would be the least of your worries,” Karga hoped he was convincing her, “But you, my friend, you and your daughter will be welcomed back into the Guild with open arms. So go off and enjoy yourself. And when you’re ready to return, you will have the pick of all quarries,” Karga stated in honesty.

“I’m afraid I have more pressing matters at hand,” Mando said taking the child from Cara and moving towards his daughter.

“Take care of them,” Cara said with sincerity.

“Or maybe, they’ll take care of you,” Karga spoke hypothetically.

Mando strapped the child to his chest, double checking he was secure when he picked up his daughter in his arms, curling her body close. Mando ignited his jetpack and rose into the sky while Karga and Cara watched them fade into the distance.

Once Mando reached the ship he placed Osa in her bed hoping she would awaken soon. He placed his hand on the side of her helmet gazing at her with affection when Mando placed the child next to her.

“Do you think you can awaken her?” Mando asked the child but it only stared back at him, snuggling up next to her.

Realizing he gave it a shot Mando knew he had one last thing to do. In honor, Mando buried Kuiil creating a rock grave and placing Kuiil’s headgear and goggles as his marker, forever leaving Kuiil’s legacy behind.

Mando went back to check on his children and noticed the child was gnawing on something, “What do you got there?” Mando reached for the item and realized it was the Mythasour emblem, “I didn’t think I’d see this again or either of you,” Mando spoke while pondering over so much.

“Why don’t you hang onto that until she wakes up,” he handed the emblem back to the child when it started suckling on it again, “Can you keep her company?” Mando asked as the child snuggled back up against Osa, drifting off to sleep himself. Mando smiled and placed a blanket over the two when he went to the cockpit, fired up the Razor Crest and headed into the vast darkness of space.

* * *

At the crash site Jawas had already began collecting parts to sell. They rummaged through vigorously trying to find all the best parts when suddenly a crackling startled them. A bright flame sparked but then was replaced with a saber, colored black, cutting through the TIE-fighter’s steal creating a path of escape. Once freed, out stepped a furious Gideon searching for his assailants, with no luck he climbed to the top of his destroyed fighter, cape billowing in the wind, and gripped in his hand was the Mandalore sacred relic that had united the clans; the dark saber.

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sleepnginstardust · 5 years ago

Text

Werewolf boyfriend and girlfriend (part 1/??)

I really enjoy the short stories by @momolady @monsterywriting and @monstersandmaw. So I wanted to write something that hopefully would live up to some of their amazing writing. Fair warning I don’t have anyone who’s able to proof read for me so I’ve as best as I can to make sure that everythings okay. Let me know if y’all find anything! This

Castle Hill, the sign was almost too perfect. When I was first looking at places to move this place hadn’t even occurred to me than someone I know of brought a listing to my attention.

“I know you’re thinking of moving to a less populated place, wouldn’t want anyone to bother your writing now would you!” The little jab at my writing career was annoying, but kind of spot on? I had been stuck in a rut for my second novel in my series for a while and while I don’t mind living in a densely populated area. The noise and just all of the people get to me after a while. It takes more energy for me to head to the corner bodega than it should. So I had been looking for a house in a small town that was within at the most a three-hour drive from the city.

The listing my acquaintance had posted on my facebook was for a house in the small town of Castle Hill. Bigger than what I needed but still cheaper than owning an apartment in the city. So I booked a viewing.

The realtor I talked with was surprised when I contacted them, he said something about not a lot of newcomers to the town. Never a good thing to hear if I ever wanted to sell the house again. I vaguely remember asking a few more questions. Something about the community college that was in the town and I asked about a motel or an AirB&B in the area.

The realtor laughed, he said that there was a small Bed and Breakfast in the area and that he could give me the number if I was serious about wanting to see the house. It was odd when he asked me again if I was serious about seeing the house. When I said I would be up at the end of the week to see the house, he hesitated and said that he looked forward to someone so obstinate.

So I drove the three-ish hours, it took to get to Castle Hill, the drive was gorgeous. The busy city by the bay slowly gave way to winding roads through farmland. Slowly the farmland gave way to rolling hills and soon the hills became forests. The trees were small at first then slowly growing larger the farther I drove.

By the time I reached the town sign, I was truly in a forest. There were small clearings here and there, in fact, the town was built in one such clearing. The town sign showed the edge and while it was a large clearing tree still peppered the area causing a rustic feel that I remember from my childhood spent in the mountains.

Quaint wooden walkways were in place of the concrete sidewalks I was used too. It made me feel like I had moved back in time. The Old Fashion buildings made everything, even the modern day coffee shop seem like it had all been there for years. As I drove past I saw, a butchers place, a florist's and a small hardware store.

The small crafts store was something that drew my eyes, it's bright exterior showed only a small portion of what was inside. As I made my way through the more suburban portion of the town I started to notice all the families. Naga men and women with their clutch of young, I saw a small satyr with a stunning woman and three children jumping up and down. I saw a beautiful Centaur woman with an equally stunning woman and a small centaur girl jumping around them.

As I pulled up to the Victorian house a woman not much older came out to greet me. She stood tall and proud which honestly made me feel a bit like a slob. especially after driving the three and a half hours it took me to get here.

"You must be Abigail, I'm Kara. It's so nice you are able to join us. I'll show you the room." As she took me through the house I looked at all the old photos slowly morph into newer ones. I felt like I was walking through a carefully preserved museum.

"Okay, is this a family home? I'm seeing photos from the 1880's 1870's at the earliest." Kara paused for a moment and looked back at me while giving a small smile.

"I'm surprised you noticed, most people just assume that I find old photos in antique stores or something like that." I looked down with a small blush on my face. History was one of the few things I enjoyed. Feeling a little embarrassed I muttered something I don't remember.

"My family has been in this area since the early 1860's. This house itself was built around 1904 right after the large earthquake that struck San Francisco." Kara showed me the house along with many more photos of the town from the early days.

The house itself was beautiful. Old but wonderfully kept wooden floors and antique looking wallpaper throughout. Each room was its own separate room. The furniture in each room seemed like it had been made especially for each room. The dining room had a large table with what seemed like 14 chairs.

She showed me the kitchen with its cozy dining nook where Kara explained that she served both breakfast and dinner there if I would want to join her. I couldn’t turn down such a wonderful woman so I readily found myself agreeing.

Finally she led me up the stairs and to the upper story where opened the door to a decent sized bedroom with an ensuite bathroom. The entire room smelled lightly of lilacs, which normally would bother me but with how light the sent was it didn’t bother me.

She carefully bowed out and put a key with rose shaped key fob attached on the nightstand. Slowly I dragged my battered carry on bag onto the almost pristine white luggage stand. I carefully pulled out my small makeup bag and a small toiletries bag. I put away the small amount of clothes I brought with me and debated whether to keep the sweater in the bag or with me. I pulled it out just in case.

After that I freshened up in the bathroom. I reapplied bits of my foundation and added a translucent setting powder over the top to cover my greaseball forehead. I pulled out my favorite lipstick and put that on instead of the tinted lip balm I had been wearing most of the day. I looked at myself in the mirror and realized that this was going to be the best I was going to look for the day.

Grabbing my laptop bag I made my way down the stairs. As I hit the downstairs landing I heard Kara talking with another person. I slowly made my way into the sitting room where I had heard the conversation coming from. I pulled short before the doorway and knocked like the sheepish person I am. I looked and saw Kara sitting down with two people both in firefighters uniforms. Not the heavy kind but the lighter kind that they wear while on duty.

“Look I know I’ve been here for” I checked my phone. “An hour, but I promise I haven’t set anything on fire. That I know of.” The Female firefighter snorted, and the male one had this stupid grin. One I kind of wanted to punch off of his face. Sort of.

“Oh Abigail This Anita Galassia the Chief Firefighter for the town.” The man made a disgruntled noise and Kara made soothing motions. “And this is Anita’s Second in command Nathan Fraye. They were checking in on me, one of my neighbors had a bad fall (she’s pregnant with her first child) and they wanted to assure me that if anything happened they would be here lickty split.”

“Wait, firefighters still do that? Sorry my local firefighters live an hour outside of the city and hardly know anyone.” Anita and Nathan hadn’t stopped looking at me even while Kara had been talking and I started to feel the anxiety creep into my brain. I felt like I had been cornered by two wolves, and my flight or fight feelings started to kick in. “Oh I forgot, I’m heading down to that coffee shop. You didn’t say anything about wifi and I have a few things I need to send in to my editor.”

“Oh my gosh Abigail I am so sorry! I do have wifi. I know I have the information around here somewhere. If you still want to go to the cafe I can have the password for wifi when you get back.” I nodded, feeling my anxiety kick it up a notch and my heart rate go up. I gave a small wave and started to turn around.

“Abigail right? Did you want us to take you down there? The fire house is close by and it wouldn’t be out of our way.” I turned back around looking at Anita’s earnest smiling face.

“Ahh no thanks I drove like three and a half hours to get here and a short walk would help get the cobwebs out of my brain before I have to edit like six chapters.” Anita’s face fell a little and she nodded.

“Understandable, maybe we’ll see you there. They have some good pastries.” I was still feeling like a cornered deer. So I put on my most brilliant smile and nodded. Waved again and made my way out of the room. On my way out I heard one of them mutter to Kara “She’s cute.”

“Don’t get any fucking ideas horn dog” was all I heard as I quickly made my way out of the house and onto the small sidewalk through the neighborhood. Walking past the houses on my way towards the town center made me realize how many families were here. Like I had seen kids playing before but I only saw three or four of them. Now I was seeing whole groups of them.

In the 15 minutes I had been walking towards the coffee shop I started feeling invigorated and almost inspired. I say almost because as I was passing the local park, I noticed a small group of kids playing. I stopped for a moment and stared. As I watched the children playing I felt a small pang in my stomach. I wanted children but with my busy schedule I couldn’t even fathom having children. I quickly shook my head and started walking again.

Or well I would have if I hadn’t have run into something. Thankfully I didn’t fall over, I just happened to bump into them. I muttered sorry and started walking away.

“Are you okay?” I looked up and realized that the person that I bumped into was someone who could probably bench press me. Again my flight or fight response kicked in.

“Oh I’m fine, sorry for bumping into you.” I gave a small wave to the person and thankfully he took that to mean that I was fine and he thankfully left it at that.

“I’m pretty sure your new in town, if you need anything stop by the local newspaper, I’m Fred, I run it and can help you if you need anything.” Still feeling a little nervous. I nodded and started walking away. I could swear I could feel him watching me as I got farther away.

I started loosening up the farther I got away from the park. I kept my head down and I started counting the squares in the sidewalk. I started looking up when my anxiety started slowly going away. It was another ten minutes to the coffee shop and I was thankful when I noticed that it quiet. I made my way up to the counter and placed an order for just a pot of black tea and a plain scones.

“So are you just visiting or maybe just passing through?” I looked up at the orc girl behind the counter, and tried to figure out why she was asking.

“I’ve got an appointment to see a house tomorrow.” I said in a slightly dead tone. I had hoped the orc girl would take a hint and just leave it. But she was young and wanted to be nice. I think.

“Oh that’s awesome, we don’t really get a lot of new people who’d want to move into a town out in the middle of nowhere. Do you have some sort of business you’re opening up?” She started finally gathering my things as she had been talking and I tried to repress the urge to snap. I know I should watch my temper but damn I was really not in the mood to talk

“I’m a novelist. I need a more quiet area so I can focus a little better on my novel.” At that the girl looked up from filling the small pot of tea. “Hey watch out or yo-”

“Fuck!” my warning came a little too late as she poured boiling hot water over her hand. I put my laptop down on the counter.

“Are you going to need burn gel? Use room temperature water by the way.” The Girl looked at me, I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. She switched over the water temperature and pulled a red bag from under the register.

“Sorry I just realized where I had seen you before. I’ve seen your instagram, you have like a million subscribers.” I had the decency to be embarrassed. I knew I had a few subscribers here and there but I didn’t realize that people would actually recognize me.

“Yeah that’s me I guess.” The girl had remade the teapot and started heating up the scone. I grabbed my bag and saw a table in a corner that faced the street. I pulled out my laptop and looked around the table for a place to plug in. I found one a smalle ways away but still close enough to plug in my laptop.

The girl brought me the scone and the teapot with a murmured sorry. I nodded and took the pot and the scone laying them down on the table. I poured the tea and started nibbling on the scone putting some lemon curd on. As I settled down I opened the email from my editor with the edits he’d like to see and I sat down and started to write.

Writing had always come easy to me, easier than dealing with people at least. With writing I had control over everything, what people said, how people reacted, and honestly it was way easier to deal with things that I put onto paper. My first novel happened that way.

It had started as a way to deal with the fact that I wasn't what people wanted me to be. So I wrote a story about it. Fiction of course, because who would want to read an autobiography about a no one. And it sold, stupidly well. Then I was told they wanted a second book, and a third. So I rolled with it.

Now that I was working on the second book in the series I realized I really enjoyed writing. So here I was 200 miles away from my apartment and my editor trying to finish the last bit of editing before the book went to publication. Listening to the barista girl talk animated with someone.

I heard the clink of someone setting a ceramic cup down on a wooden table. Looking up with a scowl on my face I recognized the two firefighters from Kara’s place. My scowl deepened making me look like I was going to punch someone. Trying my best to ignore them, I went back to work.

”Wow and I thought I was scary when I'm mad.” I ignored the voice of Nathan as put in some rework to some dialogue. ”hello did you hear me?”

”yes i heard you, yes I am ignoring you. I have a few things to finish before my book goes to printing next month.`` I looked up to stare at Nathan who had this bewildered smile on his face. Anita sat down next to Nathan and punched his arm.

“I told you not to bother her, yet here we are. With her about to rip your throat out.” Anita gave a small snort.

“I wouldn’t rip his throat out, that’s too messy. I’d poison him, less blood that way.” I said not even missing a keystroke. I heard someone choke a little, and the sounds of someone thumping on someone’s back. The more I got into writing the less I noticed. I was almost finished with the final couple of revisions when I saw a hand in front of my computer screen. Blinking a bit I looked up.

“Sorry to bother you but you haven’t looked up in two hours and we were starting to worry.” I looked at the clock on my screen and realized I had been at the coffee shop for three hours. It was closing in on Six O’clock and I needed to get back to Kara’s. I looked back up to Nathan.

“Aw crap, I’ve got to get going, thanks for checking in.” I saved what I was doing and closed my laptop. I unplugged the charger from the wall and started shoving it and my laptop in my bag. I shut my bag and stood forgetting I had been sitting for a long period of time. Of course I would get dizzy after having nothing but scones and tea since last night.

As I steadied myself I felt a hand on my shoulder and stiffened. Looking back I saw Anita and Nathan both looking concerned? I didn’t know anything about these people and still they had concern for me. I had no idea why people like them would be concerned but here they were showing concern anyway.

“I’m fine, just haven’t had decent food since yesterday. I’m heading back to Kara’s where she promised a good home cooked meal. I think.” I raised my hands in defeat and walked over the counter. The Barista was looking between myself and the two behind me. “Can I just get a cup of water, need to stay hydrated you know.”

She handed me the cup and I waved to Anita and Nathan and left. As I popped outside I realized how cold it had gotten in the three hours I was there. I shivered a bit realizing that not everywhere was in the 80’s during September. I started walking back the way I came as the street lamps came on. I looked up and noticed that the street lamps were some old time looking ones with the fake flicker light bulbs.

I walked quietly by the stores with bright interiors. As the stores gave way to houses I started feeling like something was watching me and I started getting nervous. I started walking faster and as I was walking past the park I looked over. Two sets of glowing eyes stared back at me and I nearly screamed.

Needless to say, I walked faster back to Kara’s house and as I saw the lights on I quickly made my way inside. Not running mind you, but close. As I opened the door and slammed it shut my heart was racing. Kara came through the door to the kitchen and looked at me up and down.

“Abigail you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I nodded, not paying attention to what she was saying as she led me into the kitchen. The smell of what seemed to be chicken and something else came to my nose. She took my bag and put it on a hook next to the door over some aprons. “Okay, tell me what happened”

“I- I don’t know, I was walking back from the coffee shop and I started feeling like I was being watched. Which by the way is terrifying because the last time that happened I was nearly killed. Well I started walking faster, not running because then that lets them know you know they’re watching and when I passed the park I look up and somewhere past the park there where these eyes. Two sets of them, and well I started panicking and now my anxiety is throu-” She didn’t let me finish my sentence as she engulfed me in a hug. I tensed up waiting for the whole “You shouldn’t be so cautise” talk I’ve heard from many different people. Instead she just rubbed my back in soothing circular motions.

“Hey, hey it’s okay. I’ll talk to a few people to see what we can do. Now we need some food if you can stomach it. I know sometimes anxiety can be a real monster.” As she said this my anxiety dropped a little enough where I wasn’t hyperventilating. I was still having issues seeing, and I knew from experience that tunnel vision took a while to go away. I started to tremble so much so that my knees finally gave out. Kara grabbed me before I could hit the floor thankfully. She manhandled me into a chair at the table and gave me a glass of water.

“Maybe I should call the fire department for you.” Hearing that all I could think about was the look of pity from Anita and Nathan I would get and my stomach dropped. I grabbed her wrist and shook my head no.

“P-p-please don’t I have medicine in m-my b-bag.” I pointed to my laptop bag, and she hurried over and searched the front bag finding the small bottle of anti anxiety medicine. She brought over the bottle and handed it to me. I opened the bottle and took out a pill and put it in my mouth and drank the glass of water. I put the glass of water on the table and put my head between my legs.

“Do these attacks happen often?” I turned my head to look at her and nodded slowly.

“They were manageable most of the time, but there was this incident about five months ago? I don’t know. Anyway they become worse almost to the point where I couldn’t leave my apartment.” Kara nodded her head and started making a plate of food. I watched her bring a chicken thigh onto a plate before I spoke up. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to eat that, I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize. Besides I can make you something easier on the stomach. How about some soup and maybe a grilled cheese?” I looked at her perplexed, this woman had known me four maybe five hours and she had treated me better than my own mother. The tears came faster than I realized and when Kara looked back at me from the freezer where she was pulling out what looked like homemade soup, she gasped.

“Hey, what’s wrong, do you not like chicken noodle, I think I have some leftover Minestrone from last week still,” I started crying harder, trying to make sure the sound wasn’t loud so the neighbors didn’t hear. “Oh dear, what’s wrong, you can talk to me.”

“N-n-n-not e-even m-m-m-my own m-m-mother cared, she just cared that I wasn’t making money for her anymore.” At this Kara stopped put the soup down on the counter and walked over to me.

“Abigail I’m going to tell you one thing about this town. If you do end up taking buying a house here know one thing. We look after our people no matter what. You’ll never have to worry about walking home alone. If you’re ever sick we’ll look after you. If for whatever reason you’re gone for long periods of time we’ll look after your yard and feed your cat if you have one. We care for our people, you won’t be alone unless you want it.” As she said this I started crying even harder this time not caring who heard. Kara just kneeled down and rubbed circles in my back. After a couple of minutes my tears started winding down and the fuzzy feeling of just having a long cry started creeping in.”

“Now Abigail let’s get you some soup, a nice grilled cheese and some more water okay?” I nodded and watched her refill the glass I had from earlier. She gently placed the water in front of me and I hesitantly picked it up.

“I’m sorry for the breakdown there, It had been a while since I had one and I never expected to have one here.” I sniffled and looked around for some paper towels or maybe a paper napkin. Kara was looking at me as she warmed up a thing of soup in a sauce pot. I looked down at my knees very interested in my knees.

“Amelia you don’t have to apologize, most people don’t hold half the things inside them that you probably do and they still break down.” She flipped a sandwich over in a pan on the stove top & stirred the soup. “Honestly one of the hardest things in life is being strong enough to understand that you don’t always have to be strong.”

I sighed, maybe I knew I was due to break down but I had been hoping that maybe I would be able to get through the final draft of my novel and purchase a new house before I had one. Wishful thinking I know, but I had hoped. Rubbing the back of my neck I knew I should say something but all I was able to do was nod and hang my head. I heard the clack of bowls and plates. The rustle of silverware followed.

I bowl of steaming soup was placed in front of me. MInestrone I realized, and a plate with a grilled cheese cut in half was placed next to the bowl. Kara refilled my glass with more water and set it down in front of me.

I looked up and saw her sitting down in front of me with the same thing. I looked at the counter with the beautifully prepared chicken, and rolls.

“I’m sorry, I ruined your dinner.” I looked down feeling like a child who had ruined Christmas for their family. I heard a small sigh.

“Has no one ever told that not everything your body or mind does is something you can control.” I looked up at her then back down quickly. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about all the times as a child I wet the bed only to have my mother slap me for waking her and make me sleep in urine soaked sheets as “punishment”. Kara honestly looked like the type of person to hunt down my mother and punish her.

“If it didn’t come up in my mothers “Parenting for Narcissists” book then she probably forgot.” Kara let out a bitter laugh and I picked up some of the sandwich. I carefully dipped it in the soup and pulled out. The soup tasted perfect, as I expected. The sandwich had a decent cheese to bread ratio. Not that I was expecting anything less.

“I haven’t known you for long, maybe a day or so at this point, but there’s something I don’t get. You seem to be hurting a lot and from what I can tell, what ever drove you to come here terrified you so much that you decided to leave everything you know behind. Why?” I looked down thinking about what had happened, and how people I thought to be my friends acted afterwards.

“I guess I’m prying huh? You don’t have to say anything I know you’ve only been here for less than 10 hours. So finish your soup and go to bed, maybe take a bath. Since you’re the only one here the communal bath has a nice big tub.” I nodded and I finished my sandwich and soup I got and went to go put my dishes in the sink. “Don’t you even dare, just go take a bath and relax.”

“Kara? Thank you.” Kara waved her hand at me and moved to gather the dishes. I left to her too it.

#werewolf boyfriend #werewolf girlfriend #exophilia #my writing #monster lover

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schmergo · 5 years ago

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Informal (and sorry, very long) review of ASSASSINS at Signature Theatre

ASSASSINS is famous for its provocative concept—telling the story of nine people who assassinated or attempted to assassinate US Presidents in a series of songs and vignettes—and it feels even more daring when staged only 15 minutes from the White House. But this musical isn’t a tasteless exercise in shock value for the sake of shock, nor is it a misguided attempt to portray assassins as ‘just misunderstood.’ These nine central figures are alternately pathetic, disturbing, funny, repulsive, charming, and eerie. Some are clearly delusional, others simply disillusioned. But together, they represent the dark side of the American Dream.

