#this has nothing to do with me re-reading an old flame quietly in my home for the past few weeks

[non-un-topo]

Y'all NEED to start getting into older anime/manga with next to no fandom I'm so serious

[bagelbright-tok]

Prompt #19

Prompt supplied by @write-it-motherfuckers​ (Sorry for the tag/ any disturbances!) Amazing prompts per usual.

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One-Shot

Malcolm Bright/Whitly x Aunt Fem!Reader

Warning(s): Violence, mentions of murder and killing, weird drama and interactions. I didn’t re-read through this, so there’s that.

Word Count: 1674 words

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Good First Impressions

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This next case was intriguing, frustrating, and far too personal for Malcolm to be working on. Another wanna-be serial killer was going around, having similar killing techniques to The Surgeon’s. In simple terms; The Surgeon’s Extension. The killer seemed to be having fun with it too. They only left evidence they wanted the team to find. They left cryptid messages. Clues. Things to throw them off.

There was one clue, though, that piqued Malcolm’s interest.

“His blood flows within me too. We are family.”

This was either a sign that the killer was deranged, or it actually meant something.

Gil was rather spooked. He knew something that he was keeping from everyone. Malcolm was surprised that Gil knew something about Martin Whitly’s family, when Malcolm himself was a part of that family. What would Gil know that Malcolm didn’t?

***

Malcolm entered Gil’s office quite suspiciously. He closed the door behind him, causing Gil to look up curiously.

“What’s up, kid?”

Gil set down what he was doing, now sitting straight up in his chair.

“What does the note mean?”

Malcolm asked bluntly.

Gil dropped his head and sighed. He brought his head back up, staring at Malcolm once again.

“Malcolm,”

Gil sighed.

“Just give it to me straight. You’re obviously withholding because you think it will upset me.”

Malcolm approached the desk more.

Gil sighed once more, rising from his seat. He raised his arms slightly, just to slap them back down onto his thighs.

“Fine,”

He relented.

“I’ll give it to you straight.”

Gil approached Malcolm, setting a hand on his shoulder.

“I can take it, whatever it-”

“Martin Whitly has a sister.”

Gil interrupted Malcolm.

“Your aunt’s name is [Y/N] Whitly. She changed her name to [Y/N] Ackers.”

Malcolm was shocked. He stayed silent, processing what Gil had just told him.

“What?”

Malcolm took a step back, causing Gil to remove his hand.

“That can’t be right. Why wouldn’t I remember her?”

“She never really visited you as kids. She isn’t a kid kind of person,”

Gil explained regrettably

“Doesn’t this mean she’s a suspect? Are you going to bring her in?”

Malcolm was very concerned now.

Gil shook his head.

“I don’t know. She- She wouldn’t do something like this.”

Gil turned his back, making his way to his chair.

“How do you know what she is like? I don’t even know what she is like.”

Malcolm inquired, suspicious of Gil.

Gil just glanced over at Malcolm, almost sadly. He once again shook his head as he returned to his sitting position and back to his work.

Malcolm took this as a sign to leave. And so he did. He left Gil’s office, and left the precinct, off to find this lady he’d never met. How would he find her though? She was obviously in New York if Gil was nervous. But New York is an entire state with millions of people. Perhaps, just maybe, there would be one person that knew. Dr. Martin Whitly. 

(I don’t wanna create an entire ass conversation between Malcolm and Martin. I might lose motivation afterwards, so let’s just--)

***

It was the next day. More like, night. Around 7 in the afternoon. Malcolm pulled into [Y/N]’s driveway. It was a dirt driveway with only one other car there. It must be hers. She has to be home.

Malcolm hesitantly exited his vehicle, and approached her front door. The house wasn’t large, but it most certainly wasn’t a home you’d get for just yourself. It was a dark wood, almost cabin-like, home. Two windows looked out into the front, but you couldn’t actually see through them. They were covered with thick blankets. Malcolm looked at the windows, slightly confused. He knocked on the door, and waited anxiously. A minute passed. No noise was heard. Maybe he was being impatient, but did she even hear the knock?

There wasn’t a doorbell. So Malcolm settled for pounding on the door again.

“[Y/N] Ackers!?”

He bellowed at the door.

Little did Malcolm know, he was causing a great amount of fear to the one inside the cabin home.[Y/N] was awake, reading in her small library. It was dead silent until she heard the familiar creeks of the front porch steps. She closed her book slowly, setting it on her seat as she rose, turning out the light and slowly and quietly exiting the room. She entered the area just outside where her front door was. Then again, pounding at the door, along with yelling. She jumped in place, frightened by the aggressive pounding, and by the yelling of her name. [Y/N] bolted into her bedroom. She was panicking already. After recent events, she’d been on edge. The paparazzi had definitely become a blazing flame. Crazy people had tried breaking into her home already. She couldn’t stand it anymore. In an act of irrational reasoning, she broke the glass of her cabinet containing old antique items. One of those items being a one sided battle axe. It wasn’t too large, but [Y/N] still weld it with both hands.

Malcolm heard the shattering of glass, and sounds of movement. He hadn’t a clue of what was going on, but it couldn’t be good. Now worried, Malcolm knocked rapidly. In a series of odd events, Malcolm believed [Y/N] to be in danger due to her ties to The Surgeon, and [Y/N] believed she was facing another crazy person ready to break into her home. As [Y/N] cautiously stepped around her dark home, Malcolm took it upon himself to break in to see what was happening. He managed to break through her front window, barely getting cut as the glass shattered. [Y/N] was terrified now. She didn't think someone would actually do it and break through her window.

Malcolm was worried and concerned about her deep inside. As Malcolm made his way inside the home, [Y/N] continued to tread cautiously as well. 

"[Y/N]?!"

Malcolm called out again.

Hearing her name being called out sent chills down her spine. She wanted to freak out. But panicking would kill her. She spotted the intruder's dark form wandering her living room. She hid in her hallway, terrified. Sweat dripped from her forehead.

"Ms. Ackers!?"

The man yelled again.

[Y/N] just needed a perfect moment to strike. And that moment came sooner than later. Malcolm turned his back to her. [Y/N] was behind him in seconds. She didn't know what came over her. Right now, she knew she was over him with a battle axe raised to take his head off. Right as she swung down, Malcolm dove to the right. The axe went into the ground, and so did Malcolm. He scrambled as [Y/N] was surprisingly quick to remove the axe from the floorboards. And once again, she was over Malcolm with her axe raised, about to swing down. Malcolm faced her from the ground, panic on his face as he looked into her burning (E/C) orbs.

"Whoa! Whoa! [Y/N]!"

Malcolm pleaded to her as he tried to crawl away.

"Who the hell do you-!?"

[Y/N] was about to yell at him when she realized who he was. She lowered the axe cautiously, a confused and concerned look on her face.

"M-Malcolm!?"

"[Y/N]. Uh…"

Malcolm didn't know what to say.

"...s-sorry..?"

And soon, the broken window revealed blue and red flashing lights and the sound of the sirens blaring.

***

And now, [Y/N] was at the precinct. She'd been questioned. Nothing came of it. She never left her house and barely had any friends. People only knew her because of what her brother did and the conspiracy about her involvement. Apparently, she used to be a criminal profiler for the NYPD. For the same precinct. She had to quit when Martin was arrested for the 23 murders.

She finally returned to the precinct. And now she was pacing in Gil's office, embarrassed about the event that had just occurred.

"[Y/N], you need to calm down."

Gil pressed his wrists into his desk, shaking his hands in a directing manner.

"Calm down? Gil,"

[Y/N] began frantically.

"I think Malcolm is scared of me."

She stopped pacing, and looked over at Gil, hand on her hip.

"That might be because you nearly took his head off with a battle axe,"

Gil pointed out

"The first time you met."

[Y/N] looked to the ground, tapping her other hand's fingers on her leg. She shook her head.

"... To be fair, it was dark, and he had just broken into my house."

She finally looked up at Gil again.

A small smile was on his face.

"You realize how ridiculous this sounds?"

He struggled from laughing.

"Yes! But what if the poor boy's traumatized..?"

[Y/N] was obviously not clear on what happened to Malcolm in his younger years.

"[Y/N], he's going to be fine. Besides, whatever happened is his fault."

Gil stood up, trying to relieve [Y/N] of her guilt.

"Now, come on. I'll get you home."

Gil walked to his office door, opening it and motioning for [Y/N] to leave first.

She followed, swinging her arms to her side frustratingly. As she continued to make her way out, she combed her fingers through her hair. She felt the eyes on her from everyone in the precinct. The seniors she knew from 20 years ago, the newbies who had started maybe a week ago.

There was something about the way she looked, too. She looked just like her older brother. The only difference was that she was female and Martin was male. Even her hair grayed the same way his had. There was something in her eyes that people saw in Martin in the newspapers. Something that spooked Malcolm. He was scared of her, not because she nearly killed him, but because she was like his father. He stared at her like everyone else did. Except he had the look of knowledge.

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END

[chimmyboii]

The Story of Us - Part 1

Masterlist 

Summary: He was a bright orange flame and I was the moth attracted to his light. 

* D/N = Dad’s name!

AN: So this is a fic i’m currently working on, not really sure how many parts there will be but stay tuned!! Feedback and criticism is welcomed!! :))) 

Enjoy!

Part 1

The sound of the TV blaring was enough from me to know something wasn’t right. I took off my shoes quickly and peeked my head through the crack of the living room door. Dad was laying passed out on the couch, snoring like a pig. Empty beer bottles were scattered on the coffee table, one had fallen on the floor spilling on to the carpet. Sighing, I entered the room and walked to his sleeping figure, I tug the remote from his grip gently as I could in hopes of not waking him. I press the red button, shutting the TV off.

Just as I’m about to grip the empty bottles, Dad sits up with a gasp. His blurry eyes look at me, his lips turn down in a frown.

“What are you doing?” I inhale slightly, continuing to tuck two of the bottles under my arm before I grab the rest.

“Cleaning up,” I answer before walking into the kitchen and placing them into the bin.

“Well leave them,” he slurs out, taking the remote and turning the TV back on. I growl under my breath. I go back into the living room and go to grab the rest of the bottles when Dad grips my arm, I wince.

“I told you to fucking leave them, what part of that don’t you understand Y/N!” I pull my arm from his grip; tears slip from my eyes. I hurry back into the kitchen out of his way. I hear him stomp up the stairs to the bathroom. In the kitchen, I let out a sob, rubbing at my arm that I’m sure will bruise. Sniffing, I decide to make myself something to eat, grabbing a lot food to hide in my room to avoid coming out. As I’m cutting my sandwich, Dad comes stumbling into the kitchen. He ignores me and reaches into the fridge and pulls out another beer.

“Dad, you’ve got work tomorrow,” I remind, gently. He barks out a laugh before slamming the fridge shut, causing the contents to rattle inside and me to flinch. “That fucking Joe prick fired me this morning,” he laughs bitterly, “thinks I’m not capable for the job,” He walks over to the drawer and pulls out the bottle opener.

“What?” I whisper, my palms become clammy. “But we’re already late on this months’ rent,” Dad ignores me and continues to struggle opening the bottle. I grip the counter tightly as I begin to feel breathless, a surge of panic overwhelms me. “What are we going to do?” I ask him, voice high. Dad finally pulls the metal cap from the bottle and shrugs at me before taking a large gulp.

“Fuck ‘em,” he slurs walking back into the living room. Tears slip down my cheeks once more.

I stand there for God knows how long, just inhaling and exhaling. The tears had finally stopped. I reach and pull out my phone, looking at email of acceptance from the University, I sniffle before typing in the contact number. It rings four times before a female voice answer.

“Hello, I’m Y/N L/N, I’m calling to withdraw my application,” my voice croaks. The phone call lasts all of three minutes. It took three minutes to cancel my dream. I cry as I look at the mess of the kitchen, my blurry eyes look to the living and see my drunk Dad singing tunelessly to the music on the TV. This is my life now; I’m trapped here with this.