Americans are raised with a sense of exceptionalism, a belief that we deserve everything we want simply because we’re Americans. At some point, we realize that only a few people have the luck, money, skills, and connections to achieve their dreams. Most of us accept that it’s not really true that “anyone can become the President.” But some troubled people throughout the country’s history cling to a distorted corruption of this dream: anyone can kill a President.

That doesn’t mean we should agree with their horrifying choices. But it does let us examine what aspects of life in America make some people so desperate to be seen and remembered, by any means necessary. “Where’s my prize?” is the childish refrain these assassins sing over and over again as they wander through the grey purgatory they’ve been consigned to.

Historically, productions of ASSASSINS are set in a ghastly carnival where contestants are encouraged to ‘step right up’ and shoot a president! A wonderful community production at Dominion Stage created a masterpiece of vivid Americana in which an electric chair or hangman’s noose were reimagined as theme park rides. This production took the opposite route by setting the action in a grimy, industrialized, empty stage in which pieces of furniture like a bench, the steps to a gallows, or a sofa float on and off like ghosts. Through this strange empty world, assassins interact unbounded by time or space, cursed to constantly repeat their most famous actions and relive their frustrations. Garfield assassin Charles J. Guiteau instructs would-be Ford assassin Sara Jane Moore in the finer points of shooting. McKinley assassin Leon Czolgosz reprimands attempted Reagan assassin John Hinckley for carelessly breaking a bottle.

The only set piece that remains throughout the show is a weathered and ghostly replica of the Presidential box at Ford’s Theatre, plunked onto the stage as though fallen from the sky. Here, the brooding spectre of John Wilkes Booth sits and watches the show unfold—and yes, he recreates his famous jump from the box. He serves as a kind of ringleader to the assassins, weaving through crowds, advising that everyone try their hand at assassination as a cure for all of their ills—even chronic stomach pain. After all, he was the first to pull off the historic act. We even see him convincing Lee Harvey Oswald to change the course of history by bringing assassination into the age of television.

As Booth, there’s a whiff of the rock star about Vincent Kempski—fitting, because Booth was a celebrity and even heartthrob in his day even before shooting Abraham Lincoln. Most of the time, he seems at ease, in control, erudite—we might even be seduced by his words until he explodes in fits of rage and reminds us how twisted and monstrous his views really are. Kempski only occasionally unleashes the full power of his singing voice, and when he does, it feels like a punch in the gut.

One minor gripe with his performance, though not limited to Kempski’s portrayal alone: his Booth, like most I’ve seen, delivers his lines with a thick Southern drawl. Not only did that occasionally make it difficult to understand his words, I doubt the real John Wilkes Booth would have spoken with such a heavy accent. For one, although he supported the Confederacy, he was from Maryland. For another, his father was British. And most importantly, he was a professional stage actor before the era of microphones and would have been well-trained in diction. Still, his charisma was palpable throughout the show. The moment he set foot on stage, a chill ran down my spine: it really was like seeing a ghost.

Lawrence Redmond plays the disgruntled worker Leon Czolgozs with gravitas and stoic desperation. He is perhaps the most sympathetic—or pathetic—of the assassins, and he gives us a sense of the loss of human potential. As the crass Sam Byck, attempted assassin of Richard Nixon, Christopher Bloch is horribly funny, spouting commercial catchphrases and leaving professional advice to Leonard Bernstein on an audiotape recording.

Some of the most enjoyable scenes of the evening were those between the two attempted assassins of Gerald Ford, Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme (Rachel Zampelli) and Sara Jane Moore (Tracy Lynn Olivera). These are two deeply kooky women—a ditzy Manson groupie and a frumpy mom who’s been married five times and is endlessly losing items in her oversized bag. Together, they shoot at a bucket of fried chicken and bond over an unexpected shared acquaintance in Manson himself.

Zampelli may not be the childlike pixie we’d expect as Squeaky Fromme, but she totally inhabits the character of a lost soul, a flower child whose brains, if she ever had them, are long-since fried and warped. Her voice isn’t a high-pitched girlish squeak but has a distinctive creaky vocal fry to it that makes her sound utterly deranged. She’s so intense in her devotion to Manson that she ranks among the most unsettling characters on the stage. She also shares a strangely beautiful duet, “Unworthy of Your Love,” with sad sack John Hinckley (Evan Casey), a failed songwriter who’s obsessed with Jodie Foster.

As Sara Jane Moore, Olivera is absolutely hysterical in both senses of the word. A chatty, scatterbrained housewife, she seems to represent the mundane and trivial compared to Squeaky’s revolutionary furor— but she can also burst into tears or pull a gun on you at any second. Her utter lack of self-awareness and deadpan one-liners like “I couldn’t hit William Howard Taft if he was sitting on my lap” made her an audience favorite. Ms. Olivera has a special talent for making dialogue sound totally natural, as if everything she says is an ad-lib. I’ll jump at the chance to see any show she’s in because she makes every character completely her own.

But the performer who truly stole the show, and my other favorite local actor, is Bobby Smith, as the lifelong loser, Charles Guiteau. Guiteau is a comically tragic figure, a man who failed at everything he did and still retained the grandiose belief that his actions were divinely inspired. He was so consumed with his delusional belief that President Garfield would make him the Ambassador to France that he shot him. As Guiteau, Smith does a jaunty dance up and down the steps of the gallows before he is to be hanged, singing a refrain of “Look on the bright side!”

Guiteau is a man of extremes, euphoric and despondent at the drop of a hat. Smith, whose appeal as a performer often lies in his unassuming, everyman demeanor, gives amazing nuance to those abrupt transitions. We see real tears shining in his eyes beyond his too-wide smile, a tremble of the lip or shaking of the hands that betray his instability. He’s incredibly entertaining to watch every moment he’s onstage, yet you’re always simultaneously concerned for and creeped out by him. There’s something so obviously ‘not right’ with Guiteau. The last character to make me feel that way was Gollum.

Tying the whole story together is Sam Ludwig as the Balladeer, who serves as a cheery narrator for the show, delivering songs that span the gamut of American music styles. These are some of the most toe-tapping tunes in Sondheim’s catalog, contrasted sharply with the discordant numbers that run between them. Ludwig also inhabits a second role, which may come as a surprise (and isn’t listed in the program). He embodies the saccharine spirit of an American narrative that sees assassination attempts as isolated incidents rather than a symptom of a deeper illness. I occasionally found his piercing tenor voice a little grating to my ears, but it suited his character well—and I was sitting very close to the stage. An increasingly mangled rendition of ‘Hail To The Chief’ ties the musical numbers together.

This show runs almost two hours with no intermission. It’s so immersive that it gives you the curious sense of waking up from a vivid dream as you leave the theatre. You almost feel that the assassins linger behind you, reliving their crimes and failures in the abandoned theatre once you’ve gone home to bed.

Assassins plays through September 29. Don’t miss this show. You’ll find yourself laughing at the most unexpected lines and thinking about the most minor moments long after the curtain call.

#assassins #musicals #musical theatre #sondheim #dc theatre #dc metro #signature theatre #sigassassins #informal review

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dontyoudarejudgemesworld · 5 years ago

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The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far: Chapter Three

Alright guys, so this takes place after a bit of a time skip. While I know that time skips are like coma theories (as in a sort of cheap way out) this is meant to illustrate the sort of relation ship Bill and her 'uncle' are creating. It's a long one (6,000+ words) but gives some insight to the characters. I know not everyone is a fan of time skips but if I were to go from start to finish for this whole fic it would be longer then the whole Lord of the Rings series so forgive me. The next few chapters will all include some kind of time skip as the focus of them is more to establish and form relationships serving as kind of independent one shots instead of parts of the over arching story-line. I understand that this may be a bit unpopular but considering what's coming it seems the best way to structure it to achieve my end goal with out having it drag on forever. I told you this was going to get weird. Also as an aside, I know there were some grammar and spelling errors in the first two chapters, this is due in part to my normal Beta reader being unavailable (because adulting is time consuming). That being said I had a stand in look this over an took much more time in transcribing it so I hope most of the errors were addressed.

Once again it’s posted here on AO3. And now onward to the insanity.

~*~ One Year Later

Stan sat pantsless in the TV room wondering if this was what contentment felt like. Beside him on the floor sat Billie leaning back against the dinosaur skull staring at the trash TV that played across the screen. Murphy announced ‘you ARE NOT the father’ for the third time in a row and the young woman who sat beside him burst out crying as a man who looked like he should be selling used cars jumped up triumphantly to the jeers of the audience. Beside Stan, his ‘niece’ let out a sharp bark of laughter as she took a sip of her soda. He glanced at her and shook his head; she really was a strange one.

In baggy basketball shorts and a tank top, he could see the mural of tattoos she sported. The sleeve on her right arm was actually a bed of colorful flowers and vines with skulls woven in, macabre but beautiful if he was honest. On her left shoulder was a raven’s head that looked like it was tearing through her flesh that was a little to photo-realistic for his taste. She also had a peacock on her left thigh with a long flowing tail that curved around to end on her knee cap, and a small green dog robot thing from some cartoon or other with the word ‘DOOM!!’ in crude childish letters on her right ankle. Wild black curls spilled over her shoulders in an unkempt mane and dark circles around her eyes told him that she had spent too long at the Skull Fracture last night getting rowdy with the lumberjacks. “Told you, Stan that means you’re picking up the tab at Greasy’s,” she told him cheerfully and he let out an exaggerated groan. He should know by now that betting against her was a fool errand. Over the last year, he’d learned a lot of things about Billie. Like she had no fixed address just various post office boxes, and instead, she lived out of a duffle bag and motel rooms. She worked for herself and seemed to make pretty decent money though he had all but confirmed his suspicion that she toed a very fine line between what was legal and what wasn’t. In truth, she played it pretty close to the vest when it came to discussing her work but she’d let a few things slip and he was willing to bet that she was a bloodhound at least part of the time. Someone that loan sharks and crime lords used to find people that didn't want to be found. A dangerous and ethically ambiguous profession at best. And while he couldn’t help but dislike that idea he couldn’t exactly say too much on the matter, instead of taking some small comfort in the fact that at least she wasn’t a full-fledged criminal like he’d been. Maybe if she had kids one day they’d manage to be upstanding members of society, but something told him she wasn’t the settling down type. Overall throughout seven visits and quite a few calls they had developed a comfortable relationship. After the fourth visit, he’d broken down and invited her to just come to stay at the Shack instead of staying at The Twin Beds. Which he regretted almost instantly; Wendy and Soos had both noticed at once and plied him with questions. Fortunately, Billie seemed to have inherited his Ma’s snake tongue and smoothly lied that she was the daughter of an old acquaintance that he was helping out with a place to stay between jobs without batting an eye. Soos and Wendy had been a bit wary of her at first, but they’d come to warm up to her. She tended to help around the shop and was generally amicable flashing charming smiles and quick wit to win them over. He was fairly certain she’d won over Wendy by covering for her so she could skip out to hang out with her friends a few times but couldn’t prove it. And Soos’s natural good nature had caused him to warm to her quickly, especially when she started helping him come up with and build new attractions for Stan to take credit for. When he wasn’t leading tours and she wasn’t off drinking and brawling with the bikers of the town (a pass time she seemed to enjoy a tad too much in his opinion) the two of them usually spent their time watching trash TV in between runs to Greasy’s diner and the bar. Though after she’d started staying with him he’d discovered that the woman could cook. He’d told her at one point that she didn’t need to but she’d shrugged it off with a smile and that cool laugh of hers saying ‘I spent enough nights hungry and cold that it’s a pleasure to be able to make a decent meal.’ That thought had given him pause to wonder what exactly she’d been through; her mother certainly sounded like a piece of work, but it seemed like so much more. But as much as he wanted to know he didn’t ask. In fact, he hardly asked her anything about her past and she in return didn’t ask about his. Instead, they had found a strange sort of comfort in each other's company. Two broken people who had had hard lives that could spend time around the other without pretending to be anything more than they were. The first few visits they'd both been on their best behavior, Billie had kept her habits of beer and brawling to herself and he had cut back on the cigar and shoplifting. But after an incident involving Billie sucker-punching a guy for asking her if she wanted to come back to his room and put a smile on her pretty face after which Stan had declared it was time to leave snatching the guy's wallet as they fled they had come to a silent agreement that they didn't need to put on 'upstanding citizens' acts anymore. He had thought a few times that he vaguely remembered that this strange feeling of accepting each other for who they were was what family had felt like back when Ford and he had been children, but he couldn’t quite be sure. “Earth to Stan,” Billie’s smooth southern drawl broke through his thoughts pulling him back to find her head cocked staring up at him one brow cocked curiously, “You didn't hear a damned word I said did yuh?” she asked a smirk pulling on her lips. “Naw, I was too busy thinking how sick I’m gonna feel at dinner so I cant go to Greasy’s,” he told her to cover his sappy musing. She rolled her eyes as she shook her head. “The most expensive thing on the menu is 15 dollars. I know you're cheap but…,” she began only to be interrupted as an obnoxious commercial can on the volume raising ten octaves. “Are you completely miserable?” came Bud Gleeful’s voice. “Well I am now,” she growled putting one hand over her ear and glaring at the TV as the commercial played. Watching she cocked an eyebrow as Stan’s picture flashed up to be stamped with ‘FRAUD’, “What bullshrimp is this?” she asked incredulously, “That the chubby car salesman? He’s ten times the liar yuh are, how the hell does he have the gall to call yuh out like that?” “I know, right? At least my customers have some interesting stories to go with the junk I sell them,” he said indignantly, “And what’s worse is it’s working. He’s got his kid pretending to be psychic and the tourists are eating it up. Heck, even the locals are. Putting a real cramp in my wallet. I wish there was something I could do to hit him hard but nothing seems to be working. Even the Squid-abitt isn’t enough,” he railed shaking his head. Beside him, Billie cocked her head one eye squinted in thought as she stared at the TV. “What about someone who can talk ta the dead?” she asked and his head snapped over to her his eyebrows shooting up. “What? Well, yeah that would be a real money maker but who the hell do I know that can do that?” he scoffed as he took a drink of his soda, “Even I can't pull that off.” “I can,” she said matter factly and his face pulled into a look of bored skepticism. “Yeah, and I can teach a pig to fly,” he snorted and she looked up at him that sly smirk of hers slowly crawling over her lips. “Ya wound me, Stanford. I’m from the south where snake oil peddlers are ah’ dime ah’ dozen. Hell Bud’s one that’s why he’s pulling this off so well,” she told him in a slightly condescending tone, “Tell you what I’ll go double or nothing on Greasy’s. If I can give yuh a two-night show that will make more then you do in the same two days. That means two dinners at Greasy’s and braggin’ rights from now until the end of the world,” she challenged and he couldn’t help the lopsided grin that pulled at his lips. “Only if you get it up and running by Saturday,” he added, that would give her the rest of the night and tomorrow to prepare. Not to mention that those were the moneymaker days with tour buses on top of regular foot traffic. A challenge he was sure even she couldn’t pull off but she just grinned and put her hand out. “Prepare ta eat crow, Stanford Pines,” she told him as he grasped her hand causing him to let out a sharp hoarse laugh. “Even you aren’t that good kid,” he sniped unable to help the smug laugh that escaped him at the fire that lit in her eyes at his challenge. “Oh you’re fixin’ ta eat those words old man,” she warned as she hopped to her feet. “Hey what about dinner,” he barked as she turned on her heel to head up to the attic. “Time is money, Stanford. Order Chinese from that there place at the mall, card’s by the phone,” she snapped as she hustled off to get started. Watching her go he couldn’t help but smile. She really was something else, and he’d managed to get dinner without paying for it.

~*~

A day and a half…that was all he’d given her. And now he was thinking that had been too much time. The woman had to be some sort of witch. There was no other explanation as to how literally overnight she’d managed to pull this off. By Friday morning there had been flyers plastered all over town with the simple drawing of a closed eye with the words ‘Esmeralda. Two nights only at the Mystery Shack.’ And apparently, somehow everyone in town had heard the whispers about a real live gypsy that could talk to the dead by noon (he had a theory that Billie had somehow gotten Wendy to help her spread the word but once again couldn’t prove it). By Friday night there was a deceptively large tent set up around the totem pole that looked like it had come out of some storybook. It would have been impressive if he didn’t feel the impending loss breathing down his neck. His one hope was that she wouldn't be able to pull off the act; after all, she had become someone the locals recognized by now so they surely wouldn't buy it when they saw her. That was until he’d come downstairs Saturday morning to find a gypsy woman sitting at the table nursing a cup of coffee. Her skin held an olive tint, her eyes a rich deep brown, and her curly black mane was held away from her face by a scarf. She wore a frilled white shirt that hung off one shoulder and a skirt made up of layers of gauzy material in a rainbow of colors with a coin skirt hung low on her hips. Bangles crowded her wrists and a few on her ankle making her every movement musical. Staring at her she flashed him a bright grin. “Good morning Mr. Mystery I’m Esmeralda and I speak to the other side,” she greeted him in an accent that was European but not too strong. Staring at her it took him a minute to realize that she was his daughter. What gave it away was the bandage on her left hand, it was neatly wrapped and wouldn't be worth much note if he didn’t see the slight bump where her extra finger was folded across her palm to hide it. Shaking his head he stared open mouth at her, she looked like a cliche and it was brilliant. The tourist would eat it up. “How?” he demanded his voice cracking in indignant awe causing her to chuckle. “Lots of foundation, contacts, and years of practicing a dozen accents,” she told him smugly in that outrageous but somehow totally believable accent, “You can always admit defeat now Stan and I will only demand one of my dinners,” she offered. “No way toots. You never call a fight early,” he replied and she shrugged as she took another sip of her coffee. Arrogance rolled off her and he let out a low grumble, while he could appreciate her confidence speaking to the dead was a tall order. He opened his mouth to say something to her when Wendy's voice came from the gift shop. "Stan a tour bus just pulled up!" Glancing at 'Esmeralda' she flashed a wicked smile as she stood in a rattle of bangles and rolled her shoulders. Looking him up and down she couldn't help the smirk that pulled at her lips. "May the best con win, " she laughed resting all her weight in on hip as she stretched. Stan couldn't help but let out a bark of laughter that rose in him as a competitive fire lit in him. "Age and treachery with overcome youth and exuberance every time, " he reminded her and she shrugged as she moved to slip out the back door. Watching her go he shook his head getting his cane and flipping his eye patch down, he had to admit having some competition was making the day a bit more exciting. The next 10 hours were a whirlwind of activity as a flood of tourists poured through. He spun his stories with a flare he hadn't felt in years as Esmeralda flittered about. He had to admit that she was good; adding some rustic flare to his stories telling of sighting of the Cat-a-peid in the 'old country' and backing up the claim that the magic crystal they sold were steeped in the mystical energy of the forest. Between the two of them, they managed to create a fevered excitement in the visitors who all but threw their money at Wendy. But even as he reveled in what were surely record profits he couldn't help but notice that all of Billie's help was a double-edged sword. Even as she hyped his attractions she filtered about reading palms and offering charms that she made appear from her skirt. Shiny rocks and crudely carved figures on a bit of string, things he recognized from the bulk supply warehouse he bought his own junk from. A ten here and a twenty there that she slipped away with a smile and an offer to come see her tonight as the spirts had many messages and perhaps one was for them. And he finally got to see her speak to the dead, at least that was what it looked like. Gravitating to a cluster of tourists she placed a hand on her temple as she closed her eyes. Letting out a humming sound she peered up at the curious group. "There is a woman. Older, matronly who wishes to speak to one of you. Some connection with the letter T, " she said softly as she hummed again pausing for dramatic effect, "A name or hobbies maybe. Teresa. Or Teapots. Or Tammy. Or trains...tarting. Tabatha, maybe. I'm sorry it's hard to hear her. Her voice is a soft one but warm like..., " he began only to have one if the men, a middle-aged guy speak up suddenly. "Thelma?" he asked suddenly, "My Mema was named Thelma, " he said excitedly and a murmur went through the crowd. Billie smiled softly as though listening to someone speak before nodding. "Yes, Thelma. She passed suddenly, but not unexpectedly right, " she told him and he nodded his face pinching ever so slightly with emotion. "In her sleep, but she was 98," he supplied and Billie smiled gently as she nodded. "She wants you to know that it was painless and she is at peace, " she told him kindly as she shifted as though leaning closer to someone to hear, "She says that you're worrying over something financial. A promotion or payment of some sort. You are concerned that it won't happen, that it keeps you up at night. You are sleeping and it worries her. Do you know what she's talking about?" she asked and he nodded silently the crowd around him starting in wonder. "Ye...yea. I know what she's talking about, " he choked and Billie nodded sympathetically, "She says that you don't need to worry. That it will all work itself out. She says to tell you to have faith, that God wouldn't have you face a trial you could not handle, " she said her eyes flattering closed once more, "She says she loves you and that you need to read for your own health." For a moment silence hung in the air before the man moved forward and threw his arms around Billie thanking her. Around them, the crowd had tripled in size and an excited clamor rose from them all talking at once. It was amazing and a total sham. He'd seen this sort of psychic before, they were all over daytime TV. And while he had no idea how they did it he knew in his bones they were fakes. But even so, the audiences ate it up including the one now swarming around Billie. "Oh she's good, " he growled as he stood watching her work the crowd telling them that she would speak to the spirits tonight and they were welcome to come, no latter than 7 and cash only for her small admission fee. She only asked 20 dollars so she could continue her travels. And every single one ate it up like starving men. She smiled at just the right moments and spoke just the right word. And that when it hit him. This wasn't her first time pulling this con. She was poised and practiced like she did this every day. This was an old hand to her, a well-practiced grift not some idea she"d randomly thrown out. He'd assumed she was just winging it, she was a PI not a psychic. At least she was now. Just like he was Mr. Mystery now. But before that, he'd been a lot of other things. And it appeared before being a PI Bill had been other things as well. In that moment he realized that he'd been played, that he'd assumed she'd been bluffing without knowing her tells. She was a con artist just like him, and he should have known. Betting against her was a fools errand, and not just when it came to daytime talk shows. She was his daughter after all, and it seemed some of his talents had passed on.

~*~

Billie sighed as she she leaned against the support of the porch, a cigarette in one hand and a can of Pitt cola in the other. She felt like a whole new person after a hot shower to wash off the ton of bronzer and foundation she’d used to make her pale skin darker. It was nice to be out of that stupid heavy skirt and back in sweats and a t-shirt. Pre-dawn just started to brush the sky above the trees with thin lines of pinks and oranges the trees shadows stretched out like fingers of darkness trying to resist the coming day. It got light so early up here it made her feel like it was later (or earlier) then 3:30 in the morning. It really was beautiful though, like a Rob Boss painting. She had to admit when she’d first rolled into the little Organ town the year before she had found the picture perfect place a bit unsettling. It had been the plan to show up meet Stan and never look back, after all she’d never thought he would want anything to do with his brother’s vagabond daughter. Guess that’s what she got for thinking. It turned out her uncle seemed to want something to do with her after all, and surprisingly she wanted something to do with him.

After her research she had expected to find a cold logical man who had no room for sentimentality. While she knew scientific papers were written specifically lacking any emotion his had seemed extra sterile. Even the forwards to the where normally the researcher had some kind of tone had been devoid of anything to give her a glimpse of personality. But instead she had found a man who was the furthest thing from a cold clinical researcher. He was warm in a gruff kind of way and she liked it. It occurred to her that the time line of his published works ending and the Murder Shack coming into being seemed to overlap with Stanley’s death. Perhaps, the sudden change in profession had also been a sudden change in personality, grief was a powerful thing after all.

Or perhaps he’d simply decided that this strange little corner of the world was too wonderful to waste with his head buried in in books. And it was wonderful. And weird. Over her first few visits she’d began noticing strange shadows and odd movement in the trees. And while she’d written off the little men she’d seen rummaging in the diner’s dumpster and the Moth Man she’d seen batting at a street light outside the hotel one night to tricks of the mind and the local legends getting to her, she’d quickly realized there was something inherently odd to the place. Not bad just odd. But once she’d come down one morning to find Stan luring a walking camp fire out from under the porch with marshmallows she’d realized it wasn’t in her head. Instead she had decided that she rather liked this place, after all she was an odd person so she didn’t feel so out of place. It was like she could breath freely in this strange little town with her eccentric uncle.

Her uncle, that was still a strange thought. Billie had never really had a family, her mother had always been too busy being a drunken whore druggie to be anything else. And while she technically had four older siblings they’d all been to busy finding their own way to survive to bother with anything as trivial as bonding. Hell, after she’d been taken into state custody she hadn’t seen any of them for years, a few she still hadn’t seen even after all these years. It had always been her, she’d learned early to never depend on anyone else. Survival was the end game and others had always been passing acquaintances to her. But for some reason she kept coming back here, kept calling to check in on Stan. Perhaps, it was that he never asked any questions or judged her for smoking and drinking. Or maybe it was that she knew that the tired eyes and world weary voice she had was a mirror of his. Not that it mattered, she had come to really appreciate the time she spent with the old con.

It was a nice change of pace. Most people seemed to think that being a PI was like the movies; chasing down leads, sneaking around to get photos, and all that, but it wasn’t. While sure it had its exciting moments (especially when it came to some of her less than reputable clients) it was a lot of time sitting around and waiting for someone to show up. It was digging through mountains of trash and public records to find a lead. It was asking a lot of questions that never got answered to people who didn’t want to talk to you. Over all it was exhausting in more ways then one. She’d always spent her time between jobs partying or holed up in a hotel room getting stoned and sleeping, but now she found coming here to be a much better past time.

There was always some new creation Stan was working on or some project to help Soos with. She had found walks in the woods were eventful as she seemed to run across odd little creatures and weird rocks no matter what direction she went. Even when it was boring around the Shack she at least had company. And Stan sure made for interesting company. He was always ready to snipe at each other or make stupid bets over anything. Heck, the last two days had been the most fun she’d had in years. She had enjoyed watching the old con slowly realized that this wasn’t her first rodeo, though, she knew she had shown her hand and he wouldn’t fall for it again.

Then again even she was surprised she’d pulled it off. While the gypsy shtick had been something she’d acquired as a teenager the rest had been dumb luck. She was constantly surprised that for such a nowhere town Gravity Falls seemed to have everything. 24 hour copy shop to make the flyer? Yup, Shenkos beside the mall. Party rental shop with a thematically appropriate tent? You bet. Costume shop? Yup. Local teenagers willing to spread rumors and wield social media like a finely honed weapon for $20 bucks? Well, everywhere had those but Wendy was a sweet kid who seemed more then willing to recruit help. It just went to show that helping the kid ditch work a few times had been a good idea. Still, some how it had all come together and she’d been able to back up her cocky words. Even with the expenses she’d pull in over a grand in a weekend beating Stan by a hundred buck and some change.

So she’d won, though, since she had told Stan to keep it since it was his customers to begin with she had basically bought herself two dinners and some expenses but useless bragging rights. In truth, she didn’t need the money, she got paid well for her work and had nothing to spend it one. She didn’t pay rent since she refused to settle, and aside from weekly hotels, food, and smokes she didn’t buy anything really. So she had a huge bank account that she just let sit for when she decided to retire. Plus, she’d liked the idea of helping Stan out, if in no other way then sticking it in Bud’s face. How dare he call Stan a fraud when he sold junk cars at astronomical prices? A small self aware part of her knew that she had done it because she cared about the old man, but she just ignored it.

Shaking her head she snorted, she had to be tired to be getting all introspective and squishy. Feelings weren’t her bag, she’d just done it for fun. At least that was what she told herself. Shifting slightly she groaned, her body felt heavy and her eyes kept trying to close. She was exhausted two days and nights of putting on a show took a lot out of a woman. Not to mention, she’d had to strike the tent after last night’s performance so the rental company could pick it up first thing, and of course she and Stan had sat up counting out their respective earnings. Stad had recounted hers twice growling she’d padded them, before finally admitting defeat. The look on his face had been worth it.

“Alright kid, how’d you do it?” came a gruff voice and the smell of cigar smoke pulling her eyes from the trees. Looking over at him she flashed a smile earning a half hearted scowl in response and a dismissive grunt, “Come on out with it. It’s only fair I know how I got beat.” Smirking she let out a sharp bark of laughter.

“It’s called cold reading,” she told him causing one of his eyebrows to shoot up in question, “You size up a crowd; age, clothes, general stuff you know. Then you throw out a line; something vague enough to not be a definitive statement but specific enough to be convincing. One you get a bite you reel them in, double talk so they tell you everything but it seems like you told it to them and bam you talked to their dead aunt,” she explained as she took a drink.

“Sounds like it would be easier to actually talk to the dead,” he grumbled, “Yur Grandmother would be proud. So where on earth did you learn to pull that off? It doesn’t seem like somethin’ you’d learn for a party trick,” he observed as he took a long puff off his cigar groaning as he settled back on the couch. Shrugging she sighed as she moved over to sit next to him staring out at the dark woods tucking one leg under her.

“When I was round about 16 I ran off from the group home. I was tired of being passed around homes like a fruit cake at Christmas yuh know. So I landed at a traveling fair after a while and met the Amazin’ Jezabel. She pulled the same gimmick and taught me how since my weird hand gav’ ah bit of a witchy vibe. I traveled with them for a year or two, ‘fore getting sick of making her a ton of money and gettin’ hog spit in return. I went out on my own and was good at it,” she told him cracking her neck a touch of melancholy settling over her as she recalled the days she spent running the con at fairs all over the south, “I probably could have gone on with it, got one of those shows on TV, but after a while people started coming to me looking for real answers. Sure, stuff like this weekend is fine. Tellin’ people that their grandma loves them or their dog is always hangin’ around them don’t hurt nothin’ It makes them happy, but when you have people comin’ to yuh lookin’ for their missing kid offering their life’s savin’s for answers it changes the game. I couldn’t bring mah’self ta lie to them. I didn’t want to give ‘em false hope so I quit. I was tryin’ to feed myself not cheat desperate people, yuh know?” she finished before calming up. She hadn’t needed to say all that, and it kinda broke the unspoken agreement they had to avoid anything too honest about themselves.

Glancing over she expected to find him either half listening to her ramble on or looking at her with the inscrutable look of mild disappointment he got when she came in half cocked with a split lip from brawling with the guys at the Skull Fracture. Instead his brows were furrowed and the corner of his lips pulled down in a half frown. It wasn’t that he looked disgusted at her words more…saddened by them. For a long moment they just stared at each other before he looked away taking a drink of his own soda.

“What?” she asked finally ignoring the slight feeling of insecurity that his silence had brought on.

“Nothin’. I was just thinking about your Dad,” he said his voice slightly rougher then normal, “That’s impressive though. You got any other tricks up your sleeve?”

“Naw, nothing worth noting,” she said as she looked away from him resting her elbow on the arm of the couch and leaning her head on it. For a moment they were silent, sitting there smoking before her eyes slid over to him again.

“What about him?” she asked unable to stop herself. While she excepted that Stanley was gone, and he seemed to be a subject Stanford didn’t seem keen on she couldn’t help but wonder about Stanley. He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes knowing what she was asking at once. For a second she thought he wasn’t going to answer before he shrugged.

“Nothin’ really. Just that you’re a lot like him. He may have been a cheat and a liar but he never preyed on desperate people. He’d probably be proud of you for that,” he said as Billie barely suppressed the pleased smile that threatened to surface at his words, “Though if he’d have known about you’d you could bet you wouldn’t have even been in a position to have to decided who were acceptable marks,” he added under his breath like he was speaking to himself not her. Smiling she looked back out at the trees.

“Yeah well if that were the case I wouldn’t have been able to get some free meals and braggin’ right now would I?” she chuckled to break the heavy silence that had settled on them and she saw his lips twitch from the corner of her eye.

“Yeah, yeah live it up kid. You cheated and you know it. That was dirty trick, I wouldn’t have made that bet if I’d have know you were a professional psychic,” he grumbled and she chuckled as she finished her drink and stood stretching.

“I’m goin’ ta bed. I’m beat,” she announced with a small yawn, “You should get some sleep too, Stan yuh look like hell,” she added glancing down at him causing him to chuckle.

“You ain’t the boss ah me kid,” he grumbled as she couldn’t help the stern look that crossed her face causing him to laugh, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll finish then and head to bed,” he assured her waving his hand at her. Smiling she yawned again as she headed in.

“Night Stanford.”

“Night Billie.”

#gravity falls #stan pines #Stanley Pines #billie pines #lost pines daughter #gf #au gravity falls #the apple doesnt fall far #AO3 #gravity falls fanfiction #screaming pointlessly into the void #Mystery Shack #tent of telepahy #pines family #pines family bonding #ugh I suck at hashtags

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abalonetea · 5 years ago

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Heyo! So I'm like suuuuuuuuper lost on like all of your WoW posts lol. Would you mind giving me a basic run down of your characters pretty please?

hey! of course! i’ll be honest, i’m still making and fleshing out a lot of the character, but this is a pretty quick and basic run-down of what I've got so far! thank you for the lovely ask!

this is missing a few of the characters that aren’t super fleshed out yet, and yes, this is my largest cast out of the CHP series!

_-_-_

Wings of War is set during the early 1970′s, in an alternate history that allows for some advanced technology, the inclusion of Intent, and the addition of wings being a natural part of some human’s forms.

it follows four teams (fluctuating numbers between five and eight members at various points) who have been hired by the Guiding Star Corporation. their job is to “develop advancements in technology, human endurance, and product testing” which, as it turns out, means that they fight to the death in endless matches, brought back to life using what’s known as a Respawn Machine.

the teams (north, south, east, and west) are shipped between ten different bases, scattered across several different countries. this represents the ability to pick different maps in most fighting, pvp, or 1st person shooter games.

on each teams, there are specific roles that the GSC are looking to have filled. each team has a “building” class, for example, which creates the titles of Builder, Maker, Techie, and Engineer. the “sneak” class consists of Assassin, Spy, Rouge, and Thief. each class can only be filled by someone with a specific set of traits, which results in, essentially, total reliance on GSC.

two teams have wings, and two teams don’t. i’m still working on filling out all the roles and creating all the characters, but here’s a basic run-down of what I have so far!

_-_-_

Adele Adler - the handler, the woman in charge. She runs relay between all four teams, doling out missions, handling issues that arrive on and off base, and acting as go between for the Teams and the Council. she’s supposed to keep her distance between them, and had managed that for all the teams before now, but...the men are growing on her! she has a surprising soft spot for most of them, and finds herself more and more willing to turn blind eyes on their shenanigans.

Jeremy - West Team’s “fast class”, this boy is a Speedster through and through. he has a short temper, a severe anger problem, and briefly made a living running drugs out in Boston. his weapon of choice is a chunk of wood with some sharp nails in it, and he can hit harder than you would think. runs his mouth a lot but is the only person on his team with any ability to understand the words take care of yourself.

Joshua - West Team’s Sharpshooter, and originally from New Zealand. lives in a camper just inside of the perimeters of the base. anti-social and with no interest in changing that, he took on the job because there’s a very large bounty on his head that Adele promised to get rid of.

Feliciano - the Rouge of the West team, he tries very hard to make himself look proper and put together but usually fails. had a bad reputation going when he first started, because he was pretty sick and just Not Feeling Socializing, but it’s easy enough to see that he’s a good guy these days. a former bodyguard.

Lucas - the Techie, and originally from Sao Paulo. he loves sugar sweet coffee, and has a prosthetic leg that’s fueled by Intent and a rare mineral. a technical engineer, meaning he uses Intent to make new technological advances. can talk for hours if you hit a subject that he likes.

Deiter - the Doctor of West team. he’s a good man, though he tends to have extremely manic episodes that are not helped by the incredible amount of upper’s he can often be seen taking. lost everything when the city he lived in was blown up during WW2. fiercely protective of his team-mates.

James - known as the General of the team. fought in WW2. suffered a severe head injury that still affects him today. a kind man with a lot of personality, and a love for animals. if you tell him something, he will likely forget it. don’t hold it against him, because he’s already doing that himself.

Tony - the Runner and local loudmouth of North team. you cannot pay this boy to be quiet, and he’s both stupid as a bag of bricks and also incredibly intelligent. from New York, where he had a lovely stint robbing the Italian mafia blind with his husband, Rizzo, until they were both shot up and picked up by Adele.

Rizzo - the Demolitions Expert of North team, and actually pretty adorable if you can get past the fact that he’s incredibly crass and has no filter between mind and mouth. Hopelessly in love with his husband, even if no one else realizes they’re married. he will burn water if you let him cook, so maybe best if you don’t.

Werner - the North team’s Medic. he’s absolutely batshit, but has a good heart. was running a black market ring in the country side when Adele found him, though he was originally from Oslo. couldn’t speak anything but German and Norwegian before coming to work for the GSC. has two pet rats.

Francois - served as a spy in WW2, and currently the North team’s Assassin. has a HEART based injury with a lot of the same symptoms as tuberculosis. was picked up by the GSC with an offer of as-of-unheard of medication. sardonic, and prone to cracking jokes that most of his team don’t pick up on.

Loto - the Archer, and a member of North team. from the Louisiana bayous, and great with a cross bow. has an old coonhound that sleeps in bed with him, but who Loto claims to hate. often forgets that he needs to actually go to the kitchen and get food, and that the food he needs is easily available.

Braeburn - the Mechanic, and the longest running member of any of the active teams. has a prosthetic arm. really fond of sweet tea, and more idea of what’s going on than he’s willing to let on. bound up in so many contracts, it’s literally woven into his Intent.

Elias - the OG title, Soldier, and a member of South team. fought in WW2, where he briefly met Francois before being shipped to Poland. was discharged after being severely injured, and lived homeless on the streets for a while with BJ. originally from Canada but ended up in America during his discharge due to an error on his papers. suffers from brain tumors caused by extended exposure to Iradium in the war.

BJ - the Hurricane (class title will change, I just needed a placer, oops) of South team. left an abusive home at fifteen and has been on the streets since. took a contract with GSC to get Elias medical treatment. dyslexic, and often described by his team as “being a lot”. uses a steel pipe for his preferred weapon. loves talking and telling stories.

Olek - the Firepower of the team, literally. can probably punch you hard enough to get a KO, but fights with an Iradium powered flare-gun that does serious damage. from Russia, with a strict I won’t tell you anything about my past policy, and a bizarre fondness for bears. great at giving hugs when you’re down.

Jakob - the Maker of the team. has a highly advanced prosthetic eye. losing the vision in his other eye. the guy who picked up BJ and Elias. has a real morality struggle between the job he does, and his own views on Mercy. probably needs a hug more than he lets on.

Scout - the Scout of East team, and yes, he does think that’s funny. grew up the oldest of six kids, with a single mother. started doing deals behind the schoolhouse to bring in some extra cash, and it got out of hand when he got older. has severe ADHD. can and will count cards if you play poker with him. no common sense.

Jane - the Guard of East team. unofficially fought in WW2. a big softy, under all that gruffness. suffering from major hearing loss, and with the habit of virtually never taking off his helmet. a pretty shy guy, and any kindness sent his way will catch him off guard.

Christophe - the Spy of the team, he was drafted into the Korean War, where he served a grueling eight months before being attacked by military trained dog-horses and sent home. a chronic insomniac who never settled back into civilian life, and has an abysmally childish sense of humor.

Ollie - the Arsonist of the team, he was living homeless in Daytona before Seamus found him. has horrible decision making skills and a pretty rough past, and considers the base home near instantly. his self-care skills could use some boosting, and he tries really hard to not mess things up.

Seamus - technically the Gunner of the group, but he would rather just make a lot of bombs and use them instead. missing an eye, and has a lot of self-worth issues and a pretty heavy accent that his speech impediment doesn’t help. a drunk, but having Ollie around’s been proving to be good for him.

#wip wow #wow characters #wow chatter #bookish tag #I had so much fun writing this up

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faveficarchive · 5 years ago

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The High Road to Low Expectations

Number 666 of the White Trash Series

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: In the final installment of the White Trash series, Cyrene fucks up the weed, Gabrielle is on a mad search for the right kind of weed, and not-so-surprising new facts arise when Eli starts a film project and chooses Dahak’s.

CW: There’s some off-screen sexual assault in this one. Two lines, but it’s there.

You wonder why we're only half-ashamed

Because enough is too much

And look around…

Can you blame us? Can you blame us?

—Morrisey, "Interesting Drug"

1. The Mother of Peace

In 1967, just before she dropped out of the honors program at Berkeley in order to join Strawberry Alarm Clock on tour, Cyrene had participated in a student takeover of the president’s office on campus.

It was her finest moment: She was the Revolution incarnate. Wearing a beret, armed with a bullhorn, she lectured, cajoled, exhorted her fellow students to leave the past behind, to join with the Students Against Totalitarianism and Nostalgia (SATAN) in rebuilding the university for the future. The past was dead, she proclaimed. "Marx was wrong!" she spat into her bullhorn. "Religion isn’t the opiate of the people, it’s nostalgia!"

She was quoted for weeks, photographed for all the local newspapers and her FBI file, and propositioned by the grooviest guys on campus.

Thirty-three years later, the present was now the past, but it still looked pretty damn good. Especially when one lived in a day and age when Ché Guervara’s image was used to sell computers and a chain of stores selling bad coffee had taken over the planet. Now, Cyrene realized, she was beginning to understand nostalgia. She wanted to go back in a time capsule and apologize to nostalgia for all the mean things she said about it. Because now she was an old woman—albeit a relatively content old woman—reduced to selling pot to ungrateful young people who would just use it while watching cartoons and not as a break from fighting for the proletariat, or world peace, or the environment, or for an endangered species.

And then there was Gabrielle—who now stood before Cyrene, irritable and clad in her trusty old Carhart jacket. Once upon a time she thought her daughter’s main squeeze had enormous potential to do something—precisely what, the old hippie hadn’t the faintest idea. But ever since the trés sensitive poet had secured an academic career (with stripping on the side—some career choices were best left unexamined, thought the terminally unemployed Cyrene), she had become terribly dour and authoritarian. Gabrielle was now part of the problem, as they used to say.

"Got my dope, Cyrene?" A tad impatient, Gabrielle was shifting her weight from leg to leg.

The aging hippie sighed. "Of course, man." Cyrene pulled out her briefcase. While it was not a briefcase in the traditional leathery sense, she thought that the old Kung Fu lunchbox (which Zina had used for 3rd and 4th grade before advancing to the practice of bullying other children for food, money, and homework) served her purposes well.

"Here ya go, honey." She flipped a Ziploc bag of pot to Gabrielle, who examined it with the exaggerated self-importance of a nascent connoisseur.

Little golden eyebrows furrowed, like caterpillars plotting a coup. "Is this the Rhine Gold?"

"Absolutely!"

"It doesn't look like the Rhine Gold."

"Since when are you an expert?"

"Since you became my dealer—I've been smoking it for the past five years."

Cyrene squinted at the bag. And grew less convinced herself. She thought she had saved the last of the current crop for Gabrielle…unless she accidentally gave it to Eli. Which would explain why he was so fuckin’ happy at the food co-op last night! "Well, I'm pretty sure it's the Rhine Gold."

"'Pretty sure' doesn't cut it."

"Do you use that snotty tone with your students, man?"

Actually, yes, I do, Gabrielle thought, wincing. "Sorry, Cyrene. It's just a stressful time of year. The semester is over, I have finals to grade, not to mention the term papers. It's—"

"—it's coming on Christmas, they're cuttin' down trees, they're puttin' up reindeer and singin' songs of joy and peace—"

"Cyrene."

"Honey?"

"Christmas is over."

The old hippie smiled in the glorious, reassuring fashion that made her a darling of the counterculture for 15 minutes, that is, with a freewheeling, easy, bullshit charm that totally suckered the always-guileless Gabrielle. Cyrene patted the young woman’s arm. "Just give it a try for me, honey, okay?"

* * *

Zina discarded a sooty jacket and a well-worn helmet in a pile beside the door. Another hellish shift. How many kitty cats could get stuck up in a tree in one frigging day? And then there was another case of blatant fireplace abuse—it happened frequently during and after Christmas, the most festive and mindless time of the year. Somehow people failed to understand that the chestnuts should merely roast over an open fire, and not turn into splitting, hissing flameballs that freak you out and make you inexplicably throw toward the window so that the curtains light up as well.