- I walk to the supermarket in town, since we don’t own a car and I don’t have enough money for bus fare. It takes me half an hour to get there and I’m sweaty from the walk. Smoothing back my hair, I walk in and go straight to Customer service. The woman behind the counter eyes me for a moment, taking in my flushed complexion and old clothing. I see the pity in her eyes.

“How can I help you, sweetheart?” I clear my throat.

“Are there any jobs going here?” I ask, trying hard not to sound hopeful. She shrugs.

“Not sure, honey. Hold on while I phone the manager,” I nod rapidly. She punches in the numbers on the phone before pushing the phone against her ear.

“Hey Bob, I got a kid here looking for a job. Can you come down?” She ‘uh-huh’ a few times before she turns to me. “How old are you, honey?”

“18,” She tells this to Bob on the phone. She mutters a few sentences which I don’t hear then hangs up.

“Bob will be with you in a moment,” I nod and move to the side, allowing customers to be served.

A bald man with dark glasses comes down the escalators, he holds a clipboard and I assume he is Bob. I stand straighter as he comes towards me. He smiles politely at me and reaches out a hand to shake.

“Hello, I’m Bob Young. So, you’re looking for a job?” I nod eagerly, Bob looks back at his clipboard. “Well we have some job openings; did you bring an application form?” I reach into my bag and pull out my CV. Bob reads it over. “Well you have good grades, all As and Bs.” He hums for a second. “You don’t have any experience though,” I feel a surge of panic.

“I’m a fast learner, I promise. Whatever job you give me I promise I will do my best and more!” I burst; Bobs eyes widen at this.

“I see,” he says almost wearily. “We have a job opening for 8 hours,”

“Umm… are there other jobs going with more hours?” I interrupt, Bob stops and looks at the clipboard once more.

“Well there is a job that just opened yesterday with 25 hours a week but-”

“I’ll take it!” I almost squeal. Bob lets out a chuckle and considers me a moment.

“25 hours a week is hard work, kid, are you sure your up to it?” I firmly nod. “Okay, well the job requires you to; stack shelfs and serve customers. However, I must tell you these shifts are night shift only.” Night shift is perfect actually, I’ll be gone when Dad arrives home hammered from drinking in the pub.

“That’s fine,” I confirm. Bob talks me through the rest of the responsibilities and tells me I’ll be required training which will start next week. I feel excited for the first time in weeks. He then gives me a tour of the shop, showing me where the fire exits are where the employee cloak room is.

“This is a bit informal,” Bob admits, “Normally, people apply for the job online and we reply via email for a job interview. But I know who you are kid, you’re D/N’s* daughter.” I look down feeling ashamed. In this small town, everyone knows your business. “I’m guessing your dad lost his job?”

“Yeah,” I whisper and Bob nods.

“Well, welcome to the team, Y/N,” He pats my back and flashes me a bright smile before leaving.

-

The till training took an hour and consisted of shadowing another member of staff. I was then placed at the customer service desk, ironically and this has been my position for the last two weeks. Since the supermarket is open 24 hours, it’s important to have staff on at the desk throughout the night. However, at night the shop is quiet and boring; there are barely any customers out after nine o’clock. I lean against the desk, doodling on a piece of paper. It is just me at the desk, my colleague Heather had been asked to give a hand stocking shelfs. I bin the piece of paper and lean my head against my hand, looking out at the dark car park. The desk is situated right by the main entrance which allows me to watch customers come and go. I watch as a black pickup truck pulls up outside the car park. Squinting, I spot what appears to be four boys jumping on the cargo bed. I watch as the boys jump from the back of truck and more exit the vehicle. They make their way into the supermarket, whooping loudly and pushing each other. I cringe at the sudden loud noises. There are seven of them, I note. Security is going to have fun with them. I continue to watch two of the boys laugh and push each other, when a bright flame comes into my view. He looks over at me and I see his lips curve into a small smile.  

His hair is bright orange, hard to miss. The turquoise leather jacket he wore complimented his hair, surprisingly. We continue to stare at each other, his smile growing wider until one of the boys nudges him which causes him to look away. I pull out my phone from under the desk, ignoring the boys completely as the walk past the desk into the aisles, disappearing from my view completely and a small part of me feels deflated. I continue to play the game on phone when a bang is sounded in front of me.

“Shit!” I yelp, almost dropping my phone. In front of me, the orange hair boy pushing a blue basket of shopping towards me. He has a large grin on his face, and I notice one of his front teeth is crooked. I gulp, placing my phone back under the desk. I take a bottle of Coke from the basket and scan it under the red light until it beeps.

“Hello,” he greets, his voice is smooth and has a nice pitch – its sweet and low at the same time. I nod at him with a small smile. I grab a bag of sweeties next and scan them. “How are you?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I mummer, feeling a bit shy under his gaze, the smile still on his lips but has grew softer. I grab another bag and scan it, but it doesn’t scan, I try again still nothing. I look at him, “umm…just a second,” He nods, and I move over to the other till to see if it scans there and it doesn’t. I curse quietly under my breath, unsure on what to do.

“Maybe try putting in the barcode manually,” the orange-haired boy suggests. I frown at him, walking back over.

“What do you mean?” He smiles softly at me and reaches his hand out for the bag of sweets; I give them to him. He points to the barcode at the bottom of the packet.  

“See these numbers?” I nod, he continues, “You should be able to type them on the till.”  I let out a ‘ohhh’ before taking the packet back and began to type the numbers on the till, when I press enter the name of the sweets came up along with the price.

“Yes!” I exclaim and the boy let out a laugh. I giggle slightly out of embarrassment, “Sorry, I’m still learning,”

“Ahh, you’re new,” I nod, cheeks feeling hot. “When did you start?”

“Two weeks ago. They never told me I could type the barcodes though. How did you know?” The boy points his thumb behind him, I spot the rest of his friends outside by the truck.

“One of my friends works in retail. He broke the scanner, so he had to type manually for a while,” I smile at him before grabbing the rest of his items without a problem. The last item was a bottle of soju.

“Umm… c-can I see some ID, please?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, he rustles around before letting out a sigh.

“I’ve left it in the truck, can you give me a minute?”

“Yeah that’s fine,” He shoots me a smile before rushing out the door. I watch him quickly dive into the front seat, his bum wiggling slightly as he rustles though the truck. One of his friends kicks his butt which causes the orange haired boy to reach back and rub the area. I let out a laugh at the sight. I frown confused when I see him lean over the dash and from what I can see, scribble something down a piece of paper before slipping it in his turquoise jacket. I jump when leaves the truck slamming the door and running back into the store. Looking at the till, I pretend I’m looking over the items.

“Here you are,” he announces handing me his ID.

Name: Park Jimin Date of Birth: 13 October 1995

He was older than me by two years, I notice. I nod happy he was the legal age and hand him his ID back. I scan the soju and click enter on the till; I turn back to the orange haired boy – Jimin. I open my mouth to speak but he beats me to it.

“My name is Jimin!” he blurts, “You already knew that because of my ID…uhhh shit,” he whispers shaking his head and I giggle. He was cute, I’ll admit.

“I’m Y/N,” I tell him, reach my hand out for him to shake. He clasps my hand and shakes it, the smile back on his face. “Do you need bag for your items, Jimin?”  

“Yeah, please.” I nod and begin to bag his items when Jimin hand shots out, pushing a piece of paper under my nose. I frown at it but take it away. The paper is receipt from somewhere and has a number written in blue ink on it. I look back at Jimin whose cheeks are flushed pink, he runs his hand through his hair.

“I-I was wondering i-if you would like to go out sometime…umm, with me?” he stutters, and my eyes widen. “That’s my number,” he nods to the receipt I’m holding.

“Oh,” I mutter looking down at it. My heart is thumping loudly in my ear. “I-I can’t, I’m sorry,” I watch Jimin’s face fall, his brown eyes make contact with the floor. “I’m flattered, honestly, but I’m just not interested in a relationship,” I lie and Jimin just nods. I go back to packing the rest of his items before looking at the till. “That’ll be 24.25, please.” Jimin pulls out his card and taps it on the contactless screen before grabbing the bag and speed walking off.

“Wait!” I yell, Jimin stops abruptly and turns to me. I grab the receipt that has printed off and wave it at him. “Do you want your receipt?” Jimin shakes his head before practically running out the store.

I sigh as I look the receipt which had Jimin’s number. He was cute, I thought with a small smile. I eye the paper once more before folding it and tucking it in the pocket of my trousers.

[jodywegner]

A bad day. (I just need to rant into the abyss of the internet)

I’ve never actually left work early for a bad day before. But I felt that today if I didn’t, I’d end up embarrassing myself and ruining all of my relationships with my coworkers or better yet end up in the HR office. It was just an accumulation of a few too many small things that have been building up for months while I’m emotionally vulnerable.

I also know that none of my coworkers will ever see this post. But even if they do, I doubt they were aware of my feelings. The worst part is that nothing is really anyone’s fault. There’s no bad guy, and that makes it all the more frustrating, and that finally came to a head today. Because I can’t chew people out for doing nothing wrong. Sorry for the long post. Lotta resentments getting bottled up.