She yawned, stretched, and ambled into the living room. Gabrielle was standing in the middle of the room, dressed in her standard lazy-ass Sunday gear: green flannel pajama bottoms and an Olympus County Community College t-shirt. "Hey bitch, where's my chicken pot pie?" the firefighter trotted out her standard greeting.

Instead of a playful giggle or a semi-sarcastic retort, the poet met this with stony silence and a baleful glare.

"Just kidding," the firefighter added lamely.

"Your mother dicked me over again."

Zina smirked suggestively. "Come again?"

"She gave me inferior weed, Zina. I'm not high. I'm not getting a good high." The poet blew out a frustrated breath. "This is not Rhine Gold."

"You sure?" The firefighter walked into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Rolling Rock out of the fridge. "I though Mom woulda learned her lesson the last time she didn't give you Rhine." In response to the last time she did not get Rhine Gold as requested, the vengeful Gabrielle—perhaps over-inspired by Titus Andronicus—cooked a tofu casserole in chicken broth and fed it to the unsuspecting hippie. However, the only salient result of the incident was Gabrielle's overwhelming guilt and Cyrene's endless tirades on fucked-up karma.

"Obviously not. In fact, I'll prove it to you." The poet dropped her gaze. "Say it."

"I'm tired," Zina whined, as if four syllables would push her into physical collapse.

"Come on."

"Okay, okay." The firefighter took a breath, then wiggled her eyebrows for good measure. "Machu Picchu."

Half a minute lapsed into eternity. Gabrielle remained staring at her blankly. "Try again," the poet-pothead requested.

"Machu Picchu." This time Zina drawled it out a bit, sounding like a Pokeman on Quaaludes.

The silence continued. Zina frowned. Normally—meaning under the proper influence of Rhine Gold—upon hearing the name of the ancient Inca city, Gabrielle would dissolve into giggles that eventually escalated into hysterics and threatened the stability of her bladder.

Zina’s sooty brow furrowed with an almost genuine concern. This was indeed serious. She opened the refrigerator again to continue her reconnaissance mission for leftovers.

2. Somehow, Pacino’s Career Survived

Within the confines of Dahak's, Chad waved at an unusual sight: Eli, clutching a small, old film camera, was leaning nervously against the bar. He was intrigued enough to go over and speak with Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy.

"Welcome to the dark side," Chad purred mischievously.

"Hey man, how ya doing? Look, I'm not here because I'm gay."

"Sure, you’re not. I mean, where else can a straight guy indulge his love of 20-year-old dance songs?"

"No, really." Eli held up the camera. "This is for my semester project in Film 404. We have to do a short piece that remakes a Hollywood film about minorities. I chose Cruising."

"I see." Chad's eyes narrowed.

"No, you don't—I'm going to do it better, trust me."

"Good luck," Chad muttered.

"What?" Eli shouted. The sound of Dee-Lite's "Groove is in the Heart" now pounded over them, rendering embarrassed mumbling impossible.

"Never mind!" Chad yelled back. "But you better be careful."

"Why?"

"It’s contagious!" Chad laughed and pointed at a burly man on the dance floor, dressed in black Levis and a leather vest. "I mean, I never thought I'd see him here, but there he is! And I even got his number!" he crowed.

Eli watched as the magic man spun around. It was Artie.

"This is so going into the movie." He held up his super 8.

* * *

Zina had settled in on the couch to watch the latest offering from Fox: When Overeducated White Women Attack. The show was finally displaying some promise: After ten tedious minutes of observing a comparative literature professor balancing her checkbook—resulting in tears and a torn register—Zina now watched as a woman with a Ph.D. in art history from Yale contemplated sticking a butter knife into a still-plugged toaster.

"Do it, you dumb bitch!" the firefighter hissed at the TV, just as Gabrielle came in the house.

"Zina," the poet began breathlessly.

The butter knife hesitated about the toaster slot.

"Are you listening to me?"

The firefighter nibbled her lips with anticipation.

"Damn it, Zina!" Gabrielle latched onto a dark and brooding—yet terribly sensitive—earlobe, giving it a violent twist.

"Ow!" the firefighter roared. It was the first part of Gabrielle's fabled one-two punch: First the earlobe, then cranial battering with the world's ugliest throw pillow—a brightly colored, quasi-Pennsylvania Dutch mess of hexagons that resembled nothing so much as an Amish pap smear. Having the discordant colors so close to her face was worse than the actual physical pain.

Zina ducked a blow from the pillow and rolled off the couch to avoid further abuse. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted. "Ever since you stopped smoking dope you've been out of your fucking gourd!"

"Bullshit!" snapped Gabrielle.

The firefighter rubbed her delicate, doughy earlobe. "Oh yeah? What about all those American Gladiators you were so hot to beat up, the other night when we went out for pizza?"

Gabrielle held up a menacing finger—and snarled. "I just didn't like they way they were lookin' at you."

Zina blinked. Shouldn't that be my line? Is this what it's like to live with me? Mommy, I'm confused.

"We got a problem, Zina. Artie beat up Eli, outside of Dahak's."

"What was Artie doin' hanging around—oh."

"Uh-huh. And it's Gay Night too. This adds to my theory that he's a big fat fucking closet case."

"Or it could support my theory that he's just horny as hell." So very proud of actually having a theory on anything, Zina folded her arms with a minor sense of triumph.

Gabrielle was pacing now. "Fuck the theories. All I know is that I'm gonna kick his ass. Are you in or not?"

Zina now slumped, defeated. In reality, she wanted nothing more than to drink beer in front of the TV until she fell asleep. And maybe mess around a little with her girlfriend on the couch. Add some pretzels to that pleasure equation, and thus an evening was made, nay, would achieve an unrivaled, unparalleled perfection. She recycled the only line she could think of that might get her out of this potential mess. "Violence is not the way, grasshopper."

"Don't you dare quote Lao Ma to me!" barked Gabrielle. She stopped pacing. "I want vengeance!"

A sharp buzzing noise and canned laughter from the TV indicated that the Yalie had just fried herself.

The firefighter sighed. What else could she do? "Will we be home in time for Smackdown?"

"Count on it." Gabrielle sailed out the door, expecting her backup to follow.

* * *

Artie swaggered down a quiet, peaceful main street while fragments of "Stayin’ Alive" provided a rather dated personal soundtrack within his mind. He felt good. Fifteen minutes of sin in a bathroom, easily absolved by lots of prayer and repentant tears, made him feel like a new man. He sniffed at his arm, drinking in the powerful yet sublime scent of cologne that was not his—a heady (oh yeah, baby! he thought), Proustian remnant of his earlier toilet-side encounter.

A lone car passed. Then it executed an abrupt u-turn and came toward him. Immediately he recognized the battered, ugly economy vehicle as Gabrielle’s. When it pulled to a halt near the curb in front of him and both women emerged simultaneously from the Escort—even slamming their respective doors in unison—he giggled. "Hey! Cagney and Lacey! Arrest me and molest me!"

In response Zina leaped over the hood of the car with magnificent, MacGyver-like grace. Somehow he couldn’t picture Sharon Gless doing that. Nonetheless, as usual, her beauty broke his heart, almost literally in this instance as she head-butted him in the chest. He stumbled backward, and she slammed him into a wall. "Zina!" he cried. "What gives?"

"You know what gives, you little shit. You beat up Eli."

Fist curled, Zina leaned in closer to Artie. She sniffed at him. He flinched. Then he noticed that her eyes had that old, familiar look, that look he thought he would never see again, in his wildest, wettest dreams: Desire. "What's that you're wearing?" she growled sensually.

"Um, I think it's called Aroma Mist—"

"You mean Aramis?" The height-challenged Gabrielle was trying to interject herself between them; if doing so physically wouldn’t work, she would settle for verbally. Aramis was dangerous stuff—this she knew from Chad. The demon scent could arouse anyone, her worldly friend had told her. And while a conflation of appetites was an unfortunate aspect of the firefighter’s character—the smell of fresh meatloaf could have Zina naked and ready to pounce within seconds—Gabrielle was quite certain that she did not want to know to what ends Aramis would compel her lover.

The firefighter’s nostrils flared again. Artie almost came on the spot.

"It's nice. Real nice," Zina murmured. Her pupils were obscenely dilated, as if giving birth to a new lust.

"Zina—" Gabrielle ground out the "you-are-on-the-verge-of-infidelity" warning between her teeth.

"Thanks!" Artie gushed. He grinned. "Say, ah, my place ain't that far away. How about we have a little drink, get caught up on old times?"

Zina grunted thoughtfully, like a sensitive orangutan making her TV debut on Nova.

It was the last thing she remembered clearly. For the intoxicating scent carried her away, she flew on the wings of night, her heart swelled and thundered like a storm. To paraphrase John Denver, it filled up her senses.

And then, the scent of the fabled cologne faded—or rather, was taken hostage and pummeled to death by the joint, brute force of stale TV dinners and ancient laundry that happily coexisted in Artie’s trailer. Now, sitting on a couch more wretched and stinky than her own, Zina blinked in confusion, wondering how in the hell she had gotten there.

Artie was smiling at her in his smarmy way from the entrance of his eat-in kitchen. "I’m makin’ ya a Long Island Iced Tea, baby," he crooned. Which meant that he was frantically throwing every kind of liquor he had into a blender.

That goddamn cologne. Geez, it's no wonder straight women fall in love with gay men all the time! Gabrielle is gonna kill me.

"An’ you just sit back and enjoy that cee-gar," he was saying.

Zina looked at her hands. A cigar was cradled between the first two fingers of her left hand. Not just any cigar, she realized, but a good one, straight from the Ghurkhan plantation in Cuba! Now that brought back memories, she thought. She cut off the tip with her switchblade, then lit up, making sure that he could hear the soft, sensual sound of her lips going puh as she puffed away. Might as well torture him while I’m here.

Artie cast a nervous look into the living room. Seeing her here once again, within his home, made him realize that he wanted her to be there, always. This AM radio sentiment prompted a decisive action. He wiped his sweaty palms on his black jeans, darted into the living room, and knelt in front of her. "Zina, I—"

"Where's my drink?"

"I'll get to it in a minute. I—" He made the mistake of looking into her cold, uncompromising eyes. Suppressing a sigh, he stood up and went back to the kitchen. After five minutes, some cursing, and a whirring blender, he was back with a frothy concoction that he hoped would lower whatever teeny inhibitions—like, say, incest or a certain blonde pussywhipper—that now prevented her from sleeping with him.

Gleefully she gulped down half the drink, her lip smacking and groans of pleasure a delightful torture to him.

"Zina, I got to talk to you about something. I've been doing a lot of thinking about you and me."

She burped.

"I can't deny how I feel about you any longer. I reckon my feelings for you never changed in the first place. No matter how much I fought 'em. So I got to ask you this." He lowered his head, sent a quick prayer to the Lord, then looked once again into her eyes. "Would you marry me, Zina?"

"Ain't that illegal, marryin' your kin?"

His face turned red. "They can't prove that, and you know it!"

Zina paused thoughtfully and tortured him some more as she fellated the cigar. "I dunno, Artie. What's in it for me?"

"A devoted, loving husband."

"Not the answer I want, and you know it."

It had been The Issue in their relationship; Artie had prayed that she would not remember. But, alas and alack, she did. "What you ask of me is unnatural," he mumbled, which had been his Standard Retort in the matter—and it was true, because the Bible never said a damn thing about It.

"My ass," she grunted. "I bet if I asked Gabrielle to eat me out every night, she'd do it." She neglected to add that this would most certainly be true only if chocolate and/or margaritas were involved in said oral activity.

His expression curdled. What you won't do, do for love. Then he scowled. Damn that song! "All right!" he spat. "You got it."

The firefighter blinked in surprise; she was impressed. "Okay. What about the housework?"

"Zina," he began patiently, "I am a working man. And the Lord dictates that the home is the woman's realm."

"I work too, asshole. So I would have to do all the cooking and the cleaning?"

His nostrils flared. He would not back down on this one. Never. Absolutely not. "We split it, fifty-fifty! And I'm not doing the laundry."

It was an admirable gamble, and a good offer, she thought. And she knew that Artie could never boss her around like Gabrielle did—he wouldn’t force her to eat vegetables, especially with some lowdown, dirty trick like hiding mushrooms under slices of pepperoni on a pizza! Still, her mind was made up; it always had been. She grinned and drained her drink. "Shit, Artie, Gabrielle already does all that cleaning stuff anyway." She stretched, patted his cheek, and stood up. "Thanks for the drink and the smoke."

As Zina left Artie's trailer, all the while marveling at how easy it was to block out the sound of his sobbing (which possessed a quality similar to the primal wailing of rhinoceroses in mourning), she realized that she had made a mistake. Even though nothing had happened, she had left Gabrielle high and dry, no doubt thinking that something was going on with her and Artie. Well, it wasn't her fault, really, that Artie had smelled so good. Still, Zina knew that one thing—and one thing only—mattered. Only one thing would rectify this mistake: One way or another, she would get Gabrielle the Rhine Gold.

3. Like a Bridge Over Troubled Kung Pao

On his first day out of the hospital, Eli agreed to lunch with Gabrielle at the Green Dragon. This, in spite of the fact that he felt embarrassed about how he looked: His shaven head was completely bandaged, and he resembled a partially bearded blue-eyed egg. But despite his tender condition, Eli was more concerned about his friend; he had detected a serious mood change in Gabrielle since she no longer had access to Rhine Gold. She was moody, irritable, and prone to violence. And maybe just plain weird: She was now arranging the peanuts of her Kung Pao Chicken into an impressive fortress around a particularly large floret of broccoli. She was about to send a lump of chicken careening into the peanuts when Eli announced his intention to speak by clearing his throat.

"So Zina's out of town?" He frowned as Gabrielle got the snow peas in on the action, creating a little drawbridge across the peanuts and into the broccoli.

"Yeah," the poet finally mumbled.

It was like trying to coax conversation out of an autistic child. "Where is she?"

Gabrielle sighed dramatically. Acting as deus ex machina in the culinary warfare, she stabbed the chicken battering ram with a chopstick. "Visiting an old boyfriend. Supposedly to get me some Rhine Gold." She devoured the meat.

Eli shuddered at this carnivorous act. "You don't trust her?"

"I dunno, Eli. I'm not sure anymore—not after the way she was sniffing around Artie."

"Well, geez—that was just Artie. This doesn't mean—"

"Why would she have to go all the way to New York to get the stuff?" Gabrielle burst out with exasperation.

The hippie cinemaphile attempted an explanation. "Gab, this stuff is actually pretty rare. It's powerful shit, and you should just count yourself lucky that Cyrene had a crop going for as long as she did. I'm not surprised Zina would have to go to a big city to score some."

This appeared to assuage Gabrielle somewhat. "I guess, but still…I don't know if I should trust this guy."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Marcus. I actually meant to tell you sooner, 'cause I knew you'd be interested in this—Zina says he's in the movies, like he works for a studio or something."

Eli's jaw dropped. "Holy shit!"

The poet furrowed her brows. "What?"

"Zina knows Marcus Pebble? Oh my GOD."

"Who is he?"

Eli shook his head in disbelief. Of course, he wasn't really surprised that she didn't know who Marcus was—most moviegoers today were so vastly ignorant of their cinematic heritage. He quoted directly from his own lonely, neglected unfinished dissertation: "In the early 1980s, Marcus almost revived the blaxploitation genre and almost returned it to its glory days in the 1970s with one amazing film: White Chocolate Comes to Harlem."

"'Almost?'" Gabrielle interjected skeptically.

"Okay, it bombed. But it's a great film, man. It provides a valuable and much-needed transition between classics like Shaft and Foxy Brown to the new genre of gangsta films which began with New Jack City."

"Is he still directing?"

Eli sighed sadly. "Unfortunately, no. He's leading a living death as a low-level Miramax exec."

Lao Ma stopped by the table to refill their water glasses. "You speak of Marcus Pebble," she announced.

"Ooooh, eavesdropping, how mystical!" Whereas Gabrielle was concerned, Lao never failed in stirring the sarcasm pot.

Nonetheless, Zina's ex ignored the temperamental poet and addressed her remarks to Eli. "I did feng shui for Marcus's townhouse."

Eli gazed at her, amazed, worshipful, and tempted to kiss her feet, even though her filthy New Balance sneakers were encrusted with old "Happy Royal Family of Prawns" sauce.

The proprietress of the Green Dragon merely shrugged. "It's a living."

4. The Face on the Cutting Room Floor

[A scene from White Chocolate Comes to Harlem. Zina, lying on a bed, is wearing a leopard-skin spaghetti string top and mauve hotpants. She has a typical Medusa-like early 80s perm, as perfected by the various members of the Bangles. She is pretending to be high or actually is; to this day no one is really sure. ]

[Marcus enters. His is a more restrained version of the classic pimp suit—black with a hot pink shirt and matching headband around his flying-saucer like hat.]

Marcus: Bitch, what did I tell you? Get your lazy ass on that street now! [He grabs Zina by the wrist and hauls her out of the bed. She stands before him, wavering slightly, glassy-eyed. Due to her three-inch stiletto heels, she towers over him.]

Zina: Huh?

Marcus: You heard me! [He slaps Zina—lightly—across the face. This snaps her out of whatever stupor—and pretense at characterization—she inhabits. Her eyes narrow with rage, she snarls, and knocks Marcus across the set with a vicious backhand. Off camera, a thud and a shriek of pain is heard. The camera follows the sound and twirls toward Marcus, now sprawled on the floor, clutching a bloody nose.]

Zina (off camera): Aw, baby, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to— [She totters over to him, kneels down and tries to help him sit up. Bleeding profusely, he tries, feebly, to crawl away from her.]

Marcus: GodDAMN, Zina! Remember that little discussion—ACTING? GodDAMNit. [To camera.] Floyd, turn off the camera!

Floyd (off camera): Huh?

Marcus: Fuck, are you all idiots? TURN OFF THE CAMERA.

Floyd: Sorry, man, I thought it was part of the scene. [Camera remains on.]

Zina: I'm sorry, honey, I really am. [Marcus is still crawling away from her, leaving a trail of blood. She is now crawling as well, right behind him.] You know how I get, I'm, like, more of a Method actor…I react, not act!

Marcus: I gave up a chance working with Pam Grier for this. [Still crawling, still bleeding. She watches helplessly, tries to approach him again. He is now off camera.] Do you hear me? PAM GRIER.

A Mercedes-Benz mired in traffic at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 76th, 6:42 PM EST.

Marcus drummed his fingers on the armrest, his cell phone glued to his head like the tumor it was probably already causing within his brain. "Right, Harvey. Right." He stared at the driver's thick pink neck and suppressed a sigh. "I'll take care of it as soon as I'm back in the office."

As Harvey droned on about the Gilligan's Island remake, Marcus gazed longingly toward Central Park, at the treetops that peeked over a long stone wall separating the green splendor from the sidewalk. His eyes widened when he saw a white hand appear at the top of the wall. A head, crowned with black flowing hair, followed this. A woman was pulling herself over the wall. Oh dear God. It can't be. Yet the pure grace of that body’s motion indicated it could only be one person, and one person only.

Marcus gasped; he couldn't find his voice. And even if he could have, the driver wouldn't have locked the doors in time anyway.

Gracefully, Zina zigzagged through the traffic, found the dark Mercedes, opened the door, and piled into the back seat. She grabbed Marcus's cell. "Hiya, Harvey. Yeah, I found him. Thanks a lot. Now promise me you'll think about that Billy Jack remake? 'Cause I tell ya, Harvey, that film is like my Bible, and I could be Billy Jack in my sleep, ya know?" A pause. "That Angelina Jolie weirdo as the hippie teacher, of course. Think about it. Okay, babe. Thanks again. Bye." Zina stared at the phone, couldn't figure out how to turn it off, and tossed it into Marcus's lap. "He'll never do it," she muttered to herself. "Damn shame." She sighed regretfully, but then, as she turned her attention on her ex-lover, the wattage on her smile increased exponentially. "Hiya, Marcus!"

Marcus, now plastered against the car door, wondered if he could possibly outrun her. Even if he could, the attention he might draw to himself would be questionable, at least to the easily confused members of New York's Finest. A black man running from a Mercedes? I don't think so. "Zina, what the hell are you doing here?" he barked.

She tried pouting. "Miss me, baby?"

"Like I would miss the plague."

"That ain't nice, Marcus."

"What do you want?"

"What makes you think I want somethin'?" Her eyes—those beautiful, beautiful eyes—went wide. "Couldn't I just stop by to say hi?"

Marcus held up a hand. "Girl, don't even. You always want somethin', Zina. There's always an angle. So just tell me what it is."

She attempted mixing in wounded, sullen pride with the pouting—which sometimes worked with Gabrielle, but only if you were already on your knees—yet he continued glaring at her until she finally broke down. "Okay, baby, you got me. I want some Rhine Gold."

"Rhine Gold!" he exclaimed. "What makes you think I still dabble in shit like that?"

Zina frowned. "Yeah, I guess you're right. You're playing with power suits now. It's all coke."

"Zina!" Marcus shouted. "I do not do coke! Don't oppress me with your assumptions."

"What?"

Remember that this is Zina, he told himself. "Don't be an asshole."

"Oh." Silence fell over them. He folded his arms and remained crushed against the car door, wondering just how the hell he was going to get rid of her. And how in hell was he going to talk Harvey out of a Billy Jack remake. For despite what Zina thought, when it all came down to it, Harvey was just a massive, balding spittoon for bad ideas involving recycled B movies.

"Marcus, you at least gotta know where I can get some," she remarked, disgruntled, for he was wasting her very valuable time.

"Well…" He pursed his lips in thought. Granted, it was dangerous, but it would get her off his back, and far, far away. But can she handle it? he wondered. Marcus looked at her again, into eyes so blue they’d make Joanne Woodward dump Paul Newman in a nanosecond, and so crazy that Robert DeNiro would cry with envy. "I know where you can get some, but it is dangerous, and you gotta go south. Way south." His gaze flicked to his driver. "I’ve give you the details when we hit my office."

"Oh yeah? Okay, I can deal with that." Now that this most difficult phase of her mission was complete complete, Zina stretched with both relief and an air of self-satisfaction. They rode for a while in contented silence. "Hey, Marcus?"

"Now what?"