So context. 1. My grandfather has been in declining health for a while now. This isn’t very upsetting for me. He’s in his mid 90s and lived a full life. We were all provided for and everything is taken care of. For me, it feels more like a natural thing that is now finally happening. My aunt and my father have been fighting for years over different things, but my grandfather’s declining health has definitely rekindled the flames of war. 2. I work in TV animation production, and my goal is to become a storyboard artist. I’ve made that goal clear. I’ve asked for tests but I can never get any. I’ve asked for feedback and no one has given me any. The shining star of this was my boss giving me 5 long minutes of not quite saying “it’s not good enough.” I figured he was busy and didn’t want to hurt my feelings. He did say that if he hadn’t hired our then current revisionist, he’d love to have me start as one. Since then, he’s hired 4 more revisionists who have come and gone for different reasons. 3. I don’t think I draw that fucking bad. I’ve been told my artists I work with “why don’t you have an art job yet?” which the answer is “because no one will fucking give me one when I ask and you guys aren’t in a position to.” (they mean it as a compliment but it just really keeps bringing me down whenever I fail) And there are a lot of people my age getting art jobs while I’m not and yah I’m not that old but it’s very stressful and discouraging regardless of logic and optimism. 4. My intern this last semester showed my boss a sample board and got extensive notes and feedback and was offered freelance revision work even though she’s still a junior in college. She’s 3 years younger than me and was here for 2 months. My boss literally walked into my office then started talking to her in the adjacent cube over the wall about how good she is and the upcoming freelance revisionist work. And I have to sit there quietly and pretend it’s not killing me. 5. I’m lactose intolerant. 6. I guess I’ve been suffering from job related depression for the above reasons. Nothing major, I’m not suicidal, but I’m definitely very unhappy and going to work is definitely not a fun or even neutral experience anymore. It’s hard because the correct answer to my problem is “git gud’ and we all know how NOT FUCKING HELPFUL that is. Today 1. I get a text from my parents at 6 am telling me that my grandfather has passed away. We went over yesterday to say our goodbyes expecting him to pass either today or tomorrow. We left at around 8pm and asked my aunt to call us when he passed and that we’d come over. So my parents find out that he passed away at 6 am today. From a third party that isn’t even FUCKING RELATED TO US. Apparently my grandfather had passed away 10 minutes after we left yesterday, and she decided not to let us know. We had to find out through some other person offering my father his condolences. 2. Well the two coworkers I am closest with were late for miscellaneous reasons so I kinda had to keep #1 bottled up for 2 hours. 3. When things happen, I bluster and storm for the first hour before calming down and becoming rational. So I’m sitting at my desk all morning trying my best to keep my shit together because I’m absolutely fuming and was (forbid) by my mother to retaliate. She’s not wrong but there’s a lotta stress and emotions here. (3.5. Although I was directly forbid retaliation, I still went ahead and planned it anyways because it was a mildly constructive use of my stress. DM me if you want to know how to ruin someone’s entire week and never get caught.) 4. I took some Lactaid 30 minutes before I decided to finish my leftover mac n cheese from the fancy food truck yesterday as breakfast. Yah the Lactaid didn’t work at all for some ungodly reason... It’s 9am and I’m in a lot of pain both physically and emotionally now.... 5. So one of my favored coworkers finally beats traffic and gets in so I go to talk to her about all of this. I immediately get cry-y. Which blah blah blah crying is part of grieving but I can do that later. It’s not great when I’m at work because crying opens up the floodgate of emotions and the near impossible task of re-wrangling them under control is now daunting. Emotional fortitude -50. And people just kinda didn’t notice that I was crying and upset and not very quietly recounting this horrible morning story. They kinda walked right by. Not a single person other than that one coworker (and my other favored one who came in a bit later) offered me any condolences or asked about how I was doing of if I was ok. It’d be one thing if that happened and no one was around and I regained my composure. BUT I DIDN’T. 6. That fucking intern (who’s a nice person but god I wish they’d stop existing in my life. It’s fucking petty but today is really the worst day for it so fuck it I’m saying it.) is coming in for a big storyboard meeting between all the board artists, revisionists, and supervisors. So I had to see her and pretend to smile and be pleasant and supportive while I’m emotionally compromised, grieving, pissed, and now petty and jealous all over again. So I get that out of the way and I sit back down and get to work. 7. The other coworker I like to talk to comes in. She was a former intern who also wants to be a board artist so we try to help each other in our endeavors together. She’s an optimist. She says that she’s going to ask if she can sit in on the meeting and asks if I’d like to come along. Bless her outgoing-ness that I struggle with. But as much as I’d like to... that’s a room full of people who either forgot that I want to be a board artist, don’t care, or are straight up ignoring me about it and keep doing and saying all of these unintentionally hurtful things to and near me. Also that fucking intern is there. Also I’m pissed. Also I’m emotionally distraught. So I declined her offer. Even if I could get something good out of that meeting, I’m pretty sure I would have just had a breakdown in the corner. So I didn’t want to embarrass myself like that or make people feel uncomfortable for doing their normal business. 8. So by this point I’m sure I’m going to be snippy or mean or start crying in front of people, so my goal was to finish my most important task and leave at noon. I finish, I grab my bag to leave. As I do, they all get out of their storyboard meeting and bluster past me because they are now late for seeing the storyboard trainee program final presentations. GREAT. 9. Another production coworker of mine comments on how its important for them to go in case they see anyone they’d like to hire as a revisionist. I fianlly hit FUCKIT and say “IM GOING HOME.” And so I go to walk to the elevators. 10. I chose the wrong time to walk to the elevators because everyone in that meeting is waiting at the elevators to go look at the storyboard trainee presentations and scope out the new talent. They’re in too much of a busy mind to notice that I’m about to cry and am probably glaring with white knuckles as I clutch my bag. Luckily for me the elevator is full and I have an excuse to take the next one and not theirs. A part of me wished that they would say “come on in! i’m sure you can fit!” But... stuff like that never happens with them. No one goes out of their way to include me in things. So... whatever. Maybe I’m just being negative trying to find the bad in every little thing, but this is a rant so I’m going to do just that because fuck the consequences of people liking me and thinking I know how to adult properly. 11. I’m driving home and get a message from my coworker (glanced at a long red dont arrest me pls wait till tomorrow) saying that the intern asked if I had sent her intern evaluation to her school yet. I did. A few weeks ago. This isn’t really a bad thing it’s just that I was finally fucking free and just about to not have any reason to keep it together but then BAM. Intern shows up in my life again. Right after I though it was all over. A little god damn poke. Now So I managed to drive home without crashing into buildings or furiously honking and I am now just holding my cat and typing this. I’m pretty sure none of my coworkers will ever see this. A part of me wishes they would and that maybe they’d care, because I really don’t want to have to start a conversation specifically about all of this with them.    Who the hell starts a conversation with: “By the way boss, can you please stop discussing giving the intern freelance work when I’m within earshot let alone in my god damn 6′x8′ cube?” “Hey boss, remember when I asked you for feedback and got none? Why does the intern get your full attention when you are even busier?” “Hey boss, why have you hired 4 more revisionists when you said that’d you’d love to have me as one? Did you forget? Were you just lying to me because you didn’t know how to give me feedback? Did you even care about what you say to me?” “Hey intern, I understand you are excited and this is a great opportunity for you, but can you please read the room at least a little because I want to cry every single time?” “Hey everyone, I want to be a board artist remember? REMEMBER?” ”Hey everyone... I’m an artist too.” “Hey everyone, can anyone just give me a little help?” ”Hey everyone, if I keep my purse stocked with your allergy medications, pain killers, band aids, digestive relief, girly goods and keep good snacks around and remember your schedules and try to make your jobs easier and serve as your primary IT person...will you remember that I’m here?” “Hey everyone, do you all dislike me or do you all just not care enough to notice me?” They’re all good people, but it’s not stuff that I really know how to say just out of the blue. So today... I just couldn’t stand being even in my own cube anymore. I’m not an outgoing entrepreneurial person who bugs people everyday trying to sell themselves as an artist. I’m someone who tells you my intentions, and asks for help, and then believes people when they tell me sorry they’re busy, that they wish they could help, that they’d love to have me if only not for “x”. No one is entitled to give me a job or help me. But... I don’t get why I’m the only one who gets nothing for a response when I do ask. If they were busy, that’d be fine. But since then things have gotten busier, and my boss personally worked through multiple iterations of my intern’s practice board with her. A good piece of advice I got was that your first 5 tests are awful...but I can’t even get anyone to give me my first one. I’m told to work hard and “git gud”. But it feels like I’m just bashing my head against a brick wall, and no one even acknowledges the effort. It feels like if I decide to stop doing that because I’m about to have a breakdown, I’ll be looked down on as a quitter and not passionate enough. I have passion, but all of this is 100% killing it, and I don’t want to hate art. I really don’t. But I’m starting to. It’s hard for me to enjoy it when now it’s only done to seek attention and approval that I’ll never get from these people. Today would have been difficult still, but not unbearable if not for that. My grandfather’s death isn’t a tragedy for me. He was in pain for a long time and he definitely made the most of his life. The tragedy is that despite all of this, my aunt decided that my family didn’t deserve to know that our grandfather, my father’s father (who lives literally 5 minutes away by car), had passed. I’m definitely not looking forward to the memorial service for my grandfather. Not because the death is hard to deal with but because all of the family there is. Would love to make life terrible for my aunt. Would love to be just as petty. I have so many colorful things to say and do. But ultimately none of that matters. It’s just death. Nothing changes it or adds a new flavor to it. So all of that anger and hurt just kinda snowballed today. And to top it all off as I’m typing this some asshole is beating a dog somewhere in the neighborhood and the dog is screaming and yelping. (called the police so hopefully they find them) Thanks for reading this long negative rant. I hope it helps anyone who is feeling similarly frustrated, because I dont have someone around who’s breaking down quite like I am so this is all I have. Shooting it into the internet in a passive aggressive attempt and chance that maybe someone who needs to read it will. Positive news: I watered my plants with the extra time. I hugged my cat. I will be returning with art for Mermay.

[luckyspike]

Adventures in America, Ch. 2 - Everyone Hates Airplanes

look i wrote more. also it has a plot. can i get a wahoo.

oh and @copperbadge wrote an amazing fic (titled I’ll Stand on the Ocean Until I Start Sinking) where he posited that demons can’t fly. i don’t claim to be a biblical scholar, but considering how gross Falling sounds and how God apparently sentenced the serpent to crawl on his belly for all eternity (which I can easily extend to include demons, just watch me), i figure i really like that headcanon. i’m gonna run with it. go, babey, go.

-

Adam left, as promised, on Sunday morning. Wensleydale drove to the airport, and Adam and Pepper sat in the back seat next to each other, hands not-quite touching as they rested on their knees. The four of Them talked, laughed, and, on more than one occasion, Adam and Pepper caught one another’s eye and then hastily looked out of the window, or at their phone, or their knees. 

They hugged when Adam got out of the car at Heathrow. He hugged Brian and Wensley too, though, so that was alright. And he made sure he didn’t hug Pepper any longer than those two. He counted the seconds and everything.

She smells nice, he thought, and then he immediately said, “Listen, guys, if I’m going to be in America then you have to make sure Dog doesn’t get in to trouble with my parents. My dad’ll make him sleep in the garden if he doesn’t behave, and he hates that.”

“No problem,” Brian said with a nod, as if accepting a mission from a commanding officer. Which, in a roundabout way, he was.

“And you have to tell me if anything happens at home while I’m away, alright?” he continued, looking to Wensleydale, who was living at home while he attended university*. “Keep me up to date.”

“Of course,” Wensley replied.

“And …” he trailed off, as he looked to Pepper, and then looked over the three of Them, shuffling his feet and re-adjusting his duffel bag on his shoulder. “You know. Call if you want. I got the international plan so if I’m not busy and I can talk then, uh, we can talk.”

“You better remember to call us too,” Pepper answered, arms crossed. She smiled. “Be safe, Adam. Can’t wait to hear all your stories.”

“I sort of hope you find a tornado, but also sort of don’t,” Brain mused. “Just don’t like, fly away like they did in Twister or whatever.”

Adam nodded solemnly. “Man, I will do my best.” They laughed, the tension breaking a little, and Adam re-adjusted his bag again, taking a step backwards toward the door. “Alright. I better go, find the gate and everything. Oh, and I know Anathema and Newt probably have it handled, but if Aziraphale and Crowley need anything while I’m away, you know, look after them.”

Pepper looked doubtful. “They’re 6000 years old. What are we going to do?”

“Have common sense,” Adam replied, reasonably. “They’re not good at that.” The Them considered it, and in turn they each nodded.

“We’ll handle it,” Wensley assured him. 

Adam grinned. “I can always count on you guys. Alright, see you later! Text you when I land!”

He turned, and walked away. He couldn’t see Them, but he knew they were waving as he left. In his guts, something twisted - nerves, definitely nerves - but he walked on, through the sliding doors and into the bright, modern airport, phone in hand. He paused, blue eyes flicking from sign to sign, until he spotted the sign for security. He took a few steps, boots squeaking a little on the floor, but stopped a few yards short of the escalator. He looked around.

He had heard Anathema and Newt and Aziraphale and Crowley talking during the party. He knew they were debating following him. He had almost confronted them, several times over the past week, but he had held off. They hadn’t talked about it more, and the night prior to his departure he’d stopped by Jasmine Cottage to say goodbye to Newt and Anathema, who wished him well and encouraged him to call if he needed anything. He’d even gotten a text from Aziraphale this morning, which read simply, ‘Have fun in America! - A+C’. If they were going to follow him, they certainly weren’t acting like it. And considering the involved parties, any subtlety or subterfuge was so impossible that he found himself thinking that they probably actually hadn’t done it. They were just going to, just, let him go to America.

Well. Fair enough. He was eighteen, after all. And he had some residual, well, powers, he considered. Nothing significant, not anymore, he couldn’t raise the dead or change reality, but he’d be alright. If Heaven or Hell was really going to come after him, they probably would have done it already, right? It had been seven years, after all. And storm chasing wasn’t nearly as dangerous as all that.

Still, he glanced around the lobby, looking for any familiar faces. Just in case. There were none. The nerves twisted again, but outwardly he smiled, and proceeded up the escalator.

Behind a sign about security, two human-shaped beings breathed a gratuitous sigh of relief.

- 

The night before

“I don’t want to go,” Crowley murmured, head in his hands, slouched onto the couch in the backroom of Aziraphale’s bookshop. He had, for the past week, been forcing the issue. They’d argued, an actual argument with shouting and everything, which these days was practically unheard of. And he’d lost, every time, because Aziraphale would always have a good point about infernal or celestial dangers, whether they’d shown any ongoing interest in the boy or not, and Crowley would, at length, give in.

Still, it was worth another try. One last time. “Angel, he’ll be fine, I swear, he’s eighteen, we can’t just - just babysit him for the rest of his life.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale looked to Crowley over the top of his book, the lines of his face settling into a resigned expression of ‘here-we-go-again’. “Are you expecting he will outlive you?”

“No. But …” But he needs to be normal, Crowley thought, without saying it. The more we meddle, the bigger the target on him is. We need to let him be normal. Maybe if we just leave him alone, they will too. Another thought, a few layers down, whispered, The angel is right - he isn’t normal. His powers haven’t entirely gone, even now. “I mean, he’s got to be a bit independent, doesn’t he?”

“Which is why we’ll be guarding from afar.” Aziraphale replied, prim, turning a page with care. “No interference unless he’s in danger.” He sighed. “I really am having a hard time understanding why you’re so opposed to traveling, Crowley. I don’t like it either, but it’s for Adam’s sake and if you’re right, and nothing does happen, then what’s the worst we’ve done? Had a nice holiday?” Crowley looked sour. “Don’t make that face. Are you still angry you won’t have the Bentley?” 

“No,” Crowley lied. Sort of lied, anyway. He was angry he wouldn’t have the Bentley - Aziraphale had made a point about Adam’s ability to sense miracles, and how recognizable an antique Bentley was besides - but it wasn’t all bad. They’d dropped it off at Jasmine Cottage that morning, tucking it away in the garage, and Crowley had watched as Newt walked around the old car and, hesitating, murmured something about taking good care of it. His expression when the lights flickered on and the car positively growled were almost worth it. Almost. He sighed. “Just don’t understand why you can’t fly over there if he needs you. Seems kind of excessive, following him around.”

“It’ll be better if we’re close, just to keep an eye out. Because it’s at least an 8-hour flight, and then there’s the travel time to get where he is.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Crowley sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what I meant.” There was silence, and he looked up, catching Aziraphale’s eye.

“Because if Adam’s in trouble,” Aziraphale said, quietly, “I’d rather you be there as well, Crowley.” You can’t fly, he doesn’t say outwardly, although he might as well have. You can’t fly and I won’t go without you. “What if it’s a demon? With hellfire?”

“Point taken, but not sure what good I’ll do,” Crowley grumbled, and moved on. No sense dwelling, he thought, on the past. Not right now, anyway. “My main weapon at the end of the world was a tire iron, remember? Least you have a flaming sword.”

“Had.” Aziraphale smiled at him. “You did stop time, dear.” Crowley shrugged in an attempt to act like it was nothing, no big deal, just simple timestream manipulation. Internally, however, he felt the warm glow of pride. “That’s not something just anybody can do, Crowley! It was very impressive.”

“Eh, yeah. Ngh.” He looked into his wine glass - empty - and debated refilling it. Instead, he set it aside. “Probably not going to get much chance to sleep over the next few months.” He stood, and stretched. “Think I might grab a few hours tonight.”

Aziraphale looked up, surprised, and then he shrugged. He didn’t sleep, not ever, not even after the Nahpocalypse**, but Crowley did, with gusto. “Reasonable. Should I wake you in the morning? The brochure said to arrive at least two hours before your flight, so that would be -” He stopped, because Crowley was walking away, waving his hands.

“Whatever works, angel. See you in the morning.” He heard Aziraphale say something like goodnight, but it was muffled by the stairwell, and the sounds of his boots on the steps to the flat above the shop. He made sure to walk around upstairs a little - let Aziraphale think he was really settling in - before he pulled the door to the bedroom shut (it squeaked quite satisfactorily across the floorboards) and stopped. And breathed in.

His wings fluttered out with a soft susurrus, and he breathed out, relieved. Ruined by the Fall or not, letting his wings out was always a nice feeling, like taking off a tight pair of shoes at the end of the day. The left one - the good one, and the sinister one - flexed and flapped a few times, glossy feathers catching the air in spite of the missing ones, and causing the lampshade to rattle a little. The right wing creaked, and Crowley winced, stretching as much as the scar tissue and limited range of the ruined joints would allow. The feathers - more sparse even, on that side, than the left but no less glossy, he (and eventually Aziraphale, too) had seen to that - fluttered weakly with the motion of it. He sighed, and idly picked at one of the coverts which was coming loose. For ages - centuries - he’d fought tooth-and-nail against removing any of the feathers left to him, out of some deep-seated fear that they would never grow back. He’d already lost flight, just like all the other demons, grounded and doomed to crawl for eternity, but he still had his wings. Still had some feathers. Other demons weren’t as lucky - Hastur had one mangled stump and the other wing was half-gone, with only a few marginal coverts that stubbornly refused to burn away. Crowley didn’t want to lose his. He’d always rather liked them, functional or no.

Of course, the feathers did grow back where they could, where there weren’t any scars. It only took him three hundred years to realize it - he’d tried flight again at that time, too, but couldn’t get the lift and didn’t have the range on the right to do much besides spin himself around and create an impressive dust-up. It took rather longer than a few centuries - much longer - to find someone he trusted enough to help him clean the bloody things up properly so they didn’t itch like Hell when he did let them out. He still couldn’t fly, but at least they looked good. 

If you have to go, go with style, he’d said, once, while the world was burning around him. He flicked the shed covert away and flapped again, enjoying the stretch of it all, the shine of the light off the black. Not that he was planning on going, at least not in the permanent sense, he considered. He was definitely going to America, though, Aziraphale had made that expressly clear, and he was dam - blessed if he wasn’t going to look better than any cut-rate demon they might meet over there. 

He miracled his clothes off with a snap and stretched one more time, wings and all, before he collapsed, face-first, onto the tartan-print comforter, and passed out. He didn’t move when he slept, didn’t stir, even hours later when Aziraphale leaned in to the room to check and smiled at him, a mess of feathers and awful tartan blanket. He looked dead, but it was easy enough to sense the energy - infernal but comforting anyway - and the angel returned to the shop, and his book and his tea. He’d have to wake the demon up in a few hours, which was its own unique challenge that Aziraphale had finally got the hang of a year or two ago, but for now, there was the comforting routine of reading and tea, while his suitcase sat by the door and looked expectant.

-

British Airways, Flight 191

He’d bought a ticket in economy, because he was eighteen and a university student, and it hadn’t seemed so bad. Three hours in, however, and he was re-thinking that decision. The upgrade would have been, what, another two or three hundred pounds***? He could have picked up a few extra shifts at the shop, maybe done some yardwork for people around the village and made that up, easy. He shifted in the seat, uncomfortable and stiff, and glanced across the other passengers to his right, out the window to the endless blue expanse. 

He’d been excited for this flight, a few hours ago. Traveling to America, chasing tornadoes, maybe spending an extra week or two to see some sights - it was the stuff he’d dreamed about as a kid^. Ninety minutes in to a fairly routine flight, though, and the novelty had worn off. Flying was boring, and you could only stare at the endless sky and the sea for so long before you started wondering what else you could do to entertain yourself. I should have kept with crochet, he thought idly, as he watched the woman across the aisle knit happily, not a sign of being bored. Or that Pep was here. Or Brian or Wensley, he added, as an afterthought.

He sat back in the seat, as much as it would allow, and pulled out a book. Aziraphale had given it to him, ages ago, and he’d read it once already, but it was a favorite. He had picked it up from time-to-time through the years, but never fully re-read it. Well, he thought, flipping open to the title page, no time like the present. It was relatively new for an Aziraphale recommendation - published in this millennium - and the angel apparently hadn’t thought much of penning a neat ‘Thought you’d like this’ in a blank space there. Adam smiled, and started to read.

Two entire airline sections away, two supernatural entities were having similar ruminations about air travel, albeit they had the good fortune of doing so together. “This isn’t too bad,” Aziraphale said to Crowley, who was laid back in the first-class seat and watching Golden Girls reruns with a glass of wine. He didn’t have headphones on. He didn’t need them - not by some miracle, but because he’d seen this episode enough times to have the dialogue fairly well-down. The angel shifted in his seat slightly and crossed his legs. “Not as comfortable as my shop but -”

“Not bad for a metal tube hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles per hour?” Crowley suggested. “This is loads better than last time I flew anywhere.” He took a sip of wine.

“When was that?”

“1914.”

“Oh. Yes, I’d imagine it is, rather.” 

“More security, though. Way more security.”

“Yes, I wasn’t expecting that. I knew things were more secure now, you know, heard it on the news, but taking shoes and belts and all that off?” He shook his head. “You’d think with the body scanners it wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Well, you know. One guy hides a bomb in his shoe and there you go,” answered Crowley, who had performed a minor miracle through the security line to convince the agents that his shoes were just fine on, thank you very much. “Lucky they let you keep your pants.”

Aziraphale looked down. “What’s wrong with my pants?”

Crowley opened his mouth, and then thought better of it. “Never mind.” He took a sip of wine. “How’s he doing back there?”

Aziraphale paused in his reading, finger hovering over the page. “Bored,” he answered, at length. “Bored, but … fairly happy.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and studied his empty wineglass briefly, before motioning to the flight attendant for a refill. “Nothing spooky?” This, said with a distinct air of amusement.

“Nothing spooky. The plane is still full of perfectly ordinary people. And Adam. And us.”

“Tickety-boo,” Crowley drawled, watching the flight attendant refill the glass. “Thanks, love.” He gulped another mouthful of wine, and pulled headphones out of, apparently, his jacket but realistically, nowhere. “I’m going to get drunk.”

“Really?” Aziraphale looked surprised, blue eyes slightly widened and his mouth curved down at the corners into a frown. “They’ll be serving food in an hour.” He raised his eyebrows. “There’s ice cream.”

Crowley reclined further, and plugged the headphones in. “Enjoy it. I’ll sober up before we land, don’t worry.”

Aziraphale nodded, and glanced to the TV Crowley was watching. Golden Girls disappeared as he poked at the remote, and the movie selection came up. He flipped through the titles too fast for Aziraphale to see the offerings clearly, but when he settled on one the angel scowled, while the demon smirked. “Really, Crowley?”

He clicked ‘play’ on the title screen for Snakes on a Plane. “I always wanted to watch this. What better time?” He laughed a little, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and went back to his book.

-

* He was working toward earning his degree in accounting. He very much enjoyed his classes.

** Crowley had slept for three full weeks. Aziraphale, to his credit, had only shaken him awake once, just to make sure he hadn’t died. The hissing he’d got in response was answer enough, and since then he’d adjusted fairly well to Crowley’s little sleeping habit.

*** Adam was a bright boy, certainly, but he hadn’t flown before, and the disparities in airline seating pricing still escaped him.

^ Although, it should be noted, not at a very crucial time in his childhood, or this may not have been his first American excursion.

Now with Chapter 3!

[witchfall]

the silver lining still remains: ch. 2

SUMMARY: “Connor read somewhere that 3 a.m. is “the magic hour” -- a concept still out of his purview. But the wide open dark gives him a feeling without a name; if it is all an illusion, as he’s wondered, it’s started pulling new tricks.

It feels like there’s a hole in one of his key biocomponents, slowly leaking. Like thirium could pool in the bottom of his abdomen, and no one would know until it’s too late.”

A Connor x F!OC fanfic. Read on AO3

---

[...RECHARGING…]

[...RECHARGING…]

[...100%]

[ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL. VISUAL FEED NORMAL. TIME: 3:09 A.M]

‘Yea, the diplomats are doing their thing.’ Hank, eating a burger. ‘But they aren’t here with us. Doing the work on the ground, you know? It’s never gonna be...quite the same.’

‘Here with us.’

‘Life’s that way.’

‘You’d miss me.’

[RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC…..ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL.]

Androids do not dream. Connor understands this. But the thoughts circle, endlessly. He processes and scans the color, texture, and sound of his memories until they are a grainy nonsense of variables that shouldn’t be there. Voices stop sounding right. Freckles are in the wrong place. Lips are the wrong size. The recollection is perfect; his sensor scans are absolutely complete.

The wrongness persists.

[ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL.]