"Can I drive the car?"

5. Our Dyke in Havana

The retinue surrounding Castro was as thick as flies over a garbage can. The group of heavily armed men surrounding the leader of the small nation pushed through the crowd toward the baseball field.

Castro paused for a moment to shake hands with his people—the workers, the children, the huddled masses longing for decent TV stations. And also because he wanted a better look at the tall, pale senorita in the tight, sheath-like black dress and sunglasses, who grinned at him like a beacon.

With his guards watching warily, the mystery woman inched closer to Castro. Suddenly she flung her arms around the Cuban leader, crushing him in an affectionate hug. Several guards already had their hands on their weapons, but Castro was laughing and patting the woman's back.

Then, just as quickly, she disentangled herself from his embrace, still smiling. The pressure of the crowd urged Castro on, and reluctantly he moved away from her, with a final, longing glance backwards. Only a minute later he was patting his secret pocket for his stash and realized it was gone. He stopped and turned around. In the distance he could see her kicking off her heels, tearing her skirt for better mobility, and running. "Consigala!" he shouted.

Zina was tempted to take a moment to taunt them by shouting "Viva La Rhine Gold!" but as the adrenaline pumped through her and her legs kicked up increasing speed, she became more invested in keeping her sorry ass alive. Shit, I hope this swimming-to-Miami thing is as easy as Marcus says it is, she thought.

6. Husker Don't

Vendela Van Hoek nursed a damp, cold Heineken while a stripper's boobs shook in her face. Unimpressed, the Swedish musician simply leaned back, the gesture dismissing the dancer, who—untalented yet nonetheless working hard for the money, so hard for it, honey—took her mammaries elsewhere.

She had left Sven and Benny at the garage, thoroughly disgusted with her cousins' inane arguments with the idiot mechanic who could not fix their Saab motorbus. Of course it would take a week for a new exhaust pipe to arrive in this American backwater, and all the screaming and Laplander obscenities in the world would not change that. She placed the blame squarely on the domineering Sven. If he hadn't insisted on touring more rural areas, they wouldn't be here, she thought angrily. Her thumbnail slashed into the soggy beer label.

"I knew I would find you here." Benny's voice floated from above.

Vendela glanced up. Her bandmate, a truly gifted guitarist, was cradling a Heineken himself. He sat down.

"Don't say anything, Benny."

He shrugged and said nothing. Yet Benny's flaccid lips were quivering as much as the dancer's hips. Vendela knew it was only a matter of seconds.

"He didn't mean anything by it," the guitarist blurted.

"Like hell he didn't," she snapped.

"Vendela, we are all under a great deal of stress right now."

"That is no excuse!"

"It was just because you were off beat—" Benny winced at her icy glare.

"Oh, so now you are taking his side."

"I'm not."

"Yes you are, you fat fuck! Go on, tell me—say it! You think I am a 'second-rate Geddy Lee' too—you think that, just like Sven does!"

"I didn't say that!" he shouted. Mortified, he noticed that some of the people in strip club were staring at them. He lowered his voice. "You are Keith Moon, Vendela. Purely Moon."

"Liar!"

"Keep your voice down! You're embarrassing me!"

"Fuck you and your embarrassment!"

Just when Benny thought it could get no worse, the opening strains of the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself," began over the sound system, hypnotic layers of guitar that, nonetheless, he detested and thought so clichéd, so ridiculous for a strip club. Could they ever think of anything new? Who, he thought, is this pathetic bimbo who dares to use such an old, gimmicky song?

However, his heart clenched inside his chest when confronted with precisely the kind of bimbo who would use such a song: a delicious, voluptuous woman of perfection, with short blonde hair and in a white fringe bikini, slithering seductively around the pole on stage. He could not tear his eyes away from her. She moved with such leonine self-possession and controlled grace that his imagination begged to see her unleashed in the throes of passion.

May the heavens forgive me for slighting you, o nameless American goddess!

The goddess was now in front of him, gyrating slowly, her eyes glowing with faint disdain as she stared down upon him, awaiting her tribute. By the time that he had the presence of mind to dig for money in his pocket, the impatient goddess had moved on to Vendela. And now, watching his cousin brush a bill along those perfectly sculpted abs, Benny saw that Vendela was just as enraptured.

* * *

Sid Moskowitz narrowed his eyes at the sight of the two out-of-towners loitering in front of the dressing room. He knew they had to be from out of town since they were wearing leather pants and were stupid enough to believe they had a chance in hell with Gabrielle. The fact that they were shouting at each other in Swedish was also a big tip-off.

"Can I help you?" he murmured suspiciously at them. His eyes traveled freely over the statuesque blonde woman, who did not seem pleased at his attentions.

The stocky fellow in the chain-mail shirt, who looked like a scruffy Jon Lovitz, decided to answer for her. Before he spoke, his chest puffed out dramatically, as if he were indeed Master Thespian. "We come to offer frottage to a fellow artist! It is a certainty that She is the most talented dancer in your valley, and it is common for all far and wide to pay tribute to the genius who is She with White Undergarments Resembling Spaghetti!"

Sid had to hand it to this one; usually the potential stalkers lacked any kind of chutzpah and freely admitted that they simply wanted another gander at Gabrielle's tits. Nonetheless, Sid's paternal, protective instincts outweighed his admiration of the creative freak. "Sorry, sweetcakes, but Gabrielle does not receive visitors after she performs, okay? Now run along and abuse the English language elsewhere."

"Who are you?" the blonde beauty growled at Sid.

"I own this place, dumpling."

"And why should we believe that?" she retorted loudly, placing her hands on her hips.

Sid was caught among arousal, indignation, and abject fear—for him, a common state of existence. "Because I do, honeylamb. Now listen, I was just beginning to like you and I was even gonna offer you a tryout—"

Suddenly the dressing room's door flung open. Gabrielle's Olympus County Community College t-shirt and her cutoff jeans undermined her diva turn. "What the hell is all the racket about?" she snapped. However, the underachieving poet's erect nipples held them in thrall.

The proprietor of the Shimmy Shack, however, was accustomed to this glorious sight and he found his voice first. "These foreigners have come to stare at you, sugar pop." He sniffed disdainfully at Benny and Vendela. "What are you guys? French? You're fucking rude enough for it."

The tall blonde woman ignored him. She took Gabrielle's hand. "I am Vendela Van Hoek, drummer for Gravid Havarti. My cousin and I have come to praise you. You have given us three minutes and forty-five seconds of pleasure despite our hatred of the Divinyls. I, in particular, wish very much to prove my great admiration for you." Her full lips brushed the dancer's knuckles.

Gabrielle was only momentarily impressed at the smooth move. "I'm not giving back the twenty dollar bill. Sorry."

"Twenty?" Benny blurted.

Vendela silenced him with a hiss worthy of the most commanding cobra.

Benny fumed. His English was not as precise and mellifluous as his cousin's. Nonetheless, he knew one phrase, and one phrase only, that might get him into Gabrielle's good graces, or maybe even her tight jeans. His barrel chest puffed out once again. "And I have killer weed!" he proclaimed.

He smirked as Gabrielle's green eyes flitted to him. "Wait—wait a minute." She pulled her hand away from Vendela. "Just what kind of weed is this?"

7. Love Songs, Nothing But Love Songs

Carrying a bucket of ice, Vendela tried creeping by Room 604 of the Red Roof Inn as quietly as possible. She, Benny, and Gabrielle had managed to elude Sven when they first came up to the room that she and Benny shared, but somehow the drummer knew she would not be so fortunate in avoiding the overbearing band leader a second time.

And she wasn't. The door of Sven's room swung open and the skinny lead singer, clad in his black silk silver-studded bathrobe and his hairnet, violently hissed her name. "Vendela! What do you think you're doing!"

Sven was the ultimate killjoy. Nothing sucked the life and desire out of her like the sight of his tight, disapproving face. It was like being caught masturbating by a maiden aunt. "Nothing!" she retorted defensively. "Leave us alone! We are adults, you know."

"You're horny idiots, both of you. I know who is in that room with you."

Vendela glared at him defiantly.

"Her name is Gabrielle and her girlfriend is a violent, sociopathic ex-convict." He smirked with triumph at the surprised look on her face. "Obviously, you weren't paying attention to the mechanic at the garage. He knows this Gabrielle—he used to be in love with her. She's off limits, Vendela. Get rid of her before you get us all in trouble."

"Go to hell!" she growled. He slammed the door shut as she stomped over to Room 606. She fumbled with the card, then, exasperated, pounded on the door. "It's me, open up!"

Benny opened the door. Vendela was relieved to see that he was still dressed, as was Gabrielle, who was sprawled on one of the two beds in the room. The poet wore a simple outfit of jeans and a hooded green pullover sweatshirt. Such clothing is an affront to the perfections of that body! Vendela wanted to shout. Most of their vodka had served as a chaser to the big, fat, primo Rhine Gold joint that the stripper had polished off earlier. She was now thoroughly trashed.

And still muttering about Zina. Always with this Zina person, Vendela thought with disgust. As far as she could figure out, Zina was a whore of epic proportions who watched bad TV and made a pretense out of atoning for a half-assed criminal record. I would treat you far better, my queen! Even Benny would, for God's sake.

Her bandmate was now noodling around on his guitar, plucking a simple repetitive chord and singing softly: "Gab-ri-elle/My heart will swell...."

"Don't quit your day job," muttered the poet in a rare—albeit stoned—moment of insensitivity. "Oh, wait...this is your day job." She burst into giggles.

Vendela felt a pang of pity for her sensitive cousin. "Benny, perhaps you should turn on the radio," she suggested. The guitarist nodded, and fumbled at the knobs on the nightstand's dusty, fake wood-paneled clock radio. "Gabrielle," she continued, "I have brought you ice, as you requested."

Like a reanimated corpse in a horror film, Gabrielle sat up all herky-jerky. "Excellent. Gimme." The Swedish drummer handed her the bucket of ice. Over the course of the next few minutes the musicians watched as Gabrielle—ice bucket balanced precariously on her lap—fumbled to remove her sports watch, a much-loved acquisition courtesy of 50 Cap’n Crunch box-tops. Finally she liberated it from her wrist and noisily buried it within the ice.

She handed the bucket back to Vendela, who exchanged a look with her cousin. Do you want to ask her? Vendela's look said. No. She's freaking me out now, Benny's retorted. The drummer took a breath. "Why," she slowly asked, "did you do that?"

Gabrielle's verdant, unfocused eyes locked with hers. "I'm trying to stop time."

She flopped back onto the bed and grabbed an empty bong near her head. She cradled it, humming, as if it were an infant.

Does she have any brain cells left? Vendela wondered. The drummer returned the ice bucket to the dresser. Emboldened by a tiny sliver of bare tummy visible from where Gabrielle's sweatshirt had ridden up, Vendela sat on the bed next to the poet. She was about to lie down next to that delectable body when, in sudden woozy distress, Gabrielle sat up. At the sound of sniffling, Vendela leaned forward and Benny knelt anxiously in front of his goddess. A large, glittering teardrop splashed against the bong that she held.

"Gabrielle, what is it? What's wrong?" Vendela cried.

More shiny, silvery tears fell from the poet's eyes. "This is…our song."

Radiohead's "Creep" was on the station.

The Swedish musicians gaped at one another. This was inconceivable. A love song? A love song was "Chiquitita." A love song was "Babe." A love song was "My Heart Will Go On." A love song was "You Light Up My Life." It was not this.

But Gabrielle could only remember the magic of that night at the Horn, when Zina—after seven Rolling Rocks—finally convinced Effie to let her sing the song while backed up by the Amazons, to Gabrielle and the tattered, late-night remnants of the crowd. Initially, the bar's patrons had actually grooved on the laid-back melody and Zina's soft, angelic alto. Then the drunken, menacing, six-foot tall lead singer snarled the beginning of the chorus at them: I wish I were special/You're so fucking special and Sally punctuated the mood's turn with that sinister, slashing guitar chord. By the end of the song, Gabrielle truly felt that Zina was only singing to her, only to her, and no one else. And she was: Everyone else had left, even Ray Bob, the bouncer.

The spirit of song, nonetheless, now infected the discourse at Room 606 of the Red Roof Inn:

"But she's a creep!" Vendela spat.

"She's a weirdo," added Benny.

Gabrielle jumped up. "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The poet wavered. "I don't belong here," she repeated. The sudden lack of blood to the brain—and the pot and the booze—conspired like the three witches in Macbeth to send her toppling back onto the bed, utterly unconscious.

The salacious Swedes gazed upon the obtuse object of their desire, now snoring softly.

"Now what?" grumbled Benny.

Reluctantly, Vendela opted to do the right thing. "We take her back home. Sven wanted us to get rid of her anyway," she sighed.

"In this condition?" the guitarist asked nervously.

Vendela groaned in exasperation. "What other choice do we have?" She lifted one of the poet's deadweight arms by its wrist. "Look at her!" She dropped the arm, which fell on Gabrielle's stomach and caused an inadvertent squeak from the unconscious woman that startled them both. "Time to eat the doughnuts," Gabrielle murmured in a soft, dreamy singsong.

Benny's eyes lit up. "Krispy Kreme!"

His bandmate smiled in approval. "Excellent idea." Once more she gave the stoner poet a longing, wistful glance. "Benny?"

"Yes?"

"You don't suppose—I mean, how wrong could it be—?" The drummer's hand wavered above a tantalizing breast. "—just to touch them? Once?"

The guitarist's jaw dropped. "Vendela!" he hissed, appalled.

Vendela was not fooled by his outrage. She raised an eyebrow as temptation and sneaky lust danced across his face, his moral compass now crushed under their weight.

8. This is Not My Beautiful House. This is Not My Beautiful Wife.

In half-sleep, Zina sighed and squirmed. The bed felt good—too good. And the sheets were so soft. Must be that new fabric softener Gabrielle is using, she thought. Because they feel like silk. Just like when I used to sleep at Julie's…

Her eyes opened. The room was startlingly pristine, a crisp cream white. And it was not covered with faded blue wallpaper. And the dartboard was gone! And the sheets, which matched the walls, were truly spun from silk. Fuck. I am at Julie's! And I'm naked too! Gabrielle is gonna freak! She leaped out of the bed. Fuck! How did I get here? Fuck! I was just sitting at home—I didn't drink that much! Fuck!

The soft wall-to-wall carpet soothed her somewhat, and she took a deep breath. Don't panic. Find your clothes. Zina looked around the tidy room and its minimalist decor. Not a stitch of clothing was in sight. Not on the floor, or draped over the chair, or—she looked under the bed. Or under the bed. Frantically she opened one of the drawers of the teak dresser in the room. And found row upon row of neatly folded, clean t-shirts and jerseys. What the hell? Julie wouldn't be caught dead in stuff like this. She pulled out a large, Green Bay Packer jersey and slipped it on. Unless it's…The firefighter opened a second drawer, and saw many variations upon the standard, faded Levi's 501s that she always wore. Mine. This is my stuff.

And suddenly, like Saul on the road to Damascus, like Jimmy Stewart in It's a Wonderful Life, like Connie Selleca in Lifetime's But My Adopted Chinese Baby Has AIDS, she got it. She was doing the Alternate Universe Thingy, as introduced in the original Star Trek and expounded upon brilliantly in South Park. And she had no idea what to expect, except that Artie would not have a goatee and would be really nice and that Gabrielle would have a goatee and would be really evil. Right? The thought of Evil Goatee Gabrielle, she confessed to herself, was strangely, thrillingly scintillating.

She was now eager to see her brave new world. Zina padded through Julie's luxurious house—our luxurious house! She walked past a state-of-the-art weight room—in the blinding light of the chrome, she gasped with joy. Mine! Mine! Mine! She chanted this capitalist mantra as she dashed down the spiral staircase, past the big screen TV, the Mitchell Gold leather sofa, and into the kitchen. A middle-aged Latina woman in a sleek maid's uniform was cooking an omelet and ignoring her with the practiced coolness of hired help. Zina opened the refrigerator, and gasped once again at the most beautiful, most wondrous sight of all: Fields of shining, vivid green! Rolling Rock as far as the eye could see!

"Oh," she burbled, helpless with joy. Tears clogged her eyes.

Julie's stormtrooper staccato preceded her into the kitchen. Even so, Zina was not prepared for the affectionate nip upon her neck from the Culinary Fascist. "Good morning, darling. Sleep well?"

Zina said nothing, but remained staring into the nirvana of the open fridge.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart. You seem to be running a bit low. I'll put a call in to Latrobe right away."

The firefighter tried to say "thanks," but could only manage a childlike squeak of happiness.

Julie turned her attention to the maid. "Macarena, you did remember to cook Zina's omelet directly in the bacon fat this time, did you not?"

"Si, Signora Caesar," the woman replied serenely, while quietly entertaining thoughts of murdering them all.

At the mention of "bacon fat" Zina slammed shut the refrigerator door and spun around. "Excellent!" she growled, following Julie into the dining room.

Julie sipped coffee as Zina sprawled in a chair, lazily awaiting her food. "Darling, I'm afraid I won't be able to breakfast with you this morning," she began, as Macarena entered and placed the steaming omelet in front of Zina, who tucked into it without hesitation. "But I'll leave the Porsche for you, since the Mustang is still being repaired."

Zina's baby blues bulged. Porsche? Mustang? Dear God in heaven, it's all perfect!

"Perhaps we could meet up later for lunch."

Zina, always a mere step away from turning into a happily mindless Sybarite anyway, nodded vigorously.

Julie leaned down for a quick kiss. "'Bye, darling. Oh, and one last thing…"

Zina, gobbling furiously, looked up.

"The pool cleaner is here." Julie patted her puffed-out cheek. "Pay her with the money I left in the dresser, would you? And don't get too flirty, dear. I know you like blondes, but really!" Julie's forced laughter ricocheted off the chandelier and the crystal ware, then splattered quite appropriately against the original Julian Schnabel lithograph on the wall.

And then Zina's feeling of euphoria tucked itself into Julie's Coach handbag and left with her. Damn. The unease filled her. She tried to ignore it as she decimated the omelet, but it lingered, like Julie's Chanel No. 5. She got up, stalked through the kitchen and past Macarena—who deigned to raise a questioning eyebrow—and slid open the door to the patio.

There, in front of the glistening pool, was pure pulchritude: A blonde woman—nay, the blonde woman to end all blonde women—in a tight sports bra and lycra shorts. She sprayed her sweaty face with a garden hose. Zina thought for a moment that Macarena had put hallucinogens in her omelet, for the pool girl flung her head back in a Flashdance-like slow mo and drops of water fell from her skin like rare, translucent, glowing pearls.

You would have to show up this soon and fuck up everything, wouldn’t ya?

The pool girl smiled at Zina.

And one hour later, the pool girl was coming in Zina's face. Her orgasmic bellows for God, Jesus, and country were laced with tasty bits of profanity as she dug her chlorine'd fingertips into Zina's scalp.

When she finally relinquished her hold on the dark hair, Zina came up for air, pillowing her head on a firm, sweet thigh. Absently, she wiped her face with the back of her hand as the girl's breath caught up with her.

"Wow, that was incredible!" the pool girl cried.

"Why is it that, even in the parallel universe, I'm still dumb as a doornail?" Zina muttered aloud. Everything is perfect, I have money, sex, freedom, even a Porsche, and all the beer I can drink…and I have to fuck it up somehow.

This time the girl's touch was gentle, as she raked her fingers through the black strands. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"No. Nothing."

She was still breathing heavily. Then she giggled. "I didn't get a chance to tell you my name—well, you didn't give me much of a chance, actually. I'm Gabrielle."

"I know," Zina retorted glumly.

"Oh. I guess Miss Caesar told you." There was a pause, and Gabrielle drew a deep satisfied breath, and Zina knew well that postcoital rambling would follow. "Hey. Um…"

"Zina."

"Zina? That's a pretty name." The comely pool girl—gee, you really went far in this existence, Gabrielle—was propped up on her elbows. "Zina, um, would you…like to go out sometime? Like just for a drink, even? I mean, I know it's really weird...we hardly know each other. Except carnally—you know, sexually. Um, I know—well, I assume you've got something going on with Miss Caesar, but I kinda like you. It's—well, you just seem like a nice person. And even if you just wanted to be friends that would be cool. But really, I gotta tell you, that mouth of yours...." She shook her head in pure admiration.

Oh, hell. Go on and do it, look at her and say yes. You know you want to, you frigging wuss. And so Zina looked up at Gabrielle, whose eyes were not as clear and dazzling as a Rolling Rock bottle, but something there—perhaps her innate kindness—made the firefighter feel weak. "Okay," she said softly.

Predictably, the door flung open. It was the Evil Parallel Universe Lieutenant Sulu and three red shirts. Actually, it was merely Julie and Macarena, the latter cradling an impressive-looking Glock handgun.

"Zina," Julie sighed. "I thought you would at least wait until you got to drive your new Harley."

A Harley? Zina's mind screamed. She glared at the naked, satiated Gabrielle. Who shrugged apologetically.

"I'm sure Crassus would like some company in his unmarked grave."

"Hey!" Gabrielle yelled. "How did you know—"

Julie waved a dismissive hand. "Macarena, if you will…"

Zina was leaping forward, covering Gabrielle's body with her own, when the shots rang out…

…and she woke with a violent, gasping shudder, her body spasming at the memory of each bullet. And with each twitch of her legs, the channels on the TV were changing. What the fuck? It was then that she realized the remote was lodged between her legs. She pressed her thighs together. WWF Smackdown flicked onto the screen. Hey. Cool.

The phone rang. She growled in frustration, jumped off the couch, and grabbed the receiver. "Yeah?"

"Hi! Uhhhh...is this Zina?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Well, um, I'm the manager of the Krispy Kreme—"

"Hey, I paid off our account there." The account was her euphemism for the time when Gabrielle—needing sugar and short of cash—ran out of the shop without paying for a dozen.

"—oh, I know. So you are Zina?"

Zina chose for once to ignore the paranoid little voices in her head—some of which sounded suspiciously like her mother—that told her this chirpy woman was a CIA agent. "Yeah."

"Well, um..." The woman trailed off and giggled self-consciously. "I'm your cousin. My name's Eve."

"Who?"

"Eve."

"Never heard of ya."

"Artie never mentioned me?" The young woman sounded hurt.

"Nope. But listen here, if he ever says he's sterile, or that he never had the clap, he's lyin', okay? Save yourself some trouble."