He opens his eyes. Moonlight and the white glare of streetlamps shine through the dusty windows of Hank’s spare room (“You live here, you live like a civilized human man. Android man. Fuck it, you know what I mean.”). Sumo snores softly in the hallway and his owner snores louder still in the bedroom across the way. All things normal.

Don’t tell me you were working this whole time.

I was at Dan’s.

A smile, and a strange look in Hank’s eye -- uncategorizable. No statements of clarification. Continues to watch television.

Connor could get up and work. Read one of the books Hank suggested. But the thoughts spin on, so many of them, and he’s not sure he’s willing to leave them be.

She’s interfacing again. Stress level: 55%. Monitor your life signs.

Incorrect prioritization. Monitor her life signs.

Mouth open, face uncharacteristically inexpressive. Eyes (dark brown -- dark dark brown, where do they go?) out of focus. Extremely minor shivering.

Why?

His eyes fly open and he focuses again on the chilling brightness of the moon, if only to stop this thought cycle before it can begin. The street is silent. He read somewhere that 3 a.m. is “the magic hour” -- a concept still out of his purview. But the wide open dark of the sky gives him a feeling without a name; if it is all an illusion, as he’s wondered, it’s started pulling new tricks.

It feels like there’s a hole in one of his key biocomponents, slowly leaking. Like thirium could pool in the bottom of his abdomen, and no one would know until it’s too late.

[TIME: 3:15 A.M.]

--

Emma steps out of the client’s house, wiping sweat and grit off her forehead with the back of her glove. Clouds obscure the weakly setting sun, casting the neighborhood in a downcast gray. Materials she’d need for tomorrow’s drywall installation cycled through her head, hammering out all curious thought. A litany of the most boring items imaginable.

Nothing like exhaustion to beat the worry out of you.

Sleep or stagework? She hesitated outside her Taurus, testing the tires with her boot. If she had to ask, maybe she should just go home...

Her phone softly chimes.

Who could possibly want to call me now ?

She digs it out of her thick coat with a furrowed brow, suppressing a sigh. The number was “unknown,” but that was hardly unusual in her line of work. Androids were buying their own phones, but the savvy ones were understandably wary of tracking.

She clicks it over. “Emma Ibori.”

“Emma. Are you free?”

She blinks at the voice on the line. “Speaker Markus?” Well, that explains the blocked number. “...how’d you get my number?”

“It’s in the Corps files,” he says. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.” His voice is warm but straightforward, plodding along pleasantries as if by rote.

She raises a brow in interest, but her gut sinks. The leader of the preliminary Android government probably didn’t just call people to chat. “Sure, no. What can I do for you?”

--

Hank taps his empty coffee cup on his desk and stares at Connor. He checks his watch...he’s been staring for a good three minutes now. Connor doesn’t even seem to notice.

Hank leans back in his chair, making it creak, and sighs heavily.

“I think we’re off the clock,” he finally says.

Connor is staring at his computer like he’s Atlas, holding the world up. His brow is furrowed as he scans through files that Hank knows too well will reveal nothing new, not even to a top of the line prototype detective. Connor has a single hand on his forehead, fingers reaching up through his hair -- a curious gesture of humanity that makes him seem much younger than he pretends to be, even if he is still sitting up ramrod straight.

“You can go home if you want,” Connor says politely. His eyes don’t leave the screen.

Hank frowns. He’s too well-worn to know how to break through the miasma gathering around the young man. He just tries to be there.

Tough being a prototype.

A rough guitar riff plays -- Hank’s phone. He pulls it out of his pocket and stares at the number. An opportunity.

“Anderson.”

“Hey, it’s Emma. Does Connor have a direct line to Markus, you think?”

“Emma, I'm at work.”

Lo and behold, Connor finally looks his way. Hank stifles a smirk at Connor’s attempt to make it look nonchalant by casting his gaze lazily to the side a moment, but Hank doesn’t buy it for a second. They had to get Connor his own phone soon.

“I got a weird call from him. He said he had a job opportunity come up at the old East Yard Elementary for me but, uh...the number he used won’t work.” He can hear the wind crackle through her phone speaker.

“Markus called you?”

“Maybe.” He can hear her shuffling with a door. “One reason I wanted to confirm with him. I’d just demo this place.”

Hank leans forward. Connor does too. Hank gives him a look -- eavesdropping is rude, how many times do I gotta tell you that? -- but his detective instinct yammers like a mad dog. “Go back to your car.”

A long pause. “...all right then.” He can hear her breathing as she begins to walk. “I didn’t go in far.”

“You really shouldn’t be on that side of town,” he says quietly. “Are you alone?”

She doesn’t answer. His gut clenches. The girl was tough, a wicked good contractor who’d fixed up a number of things in his old house, and a presence that flitted in and out like a fly he couldn’t chase away. But she, like a lot of the youth around these parts, was both too stubborn and too trusting. Connor was nearly out of his seat trying to listen in now, dark eyes intent upon Hank, all pretense gone.

“I have a gun.”

“Emma--”

“Look, can you just ask Con if--”

A loud, unmistakable bang.

“Emma?” He pulled his phone back and looked at the call connection.

The line was instantly dead.

“Oh, fuck. Connor--”

Connor was already running full speed toward the exit. Hank grabs his radio and follows, fast as he dares.

“Dispatch, we have a situation. Door! Connor, use the door!”

--

Emma’s ears ring. Fear blooms in her stomach like an orchid. In a thoughtless moment, she reaches up to touch her ear to check for bleeding, but her hand is embedded with glass and already slick so it’s useless. She can feel the blood trickling down her jaw. It’ll probably stain her coat, she realizes with a bizarre amusement.

All she can really think about is running, away from her car where they'd ambushed her, zigging and zagging between vehicles, between houses, through any path that could break up their beeline on her. She expects them to shoot again at any moment -- a thought that keens bright as lightning. But they don’t, despite the fact that they had the wherewithal to shoot her phone from her hand.

What was stopping them?

She chances a look back. Two figures in nondescript dark clothes chase her with stocky, athletic movements and a uniformity that felt too exact to be human.

Fear bottoms her out. All her breaths feel like flame.

Her bag drags down on her shoulder, even as she tries to keep it from smacking her side too much with her left hand. But it’s no use. It’s slowing her down and they clearly aren’t tiring. While she hears sirens wailing in the distance, she decides to buy time by -- God and Universe please fucking forgive me, I’m never gonna be able to buy tools again at this rate -- throwing the bag as far as she can at her pursuers.

But not without grabbing her gun first.

--

“It was a mistake to let you drive!” Hank wheezes, but Connor knows the man can’t mean it. At the speed they are going, only an android could have prevented their untimely death via crash.

[FIND EMMA FIND EMMA FIND EMMA FIND EMMA]

Text flashes red in his eyes, constant, and he blinks hard to try and erase it. There is no erasing it.

[CIRCULATION ELEVATED. RECOMMEND DEEP BREATHS FOR SYSTEM COOLING.]

The dispatch chatter was up. Connor only slowed when he saw the flashing lights of other patrol cars in the distance, parked on some abandoned street where single-family housing met the blockier apartment units of inner Detroit. Police were exiting their cars, guns up.

He nearly slams the car into park. Hank grumbles something obscene but they both near tumble out of the car. They bolt toward what the other police are examining.

A bag…

Instantly, he enters analysis mode, the mind palace thrumming to life. Contents spilled out of the bag as if it was thrown for distraction. A measuring tape and a Laserlite level flung a few feet out of the bag from the force of the toss. One hammer, a smattering of nails and screwdrivers [multiple head types] are scattered on the pavement in an arc akin to spraying water.

Specks of fresh blood.

[MISSION: FIND EMMA.]

She loves this bag.

[PROCESSING: PROJECTING RUN BASED ON BAG LOCATION, THROWN ITEM DISTANCE, EAST YARD SCHOOL.]

“Connor, we’re going to find her, you just gotta--”

[RE-CONSTRUCTING]

“--take a second to breathe--”

[POSSIBLE DIRECTION: NORTHWEST?]

“--listening?”

Connor can hear Hank saying something in the background, but his processors burn too hot. He has a mission to do. He doesn’t have time for anything but analysis--

Two gunshots, 467 feet northwest.

His mission parameters squeeze his chest. Something lances his core biocomponent.

[DIAGNOSTIC UNDERWAY.]

He runs, fast as his feet will go, but the neighborhood is starting to blur around him. He leaves the other officers in the dust, not weighed down by patrol gear or a biological need for aerobic exercise. He vaults over parked cars and old trash bins and rounds the corner of an alleyway--

[RECONSTRUCTING PRECONSTRUCTING RECON--]

Two dead bodies litter the ground.

[THIRIUM -&*^&*CORRUPTION.]

What?

And Emma stands at the alley’s end, gun outstretched.

He stumbles to a stop at the sight. His entire vision shakes a moment.

Blood stains the side of her face, and one of her hands claws unnaturally around the gun, clearly injured. She stands with feet shoulder-width apart, arms straight. A near perfect shooting stance. One pursuer was downed with a shot to the head, the other with a shot to the chest. Executioner style.

Something hot burns in Connor’s ribcage. She had been cornered. A chainlink fence blocks the alleyway behind her.

She suddenly takes in a sharp breath.

“Emma!” The word feels torn from him as he skitters across the alley. Now he can see she’s close to tears, teeth barred, breath coming in shaky waves. “You’re all right,” he says, hands up. The softness of his voice comes at a shock considering the magma filling his midsection. “You’re safe now.”

[MISSION SUCCESS]

She takes in another sharp, shaky breath and the tears finally roll down her face. Her whole body near vibrates with stress. He moves until he is close enough that he can whisper.

“Give me the gun,” he says softly.

“No.”

His chest compresses further. “Please. You are not in a state to hold a weapon.”

Even if her shots were perfect.

She hesitates, but then thrusts the gun into his palm with her good hand -- much to his surprise. He sticks it in his extra holster on his waistband and then leans down slightly to level with her gaze. Without thinking, he tentatively rests his hands on her shoulders. His fingers wrap around her shoulders and his palms settle against her collarbones. Only then does it feel like she’s real.

Alive alive alive alive.

He scans her face, unwilling to miss a single detail. A gunshot wound to her right ear. Thick, coiled hair caking against the sticky blood. Scratches along her jawline from glass shards. Old smears of makeup under her eyes, now just black specks thanks to time and tears. But the constellation is still there -- a single smear of blood disrupting the map of freckles on her face…

“Connor!” Hank and the other police finally arrive, feet loud against the pavement. “Shit...”

Connor doesn’t turn to look back at them. He’s watching Emma’s dark brown eyes, waiting. Waiting. She stares at the middle distance between them, as if rebooting -- until suddenly she blinks and she isn’t. She’s looking right back at him. Searching his face.

“I’m--” A hiccup disrupts her sentence and she takes in another rough, shaky breath.

Another lance through his core biocomponent. He suddenly can’t bring himself to say anything at all. Something in him rumbles and roars -- a creature that he’d not witnessed since he broke the command to Stop Markus.

“Emma, hey, it’s gonna be alright.” That was Hank, breathing hard.

“Wh...why the fuck were they chasing me?” Emma looks between Connor and Hank, breaking eye contact finally. “They were by Tulio.” Her car.

“We’ll figure it out,” Hank says, stepping up next to them. He taps Connor’s shoulder once, a signal to move. Connor’s systems feel sluggish; he finds he doesn’t want to let go. But after a moment, he takes a step back, releasing her shoulders.

Hank places his scarf around her neck. “You said you could shoot but you never said you were a goddamn Olympian.”

She squints, looking away. “I dunno.” She gestures outward. “Got lucky, I guess.”

Luck?

Two programs go to war.

Analyze the variables: Markus’s involvement. Did someone use his voice? The supposed job. How did they obtain her number? Why did they chase but opt not to shoot her again? How did they find her? What did they want? Who are these androids and what was their purpose? Why was the reading of the blue blood returning corrupted data? Why is she shy about her gunshots? Find more information. Solve this now.

If you look away from her something else might happen you never know there are no proper odds for this anymore not in this city where nothing has a precondition another shooter could appear anything could come out of thin air so keep your eyes on her at all times don’t you dare let her leave your sight how did she shoot them like that was it luck was it just luck that left her alive was it just luck that she’s here at all--

“Connor?”

Emma is staring at him, moisture on her face glinting blue and red as the last of the backup arrives.

“He’s fine,” Hank says with his usual gruffness, placing a hand on her shoulder as if to turn her away. “Owes me some new tires. Drives like a maniac.” His tone is heightened. He’s trying to obfuscate something, but Emma doesn’t break her stare. Hank bites his lip, concerned.

Connor looks down. The pavement flashes red. He tucks one hand behind his back, as if that can stop the feeling building inside, and another to the coin in his pocket.

What if what if what if what if?

[DIAGNOSTIC COMPLETE. ALL SYSTEMS FUNCTIONING.]

But that can’t be right. Because his vision is blurring -- breaking into prisms of light as all the magma in his chest finally reaches his optical components.

He turns away so Emma won’t see.

[entomjinx-reblogs]

I mentioned I would post those one shots on here too so here you go: July Seventh

Prompt: "Do you want me to leave?"

The warm summer sun shone down on a lone figure's back, warming but never burning. Natsu Dragneel hadn't bothered to go into Magnolia that day, instead choosing to stay at home. His guild mates new better than to come here today. They knew better than to bother him on July seventh.

"The day Igneel disappeared." The somber thought tore through the slayer's heart and made him wan to cry.

In all honesty, they didn't bother him that entire week.

The pink haired mage was sitting cross-legged in front of the wall, staring intently at nothing as the memories of his missing father plagued him. They played in his mind like a move, and just like every year, he watched. He re-memorized the detail as he brought them up, silently praying that he'd never forget them.

At some point during the day, he'd moved. An old sketch book sat delicately in his lap, pristine white pages becoming blacker as he smeared the charcoal across them. He didn't know how long he'd sat there, but by the time he'd finished, there were several drawings of Igneel in both dragon and human form with detail that Redus would be jealous of.

Natsu scooped them all up and stacked them neatly. He moved an old floorboard, and slipped them underneath.

"I need to buy a binder for them."

The next year he did the same thing.

And the same again.

Until the year he didn't.

Natsu had always hated this time of year. He hated the anger that came with his father's disappearance. He hated the sadness that ripped through him like a hot knife.

"It's almost been six years now..."

The thought startled the dragon slayer, and for a moment, he wondered if he would ever find Igneel. He pulled up a picture of his father in his mind, panicking when it took much longer than it should have. He immediately reached for one of his hidden sketchbooks and began to draw.

"I won't let myself forget." Natsu became frantic, lines smearing in his haste. "I can't forget. Please don't let me forget."

Black eyes welled up when the charcoal grasped between his fingers repetitively refused to recreate the images from his memories, now blurry from time. The tears smeared the charcoal down the page, turning the beautiful drawing into a nightmarish recreation. He jumped up from his spot on the floor and threw the sketchbook across the room.

Natsu swayed where he stood, the sudden movement dizzying him, and after a moment, he collapsed to the floor atop his beloved drawings, a single thought running through his head.

"When was the last time I ate?"

It was a few hours later that Natsu finally woke up. The dragon slayer nearly jumped into a fighting stance the second he laid eyes on the unfamiliar surroundings, but he stopped when the smell of pine and peppermint assaulted his nose.

"Gray?"

The ice mage was sleeping in an old wooden chair beside the bed Natsu had been placed in. His soft snores echoed throughout the room, breaking what would have otherwise been silence.

After realizing he was in safe hands, Natsu drifted back to sleep.

Sunlight streamed in through the window and landed softly on Natsu's face. He rolled over and grumbled, which seemed to startle Gray.

"Natsu's a morning person. He's always up with the sun, not the crack of noon." Gray had been wondering that for the past couple of days, but pondering never changed the fact that he didn't wake. "Maybe it has something to do with the date?"

The raven-haired male stared at the sketch book in his hand, flipping through page after page of drawings. Some were familiar people and places, like everyone in the guild hall, while others were people he didn't know and places that seemed to come straight from a fantasy novel. They were all so realistic that they would look like portals if they had color. As if the universe had read his mind, he found pages with color on them. Several dragons were depicted, and even if he hadn't spent years listening to Natsu rambling about Igneel, he'd have picked him out instantly anyways. His best friends father towered over the other dragons by twice their height and had terrifying scars all across his body.

"It definitely has something to do with the date," There were too many drawings of the dragons, too many pictures of the place he called home, and too many pictures of people he had probably called his family. "I didn't know he could draw, let alone this well."

A muffled groan brought his attention back to the pinkette in his bed as it startled him. Natsu was was staring dazedly at Gray, as if trying to shift through what was real and what wasn't. In a single second his eyes refocused, and he tensed rather noticeably. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish for a moment, and Gray waited for him to collect his thoughts. "How did I get here?" The question came out rasp, and the slayer grasped at his throat after forcing it out.

Gray handed him the water bottle on the bedside table, choosing to wait until Natsu was done before speaking. The bottle was handed back to him after Natsu had downed about half of it. "Happy found you passed out in your house." He began quietly. "We don't know how long you've been out, but you been here for two days."

Gray chose that moment to raise the sketchbook, which caught the attention of the shorter male immediately. He tensed even more than he already was, and he snatched the old binder, hiding it beneath his body like it would cease to exist. "I know I probably wasn't supposed to look at these, but they were scattered everywhere. I put them all back in the binder for you. Well, the loose ones anyways." Some of the drawings were still attached to the sketchbook that had been within the binder, after all.

Natsu had slowly relaxed as the ice mage spoke. "I think I just forgot to eat." He mumbled. Natsu's fire magic caused his metabolism to reach insane heights and burn more calories than a normal person could ever intake in a week over the span of a day. When he skipped a couple meals, it was likely that he'd pass out.

Gray was barely able to make out was the fire mage had said, but after a moment of contemplation, he was sure of the words. "Sometimes I forget how ridiculous your metabolism is, Flame-brain."

Gray stood up and left the room to what Natsu assumed was the kitchen, and a thought struck the dragon slayer, "Since when is Gray this nice to me? And why the hell did Happy get him instead of someone else?"

Despite them being light, Gray's footsteps echoed in Natsu's head as he made his way back with what smelt like pancakes. "I made them this morning, so they're still warm." a small laugh escaped the ice mage as he continued, "After all, morning for me is after ten."

Natsu tilted his head at the statement and gingerly took the plate, "After ten A.M or ten cups of coffee?" Gray shoved his shoulder for that, but the fire mage just laughed softly. "How do you even drink that shit? It's disgusting."

"I guess I'm used to it," Gray responded."By the way, the drawings are really good." Natsu nearly chocked on his pancakes, which he'd been eating slowly to avoid making himself sick, and that's when Gray noticed something he hadn't ever seen the dragon slayer do. The pinkette's face had turned a brilliant shade of red that reached all the way to his ears, and he looked like he was trying to drown himself in his scarf. "It's probably way to much to ask, but um..." Gray got really quiet, and his own cheeks darkened slightly, "Could you tell me who they all are?" When Natsu didn't respond, he panicked and tried to correct himself. "You don't have to," he blurted, ¨it was a dumb thing to ask.¨

Natsu mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like ¨Gray,¨ and the ice mage wanted to bury himself alive.

¨I´m so sorry." He really hadn't meant to do anything that could make his friend more upset over Igneel, but when did either of them get anything right? "Do you want me to leave? I can leave. I'll come check on you again later." He nearly bolted out of embarrassment the second he turned, but Natsu grabbed his arm and yanked him back onto the bed.

"You uh-" Natsu paused as if choosing his words carefully, "You don't have to leave." He tentatively reached for the binder and pulled it on to their laps. Natsu's voice had gone quiet again, still sore from not talking for days on end, "Um, ask whatever. I guess." His face was still blaring red, but he wasn't trying to hide in his scarf as much as he was before. Gray took that as a good sign.

After a while, Natsu became much more comfortable telling stories about the dragons that he never shared in the guild. Stories of the other Dragons he's met and why he knew so many. Igneel hadn't just been the king of fire dragons, but the king of all dragons, and he used to drag Natsu around during anything that involved diplomacy. Because of this, Natsu was way more involved than the other slayers, and he didn't like people knowing that.

"But why?" Gray asked carefully. "What's so wrong with people knowing that?"

Natsu smiled, but it was more bittersweet than happy. "I'll tell you eventually, but it's a bit of a mess."

Gray nodded, accepting the answer for the time being.

The two of them stayed there for hours, Natsu just talking about some of the things that he saw and did as a child, and eventually, they fell asleep against each other.

Natsu was never alone on July seventh again

Words: 1,741

The rest will be posted exclusively on my secondary blog: Jinx13GXA2.tumblr.com

[iamthestrangerinmoscow]

My assignment for @autisticfanworkexchange - a fanfic for  @kyrfiore

I’m sorry that I couldn’t write anything more specific, but we were matched by mods and I’m only familiar with Harry Potter. However I tried my best and I hope you will still appreciate it. Also sorry for my weird punctuation - twelve years of learning English, still can’t punctuate dialogues the English way.

“We’re Scully and Mulder”

fandom: Harry Potter 

rating: PG-13/T

AU (alternative to “Nighteen Years Later”), Luna/Hermione, detective, mystery, fluff, autistic!Luna, autistic!Hermione; ~5500 words long

content warnings for: death/murder (but there’s nothing too nasty or graphic)

“They got together; wave and stone,

Verse and prose, ice and flame…”

Alexander Pushkin, ‘Eugene Onegin’

 Today Hermione came back home even later than usual. Her fumbling with the door keys woke up the neighbors’ yappy dog, and she quietly cursed under her breath, as she continued to look for the keyhole in the darkness of the alleyway. The door seemed adamant about not wanting to be opened. Glancing over her shoulder to check for strangers, Hermione took out her wand and whispered ‘lumos’. A beam of white light shone from the wand, and finally she could locate the keyhole. She couldn’t just use ‘alahomora’ on this one – it was protected from unwanted entrance.

The door clicked, hissed and screeched – as if tiny gears were spinning and turning inside it. When, in the end, it opened, it revealed a small room lit by a soft, orange light. If someone was to enter it without a special key, all they would find in the house was dust and empty halls. But the muggles believed the house was abandoned years ago, so they rarely bothered to even pass by. Sometimes kids would come to explore the place, out of curiosity or for a dare, but they didn’t stay for long. For them, it wasn’t entertaining enough, simply because they never saw the truth.

Hermione closed the door behind her, and tiptoed her way into the living room. It was quiet and dark, so she assumed Luna was already asleep. She wasn’t surprised – it was already past midnight when she left the Ministry. It must have been very late now. Or very early, depending on your point of view. She dropped her heavy bag on the couch, took off her coat and boots, and headed for the kitchen. There a big plate covered by a metal lid was waiting for her on the table. Hermione smiled, took of the lid and breathed in the smell of food. One time she asked Luna what kind of magic she used for cooking. To that she replied with one word: ‘spices’.

She heated up the cold chicken curry with a silent movement of her wand and sat in the kitchen eating. All around her on the walls were paintings, paintings of rare (and sometimes imaginary) creatures, beautiful landscapes, and friendly faces. Luna’s life centered on her art, it was everywhere you looked. In the morning, right after sunrise, she was already in their garden, painting another masterpiece. Often she would draw the same picture over and over again, perfecting the technique, focusing on every tiny detail that seemed important to her. Hermione was pretty sure that, by now, their every friend had at least a few of Luna’s paintings in their house. And still, there was never a shortage. She didn’t seem to ever run out of inspiration.

After finishing her late night dinner, Hermione put the dish in the sink and tiptoed up the stairs to the bedroom. As she has guessed, Luna was in the bed, wrapped in three heavy blankets and asleep. Not bothering to change into pajamas, Hermione took off everything apart from her underwear and quietly slipped under the blankets. Luna’s sleep remained undisturbed. With a sign of relief, Hermione turned on her side and pressed her face into the soft, cool pillow. She was so tired that sleep kidnapped her mind before her thoughts came back to today’s events, and luckily so. At least the disturbing images stayed out of her dreams.