There was a long silence. "Oh."

"So why the hell are you callin' me, Evie?"

"Well, um, it's your girlfriend...she's passed out in the parking lot."

"What?" Zina shouted.

"Some weird foreigners left her here."

Zina's eyes bugged with anger. Earlier in the day, upon arriving home from her Rhine Gold expedition, she'd stopped at Sid's place, deciding to spread the wealth of her newly stolen stash. Sid had mentioned the members of the strange Scandinavian speed metal band who had taken a collective fancy to Gabrielle, and who had offered her some dope.

"She was sitting inside for a while. Then she walked out the exit and conked out, like, the minute she got outside. But, um, the people she was with put some pylons around her, so she should be okay." Eve's bright, chipper tone slashed through Zina's thoughts, both convincing herself and the brooding firefighter that nothing less than patently bizarre could be expected when a pothead slacker lesbian and a mediocre rock band collide.

* * *

And thus, Zina sailed to the rescue on her Harley.

She found Gabrielle just as Eve said—lying within a parking space surrounded by four bright orange pylons. It reminded her of when Lao Ma was going through her Yoko Ono phase and started doing weird art installment things at a gallery in New Mexico ("Lao at Taos," it was called). Lao had placed a half-eaten chocolate brownie on the gallery floor, in between two pylons. The viewer had to lie on the floor to read the message in 7-point type: Will the pylons of your soul protect you from your desires? (Zina, responsible for eating part of the brownie, was billed as a collaborator on the piece.)

Frowning with concern, Zina knelt beside Gabrielle. Her companion looked unharmed and was obviously just sleeping it off. Upon closer inspection the firefighter saw that Gabrielle's breasts appeared strangely rumpled. She tugged at the sweatshirt and quickly discerned that the poet's bra had been unhooked.

Zina felt a psychotic flash of red rage. I'm going to kill those fucking foreigners! She knew that her lover—no matter how furious or hurt she had been with Zina—would never permit tacky strangers to feel her up. Or worse. If only because she knew that Gabrielle detested metal music and thought anyone in such a band was "grody." She shivered away the anger, shaking her head violently. Relax. Later. She bit her lip in worry. Then, as if to dispel all her fears, she leaned in and quickly kissed Gabrielle on the mouth.

Just like in the fairy tale, the poet's eyelids fluttered open and a series of expressions passed over her face: fear, confusion, bliss. "Zina."

Zina's face burst into a grin at hearing her name spoken so softly, so reverently. "Hey."

"Why do I smell motor oil?"

"You're in the Krispy Kreme parking lot. Your, uh, little friends dropped you off here, then you passed out. The manager called me to come get you."

Gabrielle's fuzzy brain had no choice but to accept this strange tale. "Oh." Slowly, she sat up.

"Let me help you up. You ready to stand?"

"I think so." The poet latched onto her girlfriend's strong arms, and stood up. She stretched, then took a few moments to get her bearings. Something felt odd—something limp hung from her chest. "Hey, my bra!" She shot a look at Zina, who was trying to blink herself into an innocent state. "Oh, honey," Gabrielle cooed, "you just couldn't wait till we got home, could you?"

Could Zina bear to tell Gabrielle that horny Eurotrash had molested her? The firefighter smiled sheepishly. "Nope. I couldn't, baby."

"So we got our groove back, then?" The poet's expression was timidly hopeful.

"Yeah." Zina watched her own feet shuffle nervously. "Hell, I don't think we ever really lost it, ya know?"

Once again Zina's lawyer, parole officer, and the judge of her court case were proven wrong—a little white lie could be an enormously rewarding endeavor: The lovely poet jumped into the firefighter's embrace, wrapping her legs tightly around Zina's waist, and from there they proceeded to make out as if the world were ending.

And, in a strange way, it was. As Zina playfully tried to barricade Gabrielle's tongue from entering her mouth, she heard the distant, repetitive sound of a police siren. Despite the serious turn-on of publicly groping her girlfriend in a Krispy Kreme parking lot, the firefighter resolutely decided that she did not want to be anywhere near law enforcement officials of any kind. With the limpet-like Gabrielle firmly attached to her, Zina began to maneuver them in the general direction of the Harley. But instead of backing up against the worn leather and warm chrome of her hog, she literally delivered her ass into the welcoming grasp of Officer Minya.

Zina's lips did a cease-and-desist with her beloved's. A wary blue eyeball found Minya grinning slyly at them.

"Hey guys," the amiable trooper drawled.

"Minya?" Gabrielle was breathless. "What's up?" The poet disengaged herself from Zina, which gave Minya the opportunity to do what she was, nonetheless, very reluctant to do: She snared Zina's wrists—somewhat surprised at the lack of resistance—and clapped a pair of handcuffs on the firefighter.

"What the fuck is going on?" Gabrielle demanded. She looked at her lover. "Zina?"

"Er, Miss Amphisyphilis is under arrest for arson—"

Zina dipped her head, silently acknowledging the truth of the charge. She had known that someday this particular crime would catch up with her.

"Arson?" Gabrielle echoed. She threw up her hands in dismay. "What is it with you and fire?" she shouted.

"—and one count sexual relations with a minor. Do I have to do the Miranda thing with you?" Minya asked Zina. "Seems to me you should have it memorized by now."

But the outraged firefighter was too distracted by the second charge. "Minor? Minor? That fucking bitch told me she was 21!"

Of course—another ex-girlfriend, thought Gabrielle. Zina was being dragged with little effort from Minya—the cop was surprisingly strong. Yet she was placed into the back seat of the police car with care, Minya's hand on Zina's dark head gently shoving her in, like a midwife returning the baby to its well-deserved womb. The cop slammed the door shut and ambled over to the driver's side.

Desperately, Gabrielle lunged at the door and spoke to Zina through the open window. "Explain," she snarled.

"It happened 10 years ago."

"Why did everything happened 10 years ago?"

"Harmonic Convergence?" Zina hazarded a guess.

More like Unharmonic Psychosis, Gabrielle thought. "Never mind. Just tell me what happened."

"I was just showing Kimmy my little firebreathing trick…"

"Kimmy?" Gabrielle couldn't help it—her voice oozed with sarcastic cuteness. You never showed me the firebreathing trick!

"Kimmy."

"God, with a stupid name like that, I hope she was good."

"Nah." Zina shook her head. "Phony virgin," she mumbled. It was the truth, and they both knew it. For Zina could never keep her mouth shut about former lovers: Lao Ma made her multiorgasmic, Boris couldn't be tantric to save his life, Hank would sometimes yell "touchdown!" after coming, spanking with spatulas proved to be Julie's favorite foreplay...the list went on with excruciating detail. There were times when Gabrielle feared that she might be just another bit of minutiae in Zina's Sexual Trivial Pursuit, that someday the firefighter would be telling a new lover about her old flame Gabrielle, who used her firefighting helmet in a multitude of wanton ways, who had a toe fetish, who would sing "Now I’m a Cowgirl" while riding Zina….

Gabrielle shuddered at the list of sexual depravities that Zina could use against her. This was one reason for keeping the ex-con around. That and the love thing. God, I’m an idiot. "Don’t tell me—for the firebreathing, you used…"

"…tequila." Zina confirmed sadly.

It was the most flammable of drinks. "Fuck, Zina."

9. When Obligatory Flashbacks Attack: Ten Years Ago in Yokohama, Japan

Boris returned from losing a match with the local chessmaster—a seven-year-old who had him in check within two minutes—to find that his lover was not alone in their bedroom. He had every intention of being cool about it—he had learned his lesson with Lao Ma, or so he thought—until he heard himself screaming and stomping out of the bedroom with a dramatic slam of the door.

He paced and seethed. A few minutes later, Zina stumbled out of the bedroom, dressed, yet with wild, seriously tangled bed hair.

"Shouldn’t you comb your hair?" Boris suggested with his usual yet unique passive-aggressive flair.

"Go fuck yourself."

"I suppose I will have to, Zeeena. Since I noticed that someone else is in our bed."

She guzzled her morning beer. "Oh—her. Boris, I know it looks bad."

"It smells bad, too. You could at least wash your face."

"Hey—" She grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer. He winced as eau de muff diving slapped him in the face, and her voice dropped to a menacing whisper: "This is a big opportunity for us. The girl's father is Yodoshi Hirohito, one of the biggest 'Hello Kitty' distributors in North America!"

"Hel-lo Kit-tee?" he echoed.

* * *

"Hello Kitty?" Gabrielle interrupted the flashback in an accent considerably less charming than Boris's. "You mean like that stupid t-shirt Ming Tien is always wearing?"

Zina nodded. "It just got out of hand. The warehouse caught on fire." She paused, and her voice dropped to a cracked, anguished whisper. "Forty thousand 'Hello Kitty' purses, gone."

There was a moment of silence for the dearly departed merchandise.

"Well good fucking riddance!" Gabrielle yelled.

"That's my cue to peel out, right?" Minya asked hopefully, from behind the wheel.

"No!" cried the poet. Her vision swam with tears, yet Gabrielle's resolve—her faithful, steadfast love—did not waver. She clutched the car door, white knuckled. And while original words of inspiration and solace failed to come to her, something did float through to the forefront of her troubled mind, and thus she intoned the following: "I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you." No sooner were the sentences out of her mouth than she realized she was being Daniel Day Lewis in Last of the Mohicans.

Zina, however, was ill informed of her role in the make-believe and winced with both irritation and confusion. "Gabrielle, I'm just goin' to jail."

Minya hit the gas and the police cruiser pulled out of the parking lot.

10. Girlfriend in a Stupor

There were times when I could have murdered her

But you know I would hate anything to happen to her

—the Smiths, "Girlfriend in a Coma"

With a majesty possessed by those who are vastly ignorant of their own innate dignity, Gabrielle sat atop the Saab motorbus with a 7-11 Big Gulp. She felt bad about taking the Saab from Bob's Garage (Purdy, of course, had been quite compliant in allowing her to abscond with the now-functioning vehicle owned by the Swedes who had insulted him), but she comforted herself—rather, justified the theft—by recalling Vendela's touching words of devotion: What I have is yours, my love. For fate would have it, the motorbus's registration was in the drummer's name.

So far being a fugitive from justice was fun: She was an accomplice to a known felon, in a stolen vehicle no less, and with a large stash of dope and several peyote tablets in the glove department. Well, she thought with sanctimonious irritation, it was all Minya’s fault. If the sheriff hadn’t been so innately, irresistibly corruptible, and thus hadn’t succumbed to the temptation of a lap dance in exchange for Zina’s freedom, Gabrielle would still be a law-abiding citizen. Although Zina would be still rotting in jail.She hoped that Minya would be successful in at least convincing the Hirohitos to drop the charges; perhaps Eli’s offer of unlimited anime rentals would help soften their hard hearts.

Putting aside these tumultuous thoughts, Gabrielle reclined on the bus, eyes closed, drinking in the sun. Cyrene was right, there was nothing quite like sunbathing on top of a motor vehicle. She could feel the light and the heat sink deep into her bones, dissolving them. She was liquid, expanding, flowing free from the constraints of her body and from time. She was seeing and experiencing alternate time lines, the past, the future, and a new present.

In this vision of the present, Zina was still in jail and about to be executed for her crimes. All of her crimes, even sleeping with the 16-year-old girl scout. She was strapped into an electric chair, with a really bad, fucked-up Siousxie-and-the-Banshees kind of short hairdo. The switch was thrown and a gazillion bolts of electricity fried her lover into a pile of ashes.

"Zina," she whimpered aloud.

"Gabrielle."

The poet opened her eyes, attempting to blink away the effects of phosphene, even though multicolored dots and blobs and dashes remained floating in her sight. She was curled fetally, still on top of the motorbus, face to face with the Big Gulp. The voice came from the benevolent font of bubbling Sprite within the red container. "Zina?" she repeated.

"Gabrielle, what the fuck are you doing?" the Big Gulp demanded.

"Zina? Why are you there? Come back to me!" Lovingly she stroked the sweaty container.

The large red cup sighed. "Oh, for Christ's sake."

The world thundered, and the poet sat up with a gasp, knocking over the Big Gulp, spilling its sticky clear fluid all over the bonnet of the Saab.

Zina had jumped up onto the roof of the motorbus. Crouched like a panther, she grinned, pleased with herself. Then she shot a mock-scowl at the poet. "You ate a peyote tablet, didn't you?"

"I—" Gabrielle's eyes shifted guiltily.

"Eli told you to wait until we got into the Mojave."

"Aren't we?"

"Toto, we're still in fuckin’ Kansas."

"Oh."

"You probably got sunstroke now too."

The poet covered her eyes. "Do not."

Zina sighed and sat down next to her, yet as far away from the Sprite spill as possible. She pulled an old Oakland Raiders cap out of her back pocket and gently placed it on Gabrielle's head, shielding her eyes from the sun.

The poet basked in the musty, sweaty scent emanating from the cap. "Wow, you're letting me wear your Raiders cap. We must be in love or something."

"I reckon so." The firefighter sighed again, this time happily. They were quiet for a minute. "How long do you think before they drop the charges?"

"I dunno, baby. I figure it won't be too long. They'll soon get bored hanging around the county."

"Ya think? Hell, we never got bored hanging around the county."

"We’re idiots. They’re city types. They need neon lights and people driving badly."

Zina hummed skeptically. "So after we go to the desert, then what?"

"Oh, I don't know. We can go anywhere you want."

"We could go to Mexico!" Zina's blue eyes brightened.

"Don't you need a passport for that? I don't have one."

"I dunno—but we can get you one, easy. I know this fella in El Paso, he can put together a passport for you just like that." Zina snapped her fingers and pulled her own passport out of a back pocket. "He did one for me."

Gabrielle took the small document and opened its cover. The photo was Zina, sure enough, although the name read "Ellie Mae Ghurkhan." At the poet's look of puzzlement, Zina said, "Well, it always helps to have an alias, and Ghurkhan was my married name…" In a hapless attempt to take back the words, she bit the inside of her mouth. Oh fuck.

"You were married?"

"Just for a teeny bit..."

"Who's Ghurkhan?"

"It don't matter now, he's dead."

"How did he die?"

"Can we not talk about this now?" Zina tried furiously to work up some crocodile tears. "Let's just say I was the happiest woman in Denmark." When he died, that is.

Gabrielle scowled.

Zina patted the poet’s thigh. "Don't fret, baby, I just married him for his cigar plantation."

"Like that should make me feel better." Gabrielle put her arms behind her head. "So why do you want to go to Mexico?"

"I got an idea."

"That's what I was afraid of."

Zina ignored this and pulled out a picture of Harley—their niece, not Zina's beloved hog. "What we do is this: We get to some little town—a nice town—an' show this picture to all the locals, see, an' they'll think I'm in league with the Chupacabra, an' they'll, like, start payin' me tribute to protect them from the beast!" She grinned with maniacal pleasure.

"And then maybe if things go real well, we could buy our own boat. And we could sail around everywhere do a little, ah, tradin' here and there—or maybe not," she added quickly, at Gabrielle's disapproving look. "But there's quite a business in white slavery, ya know." Zina's eyes darkened, recalling the time that Boris knocked her unconscious with a bottle of Jack Daniels and tried to sell her to Lao Ma's uncle. She shook the thought from her mind. "Or," she continued, "we could just open a casino on board..."

Gabrielle stared at her. Was she serious? Was she joking? Was she crazy? The poet burst out laughing. Because it didn't matter. "God, you are so fucked up."

"But you still love me, right?" Zina dipped her head expectantly. She hesitated a second, perhaps wondering—and fearing—what Gabrielle's response would really be. Could you still love me, even though I put you through so much crap? Even though I ruined your original copy of On the Road, even though I dragged you across the lawn when your shoelace got caught in the weed-whacker, even though I knocked you unconscious while playing Frisbee with the lid of a crock pot? I still love you, but is that enough?

Gabrielle just smiled and lifted her head. Her answer was in the kiss.

The End

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #femslash #fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature

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alteredphoenix · 5 years ago

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Red Fruit (WIP)(Sailor Moon/Madoka novelette)

A/N: This is an old WIP from July 10, 2015, as part of a crossover series between Sailor Moon and Madoka Magica, in an AU in which (and I put this in the simplest terms possible, because 2015!AlteredPhoenix was and still is super big on metaphysics and ontology) the cast of Madoka existed in a more high fantasy/military fantasy, Warcraft-inspired version of the Silver Millennium and were also reincarnated in the present day but in a separate timeline outside the Sailor Moon continuum. In this AU, all the planets of the universe were Earth-like and existed within their own Dyson Sphere, but the fall of the Millennium and Queen Serenity’s sacrifice (here described as an event called the Diaspora that is remembered now only by the remnants of the Mau race that exist in the shadows) saw the natural balance of life and death torn asunder and persist in atmospheres that they are known for today.

When constructing the series (which went under the name “Until We Meet Again”, although that version is old and discontinued, but is planned to be salvaged in some capacity and can be read on Fanfiction.net), my goal was to make the girls of Madoka deviatory from their canon personalities. Here Kyoko is a nondenominational girl that is very much anti-police and anti-establishment. She does not have faith in the pantheon of Mars and cares little for the interplanetary affairs that prelude the war that would destroy the Golden Age of the Silver Millennium. This fic would have her be put in the crosshairs of Mars’ law force and see her sentenced to serve as a pack mule to Endymion and his Four Guardians as they go on a mission (that I can’t remember the life of me what it was).

This mission would change Kyoko’s worldview and mold her as the person she is depicted in canon, and would carry over into the main AU story in the present, post-Rebellion world that would see her and Sayaka jump through timelines trying to reclaim Goddess!Madoka from hiding from Devil Homura’s hunt to recapture her.

(Mami would be elsewhere in the present day Sailor Moon timeline (which, at the time of that story, “A Passing Glance”, set it around 2017), infected with a parasitic version of Walpurgisnacht that is only held at bay by Nagisa’s watchful eye and the hope that Rei will purge and cauterize the blight before it overcomes Mami.)

“I thought you said you weren’t interested in seeing them?” said the voice, and Kyoko nearly dropped the apple she was holding.

Tightening her grip on it, she glanced behind her to see Mami and her damn pleated fan, unfolded to display a watercolor scene of flying fish with their oval mouths open to swallow the stars; a sleepy, rural village basked beneath a sky full of alien moons. It was a surreal image, one she did not understand, and staring at it for too long made her nerves itch in the way sliding a rusted nail down a used chalkboard would. “With all the noise they’re making, it’s hard not to ignore them,” she said, and peered over the balcony. “Look how garish they dress! Are they supposed to be soldiers or stoplights?”

Mami joined her and studied the cavalcade of men marching down the cobblestone road. She studied their uniforms for a moment—sharp, finely-pressed plated suits ranging from black to royal blue to ashy grey. “They look like they could blend right in at night.”

“Not those guys! The ones grouped around tall, dark, and pale.” Kyoko nodded their way, just as they were crossing beneath them.

Mami finally saw the quintet and nodded. “Ah, Prince Endymion and his Four Heavenly Kings. I don’t see King Aethlius among them. He must be in the Basilica with the other dignitaries and magistrates.”

“I don’t care about the King or any of that drivel!”

“Then what troubles you?”

“Just look! They’re not wearing any helmets! They’re not blending with the rest of the crowd! A sniper could put a round in every one of their heads and they wouldn’t even know what hit them!”

Mami watched the rest of the procession arrive. “I highly doubt an enemy of the state would risk his life attempting an assassination with this many people.” She waved the fan airily at her face. “We can’t see them from this angle, more or less be able to even if we tried, but the Talonites are all around us. They know all the secret places of the Forum as well as the Eternal Flame knows all about them.”

“So say I throw this apple at blondie there,” Kyoko said, pointing at one of the Kings with short, wavy hair the color of wheat. “Or that guy with the bleached roots.” She indicated a taller male towering over his brothers and Prince. “Would the gods see fit to cast a compulsion on their warrior-priests and make me spontaneously combust with a snap of their fingers? Or perhaps someone will jump out of these very shadows and turn me into a pile of ash with a single swipe of his uchiwa?”

“Any and all threats will be dealt with, depending on how severe the order the High Priests gives them,” said Mami. “If I were you, I wouldn’t waste precious food.” She leveled a pointed stare at the bag of apples pressed against the other girl’s chest.

Kyoko scoffed. “It’s not wasting food. It’s sustenance and makes for good ammunition.” She sank her teeth into the fruit and chewed.

Mami sighed. “Not only would you face possible death to the warrior-priests, the local merchants would have your head if they hear about it.”

“Why should they? There’s plenty of arable land, and no one’s howling for blood this year. Human sacrifices are so last millennium.”

“The Republic of Mars hasn’t been ‘howling for blood’ in over seventy-five years, since before the King’s father Aeolus passed away,” Mami groaned. “Must you always sleep through history, Kyoko?”

“None of that matters to me,” she said, and dropped the apple core into the bag; she was not about to incur Mami’s ire over leaving her spoils in a place that wasn’t a container or trash receptacle. “It shouldn’t matter to you, either. You’re not from here so that’d be understandable. But why should I go through all the trouble learning about the history of the Alliance when it’s written by gods-fearing victors?”

“You shouldn’t say that!” Mami shouted, and started, surprised at her outburst. Her cheeks coloring, she looked over the balcony and saw that the retinue had come and gone. She breathed a sigh of relief. “Need I remind you the consequences for spouting heresy?”

Kyoko rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all: the forty lashes, exile by vote of majority, the public stoning, the burning at the stake. ‘S nothing new.”

“You can’t just say stuff like that in a place like the Republic, especially in a region that boasts the highest population of Talonites and religious adherents on the entire planet.”

“I’m entitled to my rights just as much as the next person.” She pulled another apple out of the bag, polished it off against her shirt, and took a hefty bite from it. “’Tough titty,’ said the kitty.”

“Kyoko,” said Mami, and the tone of her voice was like tempered steel, “you’ve been warned twice by the political police. If it happens one more time,” her eyebrows knotted worryingly. “If it happens one more time,” she pushed on, more softly, “we’ll never see each other again.”

Kyoko stopped, no longer feeling hungry. She sighed, dropped the apple into the bag and wiped her hand of its juices against the brown paper. “Mami—“

“Have you ever stopped and wondered what your family thinks about you?” Mami asked suddenly. “What your neighbors must think? When they see you with the heretics, the non-believers, taking to the streets, wreaking havoc and disrupting the peace with your beliefs, what do you think goes through their minds?”

Kyoko’s mouth went dry, her tongue arid as the red deserts that lend credence to Mars’ name. For one brief, absurd moment, she kicked herself for not having brought something to relieve her thirst. “Hey now…I’ve never actually hurt anyone. The ones that incite all the riots and clashes with the police…I’m not part o’ that crowd.”

“But surely you were a part of them?”

“Well, when I’m tryin’ to get away from everything, then yeah, I have to push and shove my way through. I’ve gotten into a few scraps, but it’s not like I cause them. There’s a reason for getting off scot-free and claiming self-defense by having the aggressor throw the first punch.”

“And for everything else? Do you put a halt to evening traffic and topple vehicles to delay the opposition in their pursuit? Do you fight back with restricted magic as per the laws of the Basilica Carta? Do you vandalize holy sites like the Face of Vulcan? Have you been injured by a Talonite and asked yourself ‘I will give unto him what he has given unto me tenfold’?”

“I don’t regret what I do,” Kyoko said testily. “I’ve been beaten and kicked like a sack of rice while being pinned down and bound by spellweavers. I’ve been sent to jail and harassed by officers and prisoners alike that my efforts weren’t worth the trouble. I nearly had my hair burnt to a crisp by one of those priestly chaps. Hell, at one point I got trampled by my like-minded brothers and sisters making a hasty retreat and almost died.”

“But have you?” Mami snapped the fan closed and jabbed it under the girl’s nose.

Kyoko growled and swiped at it, but Mami was faster and pulled away before the fan could be ripped from her grasp. “So what if I have? I’m human! I don’t claim to be perfect or a saint! Not like you,” she grumbled the last part.

“I am as imperfect and sinful as you are,” Mami said, frowning tiredly. “As are the free peoples of the Alliance and the far-flung races of the known universe. But you must be careful, Kyoko! The sons and daughters of Kagutsuchi will not tolerate any more of your antics.”

“They’re not antics! And I’m not afraid of those flame-worshipping lapdogs. They’re going to have to do more than dress like festival dancers to scare me.”

“You’ll be scared when they come into your house one night and drag you out—by force—to the execution grounds,” Mami snapped, and then, more softly, “No amount of pleading on the behalf of your family will sway them to ignore the Word bestowed by their elders…or that of the Eternal Flame. Peace, Kyoko, must be maintained…and you’re not helping.”

Kyoko sighed, ran a hand through her hair. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me, Mami.”

“I want to believe that,” she said, turning away. She looked out beyond the conical spires of the high-rises, past the cupolas and lighted braziers of the Church of the King of the Hunt, to the horizon. It looked like rain, and where there was rain there would be lightning and thunder, and there would be fire. Vicious, hungry fire, dancing and out of control. “I want to, but I can’t bring myself to. Something’s got to give.”

“You mean something I’ve got to give.” And she wasn’t going to. Not her beliefs. Not her cause. Not her life. Nothing.

“How else are you going to stop them? It’s either that or you’ll die.” Mami looked at Kyoko, and her face was long and haggard and sorrowful. “And I don’t want you to die. I will heal any injuries you might sustain or ease any anger or worries you might have, but I can’t cure death.”

“Ah, yes. Death. The Talonites can stamp out religious persecution and all manner of crime, but they can’t stop what’s inevitable.” Kyoko gathered the bag in both arms and, putting all her weight into her haunches, pushed herself onto the balls of her feet and rose. She joined Mami at the balcony and breathed in a lungful of air through her nose. The air was charged, thick and heavy with the coming downpour. It was pure and refreshing, but it was nothing like the smoky, sulfurous odor flames were wont to exude. “Kinda ironic, isn’t it?”

Mami nodded. “Aye. But for the phoenix that builds its nest atop the tallest mountain and sets itself ablaze, it rises anew from the ashes.”

“It’s just a bird,” Kyoko scoffed.

Mami sighed and pressed the tip of the fan to her forehead, brow furrowed in resignation. “Once again, you fail to see my point. Kyoko, I won’t ask you to promise me not to get into any more trouble than you already are…but at the very least try to stay out of it. I’m not always going to be there for you when you need a place to hide or words to whitewash any misgivings. I’m only here until summer’s end and—”

“’I won’t be here forever.’ I get it. Thanks for the warning, Mom.” Kyoko quashed the guilt skewering her breast at the hurt that flashed across Mami’s face. She couldn’t let that bother her. Not here, and especially not in front of Mami. She could feel like shit later, away from everything in the privacy of her home.

“Very well,” Mami said calmly, stiffly. “I entrust you to be on your…ahem, best behavior. As you were.” She stuck the fan into her waistband and glided past Kyoko, as a skimmer does on the surface of a still lake.

#sailor moon #puella magi madoka magica #kyoko sakura #mami tomoe #fanfiction #preview #mywriting

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eternityunicorn · 6 years ago

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Elijah’s Eternity Part Thirteen

Author: eternityunicorn

Genre: Romance/Fantasy/AU

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x OC

Warnings: Violence, Language, Smut (*Smut chapters marked +18)

Summary: Elijah Mikaelson didn’t know what to expect when he encountered the strange archer in the night, but he certainly didn’t think his whole world would be turned upside down by it. Yet, he quickly learns that she is more than what she seems, having come looking for an Original after a large spike in supernatural being populations started cropping up on Earth a thousand years ago. Now, he must help her decide if the supernatural community should stay on their home planet or leave it for good? A task that is made more complicated along the way, as his life is changed forever.

NOTE: OC is from my up and coming novel series. Elements from said novel series also included.

———————————————————————————————————

The rest of the night and the morning had been spent making love. In between, however, Elijah continued their discussion regarding their plans for the Chicago witches. It was decided that they would send out word to the witch community of a powerful visiting witch that wanted a meeting with the local witches to discuss ridding Chicago of the vampire community. They had figured it would serve them well to play on the witches’ prejudices against the vampires, to lure them out of hiding and to gather them together in one place.

It would take a week to ensure that word got out, before they could move forward, but it would be worth the wait. In a week’s time, the hope was that bridges would be mended and the city wouldn’t erupt into a bloody war between the two communities. The latter was the most important part. Stopping the war before it happened was essential.

Elijah wanted that as badly as Eternity did. His reasoning being that it didn’t do well to show the decider of fates that the supernatural world couldn’t live peacefully together on Earth. If Eternity was given any reason to think that bloody wars were the norm in the community, she would no doubt make everyone leave the planet for good. Elijah needed to make sure that didn’t happen.

By the time they had finished lounging in bed together talking - and lovemaking, it was nearly noon. Elijah got out of bed to make a late breakfast after having heard Eternity’s stomach growl ravenously. He grabbed a pair of pajama bottoms out of one of the drawers in the wall, slipping them on quickly before padding over into the kitchen.

After he sent a quick text to Adrian to inform the boy to meet him later after sundown, he set to work making omelets, while Eternity laid in bed watching him.

She was a vision. During the night, he had pulled her hair out of the updo she had styled it in for their trip to the Blood Rose Club. So, her long snowy hair hung down all around her, including over her breasts, concealing them from his wandering eyes.

The whole time he cooked, Elijah could feel Eternity’s appreciative gaze upon him. It made him smirk to himself as he fried the eggs in a pan on the stove; his back to her. In a moment of wandering thoughts, he found it strange the sense of normalcy that lay between he and Eternity, in spite of her status as a powerful immortal queen of two universes.

She was on another level entirely, yet it seemed so easy to treat her as he would anyone else he cared about. Eternity seemed to him to be the type of queen who didn’t notice she wore a crown. There wasn’t an ounce of superiority to her, that one might expect from someone of her ranking. An extraordinary creature whom acted ordinary was she. It simply amazed him, this truth about her.

Hell, because of it, he was always forgetting what she was, her place in the grand scheme of things. It was never something conscious in his mind. She was only Eternity. His Eternity.

“That smells amazing, Elijah,” Eternity hummed appreciatively, her voice closer than from the bed. “You do know your way around the kitchen.”

Elijah turned slightly to look back over his shoulder and saw her standing on the other side of the island, leaning on it casually. She was still bare of clothing and it made him groan to himself in wanting. It didn’t matter how many times they had sex, he would always crave more, he realized. And her standing at his island naked wasn’t helping his craving of her, in the least.

“Thanks, Sweetheart,” he said to her, rather huskily, “but if you do not put some clothes on, I’ll forget breakfast and drag you back to bed. And I would rather not ruin this perfectly made omelet.”

Eternity grinned mischievously at him and at first, he thought she was going to torment him by not doing as he requested. To push the boundaries. However, to his surprise and a little disappointment, she magically dressed herself in a simple pale pink dress that flowed about her like the rest. She next used magic to braid her hair again, but this time, she also decorated the braid in little pink roses and what appeared to be diamonds. It was beautiful.

Eternity smirked, “Better?”

“Well...I was kind of hoping you’d defy me,” replied Elijah. “Your nakedness is a work of art, one that I love viewing, and I really wanted to drag you back to bed to sample it.”

“Next time,” she winked.

He turned to her fully then with that perfectly contracted omelet in hand. He placed in front of her, along with a fork, before turning back around to prepare his own omelet. While cooking, he listened to her as she cut into her breakfast and then sighed in contentment at the taste of it. Elijah smiled to himself as she did.

Soon, he had his own breakfast on a plate and he once more turned to Eternity, placing his plate on the island counter to join her in eating the food he had prepared for them. As he too began to eat, they stood there in companionable silence for a while, just enjoying each other’s company.

“I was thinking about going to the gym inside the apartment building today,” Elijah said finally, once he had polished off the omelet. “Sometimes, I enjoy a decent workout to keep the body sharp.”

“I do the same,” replied Eternity, having finished as well. “One cannot let their skills go rusty, after all, especially when they have a lot of enemies.”

“No, they cannot.”

“Care for some company?”

Elijah didn’t hesitate, “Of course.”

It was then that Eternity magically shifted her outfit into a pair of tight yoga capris and a sports bra that left her midriff bare. Her hair style changed too: into a simple high ponytail. She was beautiful before with the pink dress, but now she looked strong. Though her body was soft and without defining muscles, it was apparent that she was well trained in the ways of combat, just by the strong way she held herself.

“Perhaps, I should have told you of my plans before you had dressed up so lovely,” Elijah commented, once the shifting had ended.

Eternity shrugged slightly, “One of the benefits of magic; quick changes.”

He reached for her hand and laid a quick kiss to the palm of it. “Excuse me a moment, while I dress. Then we can head downstairs together.”

Releasing her hand, Elijah elegantly went around the island and walked over to the drawers in the walls by the bed. Eternity’s eyes were upon him the entire time, making him smirk slightly all over again. It seemed he wasn’t the only one that was insatiable. He could practically feel the lust for him pouring off her.

Going into the drawer at the very bottom, on the side of the bed that obscured him a bit from Eternity’s view, he collected his gym attire: a loose fitting tank top and baggy sweats. Setting the clothes on the bed, Elijah turned toward Eternity with a wicked grin as he shucked the pajama bottoms and then proceeded to dress in the other outfit. The entire time, his lower body was hidden from her heated gaze.

“That’s not fair,” she called to him with a laugh.

He only winked in response.

As soon as he was fully dressed, Elijah took Eternity by the hand and lead her out of the penthouse. They entered the elevator, going down to the fifth floor where the recreation area was located. The memories of the previous night danced through his head as they went. He swore he could still feel her wrapped around him as he had pressed her to the elevator wall. Elijah subconsciously squeezed Eternity’s hand, in an attempt to anchor himself from letting the memories carry him away.

He had half a mind to recreate them right then, but refrained. There would be time for such things later, he promised himself.

It didn’t take long for the elevator to stop at the fifth floor. They exited quickly before Elijah could have a change of heart. He walked with Eternity, hand in hand, down the long hallway, until they reached the last door on the left. This was where the large gymnasium was located.

Going inside, the empty gym was brightly lit with state of the art equipment. Various workout machines, punching bags, and weights lined either side of the gym’s walls. At the center, there was a netted arena, where people could spar with each other if they so chose. Normally, Elijah would be interested in the punching bags, if he had come alone. However since he had come with his lady love, his interest shifted towards the arena. It wasn’t often that he had a sparring partner and he planned on taking full advantage of having one.

“Come over here,” Elijah tugged on Eternity’s hand gently, leading her toward the arena.

She noticed to where he was leading, “We’re to spar?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I promise to take it easy on you then.”

Elijah paused directly outside the arena’s entrance to look back at her cheeky expression. He smirked slightly in response. “Oh, I think you’ll find I’m more formidable than you think, Sweetheart.”

She shrugged nonchalantly, “We shall see.”

Then Eternity went ahead of him into the arena, with Elijah following close behind, a lopsided grin upon his lips as he went.

Once inside, they faced each other. Elijah watched closely as the fire of combat entered her sapphire eyes. Her body crouched slightly into a firm fighting stance. Her tiny fists were up in front her in preparation for the fight about to commence. She was in warrior mode now, and her target was him.

Elijah moved into a similar position. “Come on, Sweetheart,” he said. “Show me what you got.”

Eternity smirked and with swift precision, she attacked. Her form was perfect. Every punch was calculated and executed with the smallest margin of error. She also moved with that speed of hers, the one that was superior to a vampire’s. Yet that didn’t mean that Elijah was easily defeated. No, he moved in a similar way to her. Always calculating and executing a counterattack with that same precision she used. Though in truth, they were so evenly matched only because she was holding back. He wasn’t a fool, he knew she would. They were only sparring, after all. If they had actually fought, Eternity would without a doubt end him within a few moves.

They danced like this for a while, honing their concentration and focus, the ability to anticipate and counter an opponent’s moves. Elijah found himself constantly on his toes, trying to read Eternity’s next move and strike back before she could read his countermove. It wasn’t easy, even if she wasn’t fighting to her full ability. Yet, considering their differences in fighting prowess, Elijah held his own well enough. Her attacks didn’t connect all that often and he had delivered a few good blows himself in return.

Eternity seemed to notice that as well. She grinned with pride as she said, “You are quite formidable. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you,” he smirked.

She seemed as though she was going to strike again, but then she stopped midway. The playful grin faded from her face as it grew stern in concentration. Elijah was going ask her what was going on, but he didn’t have to when she said, “We’re not alone.”

Elijah went on immediate alert. He used his heightened senses to sense out whomever it was that had dared to intrude. Nobody was supposed to be in the gym or anywhere else in the building, since he owned it in it’s entirety. Perhaps it was a human whom accidentally wandered inside. It wouldn’t be the first time that has happened. Or Niklaus?

Then he heard it. Whomever had wandered in was nearby. Just who in the hell would be so bold?

Before Elijah could pounce, he heard a familiar voice call, “Elijah! Are you in here?”

Adrian! “We’re over here, Adrian,” he called back.

Both he and Eternity relaxed immediately as the club owning vampire came into view. The young vampire had a ridiculously foolish grin upon his face as he came over to the arena. He looked mischievously at them through the net as he approached with his hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans.

“Ah, good. I was hoping I wasn’t walking in on any sort of debauchery,” he wiggles his eyes brows at them and then laughed. “Though I must say, you two are very good for business. Everyonr, vampire and human alike, was talking about your little show last night. It’s not every day that the Noble Elijah behaves in such an indecent way.”

“I didn’t invite you here to discuss last night,” Elijah replied tersely. “In fact, you’re not supposed to be here until after sundown.”

Adrian held up his hand then. There was a daylight ring upon his forefinger. At Elijah’s questing look, the young vampire shrugged, “I might have convinced a witch to make me one, just before relations broke down entirely between the communities. I thought I’d swing by early since I figured the reason why you wanted to meet at night was because you thought I didn’t have a ring. Also, I was super curious to know what the game plan was and couldn’t resist popping in.”

Elijah was annoyed by the boy’s intrusion. Yet, at the same time, he supposed that now was as good a time as any to discuss their plan for the witches. “Fine. Go to the common room and wait there.”

Adrian nodded and then smirked, “As you wish. Just don’t keep me waiting too long, eh?”

With a wink, the boyish vampire exited the gym.

Elijah sighed heavily, feeling Eternity touch his bare bicep comfortingly. “That boy has a death wish.”

“Perhaps, but you have to admire his brave spirit,” she smiled, “especially when coming upon an Original, such as yourself.”

He smiled softly in return, placing his hand over hers that was on his arm. “Yes, it may be that he’s forgotten that I’m an Original. Perhaps a reminder is in order.”

“I wouldn’t recommend traumatizing the lad,” Eternity said. “He’s a decent fellow. I don’t believe he deserves being scarred for life by you, love.”

He reached out and brushed back the hair that framed her face affectionately. “No, I suppose not.”

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes in contentment for a moment. “We should go meet with Mr. Alessandro,” she sighed softly, almost regretfully.

Elijah kissed Eternity’s forehead tenderly, before agreeing. He was reluctant, but knew that he shouldn’t keep Adrian waiting. It was bad form, especially since it had been him that wanted to meet in the first place.

Before they headed out, he made the request of her to change their clothes into more suitable ones for a meeting. She did so readily. Her magic shifted him into a dark gray suit with a navy tie. She, on the other hand, returned to the pink dress with her hair in a braid decorated in pink roses and diamonds. The sight of her back in that outfit was breathtaking.

Once that task was complete, he took her hand in his and lead them out.

The common room was fortunately on the same floor as the gym. In fact, it was only a few doors down from the gym. This room was largest among the rooms on the fifth floor. It was painted in light gray like his penthouse with the most modern black and silver furnishings available. There was a lot of tables and chairs, leather couches and end tables scattered about for conversing and mingling.

Sitting casually on one of the couches was Adrian, waiting ever so patiently for them. When he saw them enter, that big fool’s grin was plastered to his face. “About time,” he teased. “Thought you two might have gone for a quickie or something.”

Elijah was about to retort the boy’s teasing disrespect with a violent threat, when Eternity stepped in, saying softly, “Careful, young one. Be a little respectful.”

Adrian immediately straightened in his seat and had the good sense to look shameful. “Forgive me,” he said, all teasing gone. “I meant no harm. Honest.”

“I know,” she replied gently.

Elijah was impressed. He didn’t know hoe she had managed, but Eternity had admonished the boy without any sort of threat or speaking in any other tone, but with gently firmness instead. He would have simply given a quiet threat of tearing his tongue from his mouth to get Adrian’s attention. It amazed him to see a more peaceful, nonviolent method in play. A sign of the light that was Eternity, he supposed.

Elijah invited Eternity to sit with him on the couch opposite of the one Adrian sat in. They both sat with grace upon the leather. She perched herself on the end of the couch cushion delicately, while he leaned back with one leg crossed over the other.

“So, what is this grand plan of yours, Elijah?” Adrian asked, his eyes on Eternity the whole time with a look that could only be described as awe.

“It’s simple really,” replied Elijah. “We’re going to spread word to the witches that an answer to their prejudiced prayers has come; a visiting witch of immense power. We shall ensure this message goes far and wide through the city, spend the week ensuring the message is received and accepted. Then on the night of the seventh day, the meeting shall commence at sundown, but it won’t be a witch that they meet.” His eyes turned to Eternity meaningfully, whom continued to stare at Adrian all the while. “Instead, they shall meet a unicorn.”

The young vampire blinked in disbelief, his wondering eyes fell upon Eternity. He sat up a little straighter in his seat. “You’re a unicorn? But how is that even possible? Aren’t they myths? Little girls’ dreams?”

“I assure you,” Eternity spoke for herself, “I am as real as you are. Are you not a myth, sir vampire? Is not the magic that makes you what you are one as well? Your whole world - your existence- is just a fable to most of the humans that you live among. So why is it so impossible for a unicorn to exist - to be real?”

Adrian didn’t have a reply. He opened his mouth to respond several times, but closed it again when nothing suitable would come forth. “I’ve never seen one,” he finally replied weakly. He was better off keeping his mouth shut.

Instead of treating the boy’s comment as the idiocy that it was, Eternity smiled gently and said, “And you wouldn’t have. We are rare creatures indeed, my kind. However, if you wish to finally see a unicorn, you should be there at the meeting with the witches. Perhaps then you will catch a glimpse of the strange white beast that is myth and legend.”

Adrian nodded dumbly, unable to speak properly it seemed.

“Well, now that we have our timeline, I suggest tonight, you have your people begin spreading the word to your human guests at your little club,” Elijah spoke then, getting back on topic. “We shall let the humans do the grunt work for us and spread the message out into the city.”

Adrian blinked and then turned to him, seeming to come out of his stupor. “Uh, yes, of course. I’ll do whatever it takes to end this feud - one way or another.”

“Good,” he replied, dismissively.

Taking the cue, the young vampire got up from his seat. His eyes darted to Eternity, who gazed calmly back at him. Similar to the old woman at the Maine diner, he made a strange and awkward bow to her. Like that other time, Elijah thought that he was going to tack on a ‘Your Majesty’, but he refrained. Instead, he said a quick goodbye to Elijah and then scurried away without a second look.

Once they were alone, Elijah looked over at Eternity, observing her after Adrian’s odd reaction. Over the days that they had spent together, he had begun to see less and less of the ethereal and otherworldly creature that she was. She was still wondrous and full of that shining grace she had possessed when they had first met, but it was something he noticed rarely. He was no longer stunned by the otherworldliness. It was as if a veil had been lifted and he got to see the individual underneath.

Yet, at that moment, he could see it plainly; the goddess. Eternity was glowing with that etherealness of hers. Her hair shimmered in the light of the large glass windows, the light reflecting off it. Even in her sapphire eyes it was apparent. That millenniums old wisdom was front and center there, reminding Elijah of just who she truly was.

Despite it, he didn’t shy away or behave in any other way than he had been since their relationship began. Not even as he saw that other side of her - the regal queen. No, to him, she would always be his Eternity. It was too late for him to see her as anything else.

Elijah’s thoughts were disrupted as the couch dipped a little beside him. He realized that Eternity had come closer to him. She was smiling and all that otherworldliness he had just witnessed faded away instantly, when he was looking at her so closely.

“You’re a million miles away, love,” she teased as she reached out and traced his stubble jaw with her fingertips.

Elijah smiled in return, “It’s nothing. I was just admiring your beauty, my dear.”