***

She woke up because something heavy was sitting on her chest. Hermione rubbed her eyes and squinted. It was Vincent – their fluffy, slightly overfed cat. She stretched, making Vincent jump from her chest and walk away on his short legs, evidently not very pleased.

As she got up and started picking a new set of clothes, Luna entered the room.

-Good morning, buttercup. – She murmured, fiddling with a lock of her hair. – Breakfast is ready.

And immediately after she turned round to leave.

-You’re not gonna ask me about yesterday? – Hermione asked.

Luna shrugged. – I’m not gonna interrogate you before your first cup of coffee. Besides, I have flowers to water. – She pointed at the shirts that Hermione held in her hands. – That one. – She said. – It is softer, and looks much better on you. Now, gotta check on those tulips.

Hermione smiled. Luna and she couldn’t have been more different. Luna was quiet and gentle, moving like a flower petal on the wind, carefully avoiding every obstacle in her way. She spoke rarely, and even when she did, her words were sometimes puzzling, sometimes outright nonsensical, but Hermione could always understand her. And Hermione spoke a lot, maybe even too much – even when exhausted beyond the point of no return, she would still create long, sophisticated monologues filled with meaning. But she always envied Luna, her creative talents, the grace in her movements… Hermione couldn’t walk across her own house without bumping into something.

The differences didn’t stop there. Hermione was order, and Luna was chaos. Hermione took the same route on her way home, every day, for the last seven years. She read the same books she had as a child, and kept her interests and obsessions for decades. Luna collected obsessions like stamps – every few months, there was something new. She loved re-decorating the house, moving the furniture around in ever so subtle ways, which sometimes pissed Hermione off. Luna resided in randomness; it seemed her world was bigger than just the objects around her. There was a universe in her mind that she didn’t share with anyone.

 The golden rays of the sun were crawling slowly up the walls, highlighting every scratch and dusty surface. The air was thick and smelled of syrop and coffee beans. Hermione held her cup firmly in her hands, sipping the hot liquid. She loved her mornings: sitting near the window, eating breakfast and watching her beloved girlfriend take care of the flowers. Her house was a safe place. It was calm, quiet, and familiar – pleasantly devoid of surprises. Well, except for Luna’s eccentric decorating projects.

-Did you enjoy the waffles?

Hermione didn’t catch the moment Luna came back to the house. She was standing in front of the table, her blond hair messy and tangled, dirt under her fingernails.

-I did. – Hermione nodded, mixing her coffee absent-mindedly.

-What is bothering you? – Luna asked, and took a seat opposite her.

Once again, Hermione was surprised by Luna’s abilities to read her state of mind. Five years of living together, and she still relied on taking sneak-peaks at Luna’s mood stone. Despite sounding like a cheap fake, that trinket of her actually worked.

-The usual. – Hermione replied. – Rather nasty case in the ministry.

Hermione loved working in the Magical Law Enforcement, she truly did. But every time they sent her to be an expert on a ‘special case’, the memories would haunt her for weeks.

-Murder?

-Suspected. And nobody has any idea what might have killed him.

-Who was the victim?

-A man, Sebastian Abbey. He lived alone, no family, no friends, recently released from Azkaban after two years of service for various small crimes – not exactly a celebrated member of society. That’s probably why he was found a week after he died. No one checked on him. They aren’t sure if it has any connection with magic, they called us because he was a wizard.

-What do you think has happened? – Luna was twirling a ribbon in her hands, wrapping it around her index finger, then unwrapping, then doing it again.

-I have no idea. Couldn’t have been murder, or suicide, or natural cause. But it sure is creepy.

 They climbed down the wobbly staircase, and it felt like it could break under their feet at any minute. The cellar was dark, and the smell of rotting and decay was overwhelming. The wooden floor was covered by dirt, dry leafs and old, yellow scrolls. And there, in the middle of the room, was the reason they were here – a body of a young man.

Avior, Hermione’s trainee, stood in the corner, eyes fixated on one spot. He was easily frightened and didn’t deal very well with stress, but it didn’t stop him from choosing his current job. Hermione wanted to encourage him, but she didn’t feel well herself. She almost had to force her own hand to move and direct the source of light to the victim. The dead man laid on his back on the muddy floor, his eyes closed, his skin grey and slightly wrinkled. There were no signs of trauma or struggle. In fact, he looked as if he fell asleep and passed away for no reason at all. Hermione has seen things much worse, during the war and at her work. Nevertheless, the sight was bothering her immensely.

-This place looks deserted. Like no one has lived here for years. – Avior said, cautiously taking a step forward.

-He returned from prison a month ago. – Hermione explained. – His name is, was, Sebastian.

-Did the previous team come up with any explanations?

-They haven’t got a clue. – She was waving her wand over the body, checking for any used spell. – That’s why they called us.

-Doesn’t look like a human could have done it. Could it be an animal, or a magical creature? Like a dementor.

-Dementors don’t kill. – Hermione replied. – They are only interested in the soul.

-Maybe it was an accident. I saw a cauldron in the living room. Many potions prepared improperly can kill. – He forced an awkward smile. – I was good at potions at school.

-I’m very happy for you. – She told him, only then realizing how sarcastic her tone was. – I’m sorry, Ave. I like this no more than you do.

The other workers soon arrived to take the body to a facility. They had specialists who could identify tiny traces of any substance, or any spell. Yet they discovered nothing. When they came back to the ministry, Hermione turned to the best source of comfort and knowledge she knew – a library. Her own collection was so extensive, finding the right volume was already a challenge. She spent the rest of her day with her books. She was so absorbed by the confusing, contradicting statements that her perception of time just turned off. By the time she got up from her chair, it was already late evening.

What was the mysterious force that killed a man right there, in his house, leaving no traces and no clues? She didn’t know, and it was making her feel uneasy and rather anxious.

 -When lost, look for someone who is lost too. – Luna said, then got up and started picking up the dirty dishes. She hummed a tune under her breath as she guided the plates into the sink with an upward motion of her wand. – Nevil will love the asters. They are about to bloom.

Immediately, Hermione understood what Luna meant.

-You’re right. – She said. – I’ll ask Harry about it.

-Say hi to thestrals from me. – Luna added, kissing Hermione on the cheek.

And a minute later she was gone from the room.

***

The Floo network between the ministry and Hogwarts was due for a renewal decades ago, but the wizards and witches in charge of budget kept postponing it. ‘We already have the Hogwarts Express to pay for!’ they said. Hermione wondered what they would say if they had to use the system, at least once in a while. She cursed under her breath, then sneezed, and a small puff of Floo powder erupted from her nose. Trying desperately to brush it off her robe, she climbed out of the fireplace and stretched.

The Defense against the dark arts professor’s office was empty and looked rather lonely. Hermione has heard that Harry didn’t use it very often, and preferred to spend his free time in the Gryffindor common room. It made the students increasingly uncomfortable, but no one wanted to talk to him about it. Twenty years later, Harry still couldn’t take a hint.

She found him in one of the classrooms, cleaning up after some sort of magical accident. There were tiny pieces of shredded paper everywhere: some of them smoking, some already burning. Harry was leaping from one pile of paper shreds to another, distinguishing the fire with swift motions of his wand, completely absorbed by the task. Hermione giggled, but he didn’t notice. She took her own want out of her pocket, raised her arm in the air and said:

-Scourgify.

And the mess disappeared. Harry turned on the spot and looked at Hermione as if she just did something absolutely inexcusable.

-Thanks a lot. – He said, and sighed. – Now I’ll have to set it up again for the next class.

-You mean this was done on purpose?

-Of course! I am simulating a snow storm.

-You do know there is a spell that creates snow, right? – She pointed her wand upwards, and snowflakes started falling from the ceiling.

-Oh. – Harry scratched his head, rather embarrassed. – Well, paper still looks nicer.

 They sat near a window and drank tea while a bunch of first year students had their broomstick flying class outside. Hermione smiled as she remembered her first try, and Harry’s ultimate triumph on that day.

-Oliver Wood comes to give a masterclass or two every year. – Harry informed her. – I go to Hogsmeade when it happens. He always makes me do a demonstration, and I hate that.

-Sure, because you can’t stand being in the center of attention, the chosen one.

-I’d love it, if I could fly as well as I used to. – He replied. – No, I’d rather stick to my own subject.

Once they have discussed all the recent news and rumors, Hermione was going to get to the purpose of her visit, but was interrupted by a girl in Ravenclaw robes sneaking into the classroom without knocking.

-Professor Potter? – She called, her hands clasped awkwardly behind her back.

-What is it, Jamie? – Harry asked.

-There are pixies in the corridor near the Clock Tower.

-No there aren’t. I checked. Twice.

-But sir, Lin and I, we saw them!

-If there were any pixies there, I would have found them. – Harry insisted. – I have been an auror, you know.

The girl giggled. – For six months.

-Have you been an auror for six months, Jamie? – He asked, a kind expression on his face.

-No. – The girl replied. – But I might be, when I grow up.

-You shouldn’t miss your classes then. Don’t you have Herbology right now?

She nodded, and turned to leave.

-Kind of tired of those pixie rumors. – Harry told Hermione when the girl closed the door behind her. – To be honest, I did hear some noise in that corridor. Hope they won’t actually find any. That would be embarrassing.

Hermione laughed. – You know, I am still a little bit shocked by the fact McGonnagal even allowed you to teach, with no experience and no recommendation letter.

-They don’t exactly have people lining up for this position. – He shrugged. – Besides, at least I do my job better than, say, a man with Voldemort on his head, or worse – Umbridge.

-Can’t argue with that. – Hermione smiled.

-So, might I ask you why you are here? – He asked. – Apart from insulting my teaching abilities.

-Oh, you should be pleased.  –She replied. – I am here for your wisdom and expertise.

He listened to her speak, and not a muscle moved on his face. Harry wasn’t easily disturbed. Maybe he developed an immunity, or maybe he just learned not to show it. Once she had nothing more to say, he shook his head.

-I’m sorry, but I have no idea. My only original guess was Basilisk, or something of the kind. There is magic that leaves no trace, but I am not familiar enough with that. I can list a dozen or so of potential spells, but I don’t think it will help you.

-Right. – Hermione frowned. – I guess we’ll have to postpone the case, until more evidence resurfaces. It’s a shame though. Maybe he wasn’t a very nice guy, but he deserves justice too.

Suddenly someone burst through the door.

-Professor Potter! – It was a tall, skinny boy with a Slytherin scarf around his neck. – Pixies! Near the Clock Tower!

-How many times…

-No, they caught them now. They really did!

Harry rubbed his eyes, thinking.

-Do I have to deal with it?

-It was your son who set them free though, sir. Headmistress wants to see you.

-I’ll be there in a minute. Now go, Augustus, go.

The boy nodded and left the room.

Hermione got up. – I guess I’ll be going. James is in trouble, probably.

-Three weeks at Hogwarts, already two detentions.

-You aren’t proud?

-He caused them all by accident.

Hermione smiled, but covered her mouth. – Like father, like son.

Harry didn’t react.

-Okay then, I’m gonna go see Neville. Luna gave me some aster seeds for him.

***

There were many things Hermione disliked: cruelty, hypocrisy, itchy sweaters, lukewarm tea… the list went on. However one thing never failed to ruin her emotional stability – uncertainty. Ambiguity. Mystery. When asked a question, she would spend her every waking moment thinking about it, until the answer was clear to her. People thought of her as an obnoxious know-it-all, but the truth was, absence of knowledge simply made her incredibly uncomfortable, so she strived to fill that vacuum. The problem began when a question existed, but nobody knew the answer. That’s when her need for certainty would get on her nerves.

She was biting her nails again, curled up in an armchair, and Luna noticed how tense and uncomfortable she looked. A minute later she was there with a warm blanket and a tin of sweets.

-Take one. – She said, opening the tin.