His rather corny reply made her laugh lightly. She pulled herself into his side and immediately his arm went around her, cuddling her into his side. He kissed the crown of her head tenderly. He held her there next to him, neither of them speaking.

“Well, now that Adrian is on his way to play his part, we have an entire week to enjoy ourselves,” Elijah murmured into Eternity’s hair after a moment. “So long as nothing comes up to impede our plans, that means we can occupy our time however we wish.”

“Aye, this is true. What did you have in mind, love?”

At her asking, Elijah grinned, “Oh, I have a few ideas. They involve you, me, and my bed.”

At that, Eternity giggled. “Well, then I’ll meet you there.”

Like that, she took off running, leaving Elijah to give chase all the way back to his apartment.

To Be Continued.

#elijah mikaelson #the originals #the vampire diaries #romance #love #love story #fanfics #ocs #my ocs

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drgnrder82 · 6 years ago

Text

TMNT: Father’s Day

Notes: I will post to AO3 later, new computer and I don’t remember my login. Also not sure which TMNT series this really fits with. I took elements from 2007 and 2012.

Brow furrowed, Splinter worried as he wandered about the alley picking up papers. Wind scattered a newspaper as he’d dug around in the dumpster and his conscience couldn’t leave the mess. It would serve to help start fires during the chilly nights. Voices traveled down the alley from the street. Hidden in the shadows of the dumpster he waited for the pedestrians to move along, praying there was no reason for them to enter the alley, all the while hoping his four small sons were in their home and not wandering the sewers. No amount of meditation erased that worry. But they needed food.

Stillness returned to the night, the street empty again. He bundled together what food he’d found and the newspaper and stole away into the sewers. He’d made sure to stay close to home, their current section of sewer they called home, sloshing in the sewer water for only a few minutes before turning off and finding their maintenance shaft. His tail flicked at the yellow caution tape as he ducked under. He turned off the corridor to a service shaft for the nearby offline subway. The door, rusted and worn, opened louder than he liked.

“Father!” the four small turtles chorused before realizing their gaffe and murmuring a quick, “Sensei.”

Donatello immediately returned to the tangles of wires strewn about the floor, another lamp disassembled nearby. Michelangelo lay among the electrical components, scraps of paper covered in doodles. Leonardo and Raphael each rubbed at their arms, sparring or a scuffle had been interrupted by his arrival. He let out a heavy sigh, grimacing at the mess. For another time.

“Dinner, my sons.” Unfurling the blanket, remnants of restaurant leftovers piled into a deformed takeout container. Far from appetizing but it would suffice. “Tomorrow we will make a trip. Rest tonight.” He notably left all the food for his sons, preferring to meditate.

Mikey jumped at the food, pried away by Raphael before he could gobble it down. “Share!”

Leo brought their plates, pushing between his quarreling brothers, shoving plates in their hands. “Can we, please, eat without another fight?”

Raphael took his share, retreating to a bare spot, “We could if you would stop ordering me around.”

“You tackled Mikey.”

“Mikey shouldn’t have taken my comic without asking! He can’t even read them!”

“Can you?” Leo retorted.

“I like the pictures. Chris Bradford can take on anyone!”

“Of course, you only care about the stupid comic at the end!”

Donnie tapped his screwdriver on the edge of the lamp. “Why isn’t it working?” Tap tap tap.

“Donnie?” Raph asked.

“Light bulb was good. All the connections are made…”

“Donnie?” Raph tossed a screw at his brother. “Donnie!”

“Raph, he doesn’t hear you.”

“That’s why I yelled.” Raph explained, even if it sounded like shouting.

Mikey crawled along the floor, scattering parts as he inched along, plate scraping the floor and grating on Raph’s ears. “Dinner, Don.” He rolled around, pulling his own plate two him with his toes. Leo wretched as Mikey dug in, shoveling the noodles in fast with one hand and scattering newspaper around with the other. Donnie, still rapping on the side of the lamp, stuck his other hand in the noodles, frowning at his sauce covered hand.

Bright colors from sale ads popped out at Mikey. Streamers and balloons decorated some, “Looks like a party.” Mikey studied them before shoving one at Donatello, “Don, Don! Read it to me! What does it say?”

Donnie separated the paper in his face from the lamp and it’s parts, “Mikey...ah.” Holding the papers back he read, “Father’s Day sale. It’s just an ad for a store selling watches, Mike.”

Mikey took the ad back, balloons dancing around in his head. “What’s Father’s Day?”

Donatello had returned his hand to the noodles, searching for the fork without taking his eyes from the forsaken lamp. “I would presume a day to celebrate fathers.”

Delight took hold of Mikey, “What? When? When is it?”

Donatello glanced at the flier then at their small calendar hanging on the wall, free from a local real estate agent, “Sunday.”

Wasting no time, Mikey pushed aside his plate, ignoring the need wash it, and began drawing on another piece of paper.

“What are you doing?” Leo asked.

“Making dad something.” His tongue jutted out as he concentrated on his drawing, “Maybe a family picture. Or a comic! Oh...oh I’m making dad a comic about our family!”

Leonardo, finished with his noodles, sat with Mikey. “That’s...actually a good idea.”

Drool plastered one of the sketches to Mikey's face the next morning, not that it deterred him from continuing his artistic endeavors. The only positive thing to come from his constant chattering about his gift was that it did encourage the others to work on gifts for Splinter. Donatello insisted on accompanying his father on the long journey to the city dump, spurring a surprisingly animated chorus of agreements from the others, certainly more joyous than was usual. Normally a trip to the dump was a treat that ended in constant complaining. Toothy smiles, unnaturally wide for his sons, followed during the entire journey.

Then he was abandoned just as quickly as they'd agreed to help him when they were at home. Each son skirted off in a different direction, Donatello the only one with a list of supplies they needed to find for their home. Splinter heaved his sack, scanning piles of rubbish for new linens and housewares, praying Donatello would return with parts for their stove and not more electronics to dismantle everywhere in the common area.

He thumped his tail on the packed earth, one of the several junk yard dogs joining him as he walked the darkened paths and avoided any brightly lit piles.

Raph had dug through a couple piles of garbage, willing inspiration for a gift. He knew Michelangelo would be searching frantically for more paper and paints or markers or something similar. Donnie would easily find something to build. Something useful, their father loved having useful things. He could still remember how Splinter had wrapped Donnie in a hug after he'd fixed that radio they'd found. He could listen to stories, news and even music while he tended to their small home. Those were things he couldn't compete with.

Leo. Perfect Leo. He was sure to find the best gift. Nothing he'd find would even compare.

Raph slumped into the pile, enthusiasm draining away.

Donatello dragged his bag, brimming with metal, along the dirt until he found Leo and Mikey.

“Little help?”

Mikey frowned in the box he held, not wanting to damage his finds. Leo stole a glance over his shoulder, “I can take those in mine.”

Raphael took Don's bag, emptying the contents into his own box, leading the way to the sewer entrance they used, seeing Splinter's patience was starting to wane with his sons. Raph stewed as his brothers hung back several paces and discussed their plans in fervent whispers.

Nothing was coming to Raph. Any free time his brothers had around their training and foraging for food was spent on gifts. Mikey wound up chastised several times a day as he was covered in a different medium each time. Paint, pencils and pens. They may have been worn down to nubs or barely worked but he found a way, probably with Donnie's help, and wound up covered in it as he made countless pieces.

Donnie hid in an annex off their common room, working on endless projects. There was truly no telling which one would be for their father.

Leo, unlike his brothers, focused on meditating with Sensei. If he was making something it was either when they were all asleep or finished and he'd hid it well. Raph punched their spare, bound up mattress, their makeshift punching bag, over and over. Hit after hit not lessening his anger but increasing it. Father's day was in the morning and they'd all agreed to wake Splinter with their gifts all ready. He'd had all week and absolutely nothing to show for it.

He shivered in their dank section of sewer. In the depths of summer he was used to being a little chilled. Donnie said they were insulated in the sewer. He wasn't sure what it meant, but he was still cold. He headed to bed, his brother's slept soundly beside him on their shared mattress, Mikey's snoring not helping him fall asleep. Sitting up he scanned their home.

Donatello had fixed the stove, providing them warm meals again. Father had found blankets on their last trip, less threadbare and given it to his sons. It was scratchy and old, still smelled like the junk yard, but warmer while he slept with an older blanket that barely covered his feet.

He collapsed back onto his pillow, pounding on his head and waking Leo in the process.

“What's wrong?” He rubbed the sleep away.

“Nothing.” Raph turned over, knowing he'd have to pretend to sleep to get Leo off his case.

If Leo backed off. “Did you make a gift for father?” An angry rumble answered him. “Seriously? You had all week!”

“Like you'd understand.” Raph mumbled to his pillow.

“What are you going to find or make in the middle of the night?” Leo laughed. Raph landed a punch into Leo's plastron before he actually left the bed, pacing the room. “Ow, come on. Just get some sleep. We can figure it out in the morning.”

“Yea, saving poor Raph who can't do anything.” “I didn't say that.”

“What's goin' on?” Mikey's groggy voice came from the pillow.

“Raph's,” Leo watched Raph's shadow disappear near the door. “Raph?” Leo bolted up, throwing the blanket off when he heard the door squeal open and closed.

Shivering, Mikey felt for the warm spots where his brother's should have been then rolled closer to Donnie, stirring him as well. “Mike? What're you doing?” He threw Michelangelo's hand from his chest.

“Raph and Leo are fighting again. I wanna sleep.”

“It's the middle of the night.” Donnie sat up, the room still. “Where are they?”

“Raph left.” Mikey wrapped more blanket around him. “Leo followed.”

Raph splashed in the water, kicking it every few steps. “Stop following me.”

Leo chased, though he tried to avoid the water and making so much noise. “You're going to get noticed. Where are you even going.”

“Finding dad a gift!” The first ladder he found Raph climbed. He'd never had to push the manhole cover off and he nearly lost his footing. Leo called out as loudly as he dared, expecting to be ignored. Raph continued up. They hadn't gone far from home, Raph had probably gone up into an alley since there was no traffic sounds overhead. Leo bit down and climbed after Raph.

“I don't need your help!” Raph shouted, the echo so different on the surface. He was on the surface. Without father. He looked up into the sky, the sliver he could see, through the fire escapes.

Leo poked his head from the manhole, scanning the alley for anything, anyone. “Get back here, you're going to be seen!”

Donatello hesitated. Telling father would get everyone in trouble and Leo could certainly talk some sense into Raph before he'd do anything irrational. Or not. Not with the amount of time they had been gone already.

“Father?” Donatello gingerly prodded Splinter.

“Yes, my son? Is everything alright?” Sleep still called to him but his son's worried face tore him from his warm bed.

“Raph is missing.” Donnie pointed to the door.

“Missing?” Splinter's cane not far from him, he pulled himself up and set off out of their home. “Stay here. I will return.” That tone meant they were all in trouble. Extra training for sure.

Wide awake, Mikey rolled in the blanket, making himself into a burrito. “Where are you going, Donnie?”

“Getting the medical kit. Someone's coming back injured for sure.” Mikey giggled, enjoying the blanket and it's warmth.

Bang! Something landed on the metal garbage cans at the doorway near the end of the alley, making them both jump. Leo peered from the manhole, his eyes adjusting to the moonlight. Raph froze, sensing movement. Multiple things moving. Cautiously, Leo pulled himself up out of the manhole. A cat pranced by, pausing to meow at them. Both let out a breath they'd been holding.

“Dumb cat.” Raph hissed at it. He headed further into the alley but had no clear idea of what he was going to do. There were dumpsters and some cans, the fire escapes led up to the roofs. And potential people to see him. He also realized he was without his cloak, or any clothes they used on the surface. He'd just run.

Tags jingled on the cat's neck as it passed Leo. He tried grabbing the cat only for it to hiss and scamper away. Raph trotted after it, scooping it gently in his arms. He'd never held a cat before. They'd pet the dogs at the junk yard once their father had befriended them. “It's ok, kitty. I don't like it when he tries to grab me either.”

“Someone's going to come looking for it. It has a home.” Leo clinked the tags together hoping it didn't take a swipe at him. “And we have to go home before dad wakes up.”

Raph ignored his brother and headed for the fire escape.

“You're not taking my spot! Punk ass kid! This is my alley!” A can flew toward his head from behind the dumpster. “Get out!” Dirt caked on the man made him blend well into the surrounding wall. Until he hurled the can. “Huh, some costume kid.” Another can flew at Raph, “And don't even think of taking my cans! Those are my cans!”

“Right.” Raph started up the fire escape, savoring the small cat curling up on his arm. Another barrage of cans flying into the wall under him and Leo sending his own apologies. Making it safely to the fire escape ladder he climbed with Raph. “Why're you still following me, mini-Splinter?”

“Because, it's not safe. We need to go home, Raph.” Leo gulped at the sight of how far they'd climbed.

Cat wriggling in his arms, Raph let him down. He leaned into a step, watching the cat climb higher to an open window. “Thundercat!” Squeals of delight rang from the open window before it shut and they were alone again.

Leo saw Raph's shoulders fall. Neither was in view of a window, at least not easily but, “Well, you brought it home. Let's go.”

“I don't have anything for dad yet.”

“Raph, we shouldn't be here. What's gonna happen if someone that wasn't that crazy man down there sees us?”

“You don't get it!” Raph slid down the handrails, crashing into his brother. “I have nothing to offer dad.”

Nothing. Leo smirked, he had nothing he could say to stop his brother. They started back down the fire escape. “It's stupid anyways. Dad wouldn't want anything I'd give him.”

“Father loves all of us.” Leo choked, “Come on. He...”

Bottles and cans started raining down into the alley from the roof over shouts of joy from a group of kids. They aimed for the dumpster where the homeless man sat huddled in the dark corner. His anger boiled over after each crackle of glass or ding of a can. Profanity after profanity until one can hit him and his anger turned to pain. All the while the kids laughing, daring the other to throw another one.

Leo placed himself next to Raph, his teeth grinding. Neither saw their father come out of the manhole.

Splinter snapped his hood over his head. It wouldn't cover his entire face but enough in the dim light. Aluminum cans littered the ground among shards of glass. Among the tinkling of glass as another bottle broke he heard the gleeful kids above. And the moans of pain. It hurt to ignore someone in need but the rattling ladder made him dive into the shadow of the dumpster.

“Raph, let’s go!”

“I’m not leaving! Those kids think it’s ok to...to….arg!” He lashed out at the garbage cans, creating more of a mess. Rotten food rolled around. Leo’s gaze bounced back and forth between the roofs and the manhole, trying to decide what he should do. He had trouble overpowering Raph during training, or fist fights. With his rage he wasn’t sure he could stop him. He had to stop him. Well, he should stop him. He blinked and Raph’s arms were full of food as he jogged up the fire escape.

“Raph, no. Wait.” Splinter laid a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“I will go after him. You head home. Now.” Hood obscuring his eyes, Leo knew better than to argue.

“Yes, Father. Sorry.” Leo sighed. His father dashed up the fire escape after Raph, faster than he’d seen his father move. “Don’t be too hard on him.” Leo’s soft voice called out enough to make Splinter hesitate. Leo didn’t see his father stop below Raph and watch his son. In the shadows, the homeless man huddled in the corner realizing that the boys he’d seen were not a hallucination or the alcohol in his system, but actual turtles.

The kids seemed to be back to taunting one another, a new bag of ammo ready. They were pushing each other around, seeing who could make the first shot when Raph took aim of his own. Before the first can was picked up a rotten tomato smacked into the cheek of a boy. Juice and mold clinging to his skin, making him heave from the stench. “What the hell?”

“You think it’s funny?” Raph tossed a salad’s worth of vegetables on the boys, more ripe with age than the first tomato, he had to concentrate not to vomit himself.

Splinter knew he should stop Raphael. He was close enough to the roof that if the children looked over they would easily see him. The food kept them back from the edge for the time being.

“How do you like it?” Raph jumped in triumph as he heard their curses at him.

One boy braved coming toward the edge, “Trash throwing trash?” Raph found some rancid noodles and hurled them up. “Aah!” Covered in the noodles, the smell overpowering him, he vomited over the edge of the roof and directly onto Raph.

“AH!” Ducking back, Raph hit his shell hard into the building and wiped away the vomit. But he was proud. He could hear them retreating to their parents. As their footfalls died away, Raphael rushed the roof. His father waited, breath caught in his throat. His son, alone, rummaged around the roof, first throwing out profanities. Giving him a wide berth Splinter ascended to the point he could see the roof. His son busy cleaning the trash left by the children. Albeit complaining while he did. “You'd think they were the ones to live in a sewer.” Empty beer bottles lined the ledge. The next fodder they never got to use.

A large garbage bag sat at his feet. Glass landed with a clink. Another. And another. He wasn't about to clean the entire roof but this was helping him settle...everything. His mind felt clearer. Dragging the garbage bag up he stepped onto the ledge again until the brick under him slid out. Training kicked in and he caught himself. “At least they weren't throwing these.” Raph batted the next brick which fell away. The gap in bricks was stuffed with a wadded up blanket. After a few tugs he unfolded the parcel. Few trinkets lay inside. Pictures of a family. A happy little girl, and even happier small boy. The mom and dad each sweetly holding the children. One picture they were at a beach. He had no idea if it was a beach here in New York or farther away. He wished he could place it. Another there was a lot of grass. Not Central Park. The kids aged a little in the pictures. A bear was wrapped with the pictures, guarding them. They were old, weathered a bit, just like the bear. The wool blanket was just as old and scratchy. And warm. Heat blossomed from his shoulder where the blanket was draped.

Ripping open the garbage bag again he searched for a clean bottle. Rolling the pictures neatly he dropped them in the bottle. “You keep these safe. Guess that's what you were supposed to be doing anyways, eh?” He liked the bear. Bears were strong, after all. And it could have used a good home now but it still had a job to do. “I'll come check on you though.” The bear, nestled back in the hole, held the bottle tight as he replaced the bricks. “And you, you're perfect for dad.” Wrapping the blanket over his other shoulder, Raphael hefted the garbage bag and stepped onto the fire escape.

Splinter was down the escape as he heard his son claim the blanket. He could only guess what could possibly make his headstrong son start to tear. Raphael's strength, and quick temper, tended to lead to confrontations and his need to step in. He knew this was not the time to scold his son. Dodging the can and bottle remains Splinter took up the blind spot on unoccupied side of the dumpster. The lid swung open and closed again. His son groaned as more cans and glass scraped against the ground.

“You...you ain't in a costume.” The man huddled further into the corner. His bottle of vodka involuntarily shook as he glanced between it and the giant turtle pondering if he'd finally drank too much.

Raph had heard his father field these questions at the city dump before. He didn't think he could keep his temper in check again and said, “Why didn't you move. Those punk ass kids were trying to hit you.”

Tatters of cloth swathed around his legs flipped open. One of the man's legs ended at the knee. The moonlight afforded him just enough light to see the outline of a crutch in the shadows. “Army.”

Raph returned to clearing away the last of the bottle shards, silently. The man stared at him as he cleaned, pushing the bottle further and further, sure he was hallucinating.

The blanket itched his neck. It was no good. He pulled it off and covered the man. “Guess I'll have to come check on you too.”

The man rubbed the blanket between his fingers, savoring the thickness and warmth despite the warmth of the summer evening. “I...I have...I don't have anything.” Raph waved away his offers, though guilt wrenched him for giving up his gift so quickly. The man was rummaging, looking for anything. A small wrapped candy, the wrapper smeared with dirt, pressed into Raph's hand. “Thank you.”

Biting back the sting of more tears, Raph nodded and stood to go. His father stood between him and the manhole. “Dad, I...”

With no malice, none of the condemnation of a parent knowing his son had gone against so many of his rules or wishes, Splinter opened his arms, “Come my son, let's go home.” His own tears falling as Raphael joined him.

He'd followed his father down the manhole, even replacing the cover. After enveloping his son in a hug he'd started the trek home in silence. Raphael tried to explain. He splashed after his father pleading him to listen. “Dad. Dad please. I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have gone up.” No response. “It was reckless and I could have been spotted – er well I was but-but he's not going to say anything. Just like those guys at the dump. Dad, please.”

“I saw enough.” He slowed. Tail whipped water away pensively.

“Dad. All-all I wanted was to get you a gift.” Raphael's fists clenched, flexing the fingers after a minute. His father wouldn't even face him. He'd never seen him shed a tear.

“A gift? For what?”

“F-father's day.” Raph closed his fingers around the small candy. “It's stupid. It was Mikey's idea. He saw it in the newspaper you brought home. Stupid.” Turning, he wound his arm back to throw the gift he'd received. “I got nothing to offer.”

“Nothing?” He lightly grasped his son's arm. His arm turned limp after his son's. “You gave me the greatest gift tonight.” Raphael allowed the candy to roll out of his hand, dropping into his father's. “Every parent fears they have failed their children. You showed me I have not. There is no greater gift.” More tears fell. Dripping down Raph's head and some leaking from his own eyes.

Mikey hopped around jostling sheets of paper. His brother and father had been gone long enough that he was completely awake, parading around forcing Donnie and Leo to prepare. Donatello insisted on preparing the medical kit over Mikey's preparations, though he was persuaded to help when Leo arrived home again.

As the door opened Splinter and Raph were greeted with an eruption of noise, “Happy Father's Day!”

Pancakes, or Mikey's equivalent, stacked on the largest plate he could find with Leo, Donnie and Mikey and various gifts at their feet. Thrusting the plate at Leo, Mikey dove to his father and pulled him and Raph in to show off everything they had done. His own heart full, Splinter pulled Raphael closer into a hug and shared the late night snack with his sons.

Mouth full of pancakes, Mikey fell next to his father showing off the comic he'd drawn of their adventures. The comic focused on their travels around the city for supplies and needing to find a new home after people found their last home. Donatello had finished the lamp, not just an ordinary lamp. He'd found a UV bulb that would allow them to grow some plants down in the sewers. Leo, in his junior fashion, had found a tea kettle and cup set. Matching. Chipped. But still perfect.

After their late night snack, all four of the turtles finally in bed and sleeping comfortably, Splinter took the small candy from his pocket. A small photo sat framed next to his mattress, an instant photo taken with a camera Donatello had found with a few pictures left on the cartridge. Sitting against the frame he stared at the token and his sons until he drifted back to sleep.

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