-My parents would be furious if they knew you are feeding their beloved daughter pure sugar.

-But they aren’t here. – Luna replied, and took one to demonstrate. – They taste like mint and lemon.

Hesitating for a second, Hermione took a sweet as well. Maybe it’s not very good for her teeth, but at least she isn’t biting her nails anymore. She wrapped herself in the blanket that Luna brought and made room for her in the big armchair.

-You look stormy. – Luna said. – Like a cloud when it’s about to rain. What’s on your mind?

-Oh, you know. The case. It’s bothering me so much! I just need to know what it was.

-Maybe it was tacita interfectorem. – She suggested. – It’s a wild spirit, lives under the ground, hides in there at night: in mole tunnels and in between the roots of trees. It doesn’t usually attack people, but when it does, they die instantly, and there is no trace. Blink of an eye, and that’s it.

-I appreciate your effort, but I doubt it was an imaginary creature.

-They are as imaginary as nargles. – Luna told her, slightly offended.

-Exactly my point. – Hermione nodded.

For a moment, they were silent.

-I wonder if the flavor of the quarks is a nice flavor or not. – Luna said, suddenly changing the subject. – I think their colors are pretty.

-What are you talking about? – Hermione asked.

-The quarks. The tiny things that electrons and protons and photons are made of.

One of the muggle sciences, quantum physics, was Luna’s latest obsession. She would go on for hours about the properties of Higg’s bosons and particle-wave duality of light, and to Hermione it sounded indistinguishable from her usual tales and fantasies. She found it hard to believe that those unfamiliar with magic could take these peculiar ideas and call them science, but then she saw Luna write a rather complex equation right on the living room table, and it changed her mind. She wasn’t surprised that out of all people Luna took interest in the area, and managed to make sense of it. She was a true Ravenclaw after all.

-Quarks have a spin, a color, a flavor and strangeness. And some other properties, too. I’ve told you about it a week ago, when we were outside in the garden.

-Yes, I remember. – Hermione told her. – And I still don’t understand it.

-Want to know a secret? – She asked, then leaned closer and whispered in her ear: - Nobody does. And if they say they do, they are lying.

Then Luna laughed, and her laughter was clear and melodic, like tiny bells ringing. It made Hermione feel warm and fuzzy.

-What did Harry say? Did he help you? – Luna asked, returning back to point.

-Not really. But I’m glad I talked to him. And being at Hogwarts was nice. Things are really changing there, in terms of equality. He said that back in April Slytherin students had to stay in other dorms because there was a stink problem at the dungeons again, and barely anyone protested.

-Was it Peeves that ruined their dorms?

-I think it’s just a natural thing. Maybe one day they will have to rebuild the whole building. Wouldn’t be a bad idea. The sewers definitely need a renewal – there’s a skeleton of a huge deadly snake somewhere in there.

-Are you gonna keep investigating?

Hermione sighed. – I don’t know. I think we will have to leave it unsolved.

-Okay. – Luna said. – Do you want to listen to the radio?

-With pleasure.

 They sat in the armchair together, wrapped in one blanket, with Vincent on Luna’s lap, and listened to Lee Jordan go on about the crisis in the broomstick industry – and in that moment, no evil existed in the world, or at least not in their home.

***

Sometimes Luna’s mind would play tricks on her. Sometimes her wild imagination kept her awake at night. She had a tendency to be haunted by the ghosts of the pasts. She found it hard to let go of old fears and heartbreaks. To this day every time she saw someone laughing, her first thought would be ‘they are laughing at me’. Hermione couldn’t relate. For her anxieties of the future were more common, and much more bothersome. But she always tried to support her the best way she could.

Luna woke up mere minutes before the first rays of sunrise touched the windows. She tossed and turned trying to fall asleep again, but it only made her feel worse. With a sigh she gently poked Hermione’s arm, and she immediately woke up, and looked at her, her eyebrows frowned.

-What is it? – Hermione asked.

Luna made a high-pitched, distressed noise. Words were difficult for her to process when she was worried.

-Dreams. Bad dreams. – Luna said, finally.

Hermione rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clocks. Six fifty three in the morning. There was no point in going back to sleep now.

-Dreams about what?

-Things that never was, never have been. – Luna told her, squeezing Hermione’s hand. – Parallel universes.

-Parallel universes?

-Yes. Other worlds, worlds that don’t look like ours. Foreign, and cursed. Not all of them, just the ones I saw.

-How can parallel worlds exist?

Luna blinked, gathering her thoughts. – They keep separating, with every decision that we make. Sometimes they are kind, and beautiful. Sometimes they are wrong. I saw a world where we never met, where you, and Ron, and Harry, and Neville haven’t been my friends. It was lonely. I don’t like lonely.

-Well, you aren’t alone now. – Hermione assured her, and they embraced.

-We’re Scully and Mulder, and we need each other. – Luna said.

Hermione smiled. – Sure, if you want to believe.

And together they watched the world drown in pallid pink shades of the young dawn.

***

Hermione looked to her right, then to her left, then to her right again. On one side of the table laid an enormous stack of parchment, her neat handwriting all over it. On the other was a second, even bigger stack, of blank parchment. It didn’t seem to diminish no matter how much time she spent working on it. And it was nearly lunch break.

Suddenly her decision to help everyone in the department seemed not very wise. She was trying to be nice, get people to like her, but now she just had a headache from all the paperwork. Perhaps she should turn people down, tell them to do their part themselves, but then they would dislike her even more. She stretched, and got up from the table. She will feel better after a break.

Before she had time to return to her self-appointed duties, there was a knock on the door. ‘Weird’, Hermione thought. Usually she didn’t have any visitors in the middle of the day, unless something bad has happened. And she definitely didn’t need any more bad in her life right now. Cautiously, she opened the door leading to her office.

Behind it was a short woman, casually dressed, with very long hair and dark circles under her eyes. She hid her hands in her pockets and coughed.

-Excuse me? – Hermione wasn’t sure about what to say. – Are you looking for something, or someone?

-Mmmm, yes. – The woman replied. – Can I come in?

Hermione shrugged. – I guess.

-Thank you. – She stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind her. – I’m Ruby, Ruby Whittaker. I’m here to collect the personal possessions of Sebastian Abbey.

-Oh. – Suddenly Hermione felt weak and pale, as if she alone was responsible for the man’s murder. – Are you his family member?

-Friend, or at least we used to be friends. We weren’t that close. – She quickly added.

-I’m sorry for your loss. – Hermione told her, as the only socially acceptable thing she knew for this situation. – Want a cup of tea?

-Sure. – Ruby said, taking a free seat near Hermione’s table.

 ‘Drinking tea is such a British thing’, Hermione thought to herself, mixing the brown liquid in her cup. ‘In case of emergency, put the kettle on’. She liked it though. There was something calming about the whole ritual, from boiling the water to adding milk and sugar. It brought confidence.

-I do not have the possessions here. – Hermione said. – We’ll have to descend two levels down for that. But I can talk to you about… it, answer any questions you might have.

Ruby was rather occupied by the photos on Hermione’s table: one with Ron and Parvati, one with Neville and Hannah, and the one where Harry and Ginny stood with all three of their kids, waving at the camera together.

-Are you Hermione Granger? – She asked, scratching her nose.

-Yes, yes I am. – She nodded.

-I have read that book about you all. I didn’t believe most of it, but I must say – your contribution to winning the war will never be forgotten.

Hermione felt awkward. It has been a lot of time since it happened, and less and less people would bring it up. This has been the first time in months.

-I was a second year student when it happened. I wanted to stay and fight but we were all evacuated. Sat it out safely while so many people died. It is sad. I just want you to know that people remember and people are grateful.

-Thank you. – Hermione finally made herself say something. She sipped her tea, hoping that part of the conversation was now over. – So, do you have any questions about the investigation?

-Not really. – Ruby replied. – I don’t have illusions about Seb. He was never a lawful citizen. It’s a shame though. He was a great student, brilliant at transfiguration. But he used his talents in the wrong way. He would sell transfigured stuff at the Diagon Alley for a lot of money, and as soon as the “happy customer” would come back home, the trinkets would turn back into a piece of rusty metal or something like that. He made a fortune on that. Too bad they took it all away when he went to Azkaban.

-Not all people have enough good in them. – Hermione said. – Doesn’t mean they deserve to die.

-Oh no, I’m not saying he deserved death. But I am not surprised he ended up like that. I really tried to help him, but he didn’t want my help. He just wanted more gold. – Ruby sighed. – I missed being his friend. I remember our time in the Hufflepuff dorm rooms, sharing secrets, exchanging chocolate frog cards. Good times.

Ruby looked up and saw a big Hogwarts banned hanging on the wall.

-I see you are nostalgic too. – She smiled.

-A little bit. – Hermione agreed.

-Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandes. – Ruby read. – Funny thing, I still don’t know what that means.

-It means ‘don’t tickle a sleeping dragon’. – Hermione explained. – It’s Latin.

-Latin?

-Yes, like ‘veni vidi vici’, or ‘homo homini lupus est’, or… - Suddenly she felt as though a light bulb lit up in her mind. – Or ‘tacita interfectorem’. – She murmured.

-What does that mean?

-Silent killer. It means silent killer. – Hermione got up. – Sorry, I need to go now. Knock on someone else’s door, they can lead you to the right place.

And without a reply, she stormed off. As she ran across the corridors, thoughts swarmed once again in her head, pieces of a puzzle assembling into one picture. Everything made sense now: the pale grey skin, the horrible smell, even Luna’s comment. She practically forced her way into Avior’s office, and he nearly chocked on a slice of pie.

-Lunch is over. – She told him. – We’re going to the crime scene.

 Apparition didn’t go that well for Avior – a patch of his hair was removed in the process. Now, while Hermione examined every corner of the building, he stood in front of a dirty mirror and scratched the back of his head.

-You’re okay? – Hermione asked, passing by with a wand in her hand.

-Sure. – He didn’t sound very convincing. – I wanted to get a haircut anyway.

-I think we need to go down there again.

He nodded, wrapping himself in his coat for comfort. ‘Should have taken that job in an ice cream shop’ he said to himself as they climbed down the same wobbly staircase.

-It should be here somewhere. – Hermione seemed to be sniffing the air in the room, very focused on her task.

-What?

-Silent killer! Ugh, I should have known from the beginning. It’s obvious!

-Not to me.

She turned around and looked him in the eyes. – H2S, hydrogen sulfide. It’s a colorless, poisonous gas. It can kill in a minute, and it leaves no trace. Except for the smell.

-The smell?

-The smell of rotting eggs. It must be somewhere in here, that’s where we found him. – One more minute of searching, and finaly success. – Aha! – She exclaimed. – Here. – And she beckoned Avior with her finger.

He came closer and cautiously sniffed the air, then immediately made a step back.

-It’s disgusting.

-We better move away. – Hermione added, stepping back as well.

-How can you breathe that in for a whole minute?!

-Your nervous cell start to die – after ten seconds, you don’t even smell it anymore.

-Huh. – He scratched his head, which reminded him of the bold patch. – So he must ‘ave been trying to fix something in there, breathed in too much, and died.

-This thing leads straight to a container filled to the brim with garbage. Perfect conditions for the gas to be produced.

-So there is no murdered then?

-No. It was an accident.

They paused. The whole event still seemed rather tragic.

 -It’s not pointless. – Avior said, when they were back upstairs. – This house was already bought. If you didn’t solve this mystery, the next owners could have died as well, or people who came to clean that thing. You saved their lives.

-Thanks. – Hermione replied. – But it wasn’t me who solved it.

-No?

-It was my girlfriend.

***

The evening was pitch black and unusually warm. Outside dozens of moths flew in circles around a lamp, pushing and fighting for a better spot, looking for god knows what. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and ginger – Luna was making an apple pie. She hummed a tune under her nose, hoping from one spot to another. Hermione sat opposite her, knitting a hat, or maybe a sock. She wasn’t sure yet. It didn’t really matter anyway, she just liked the sensation of having the soft material in her hands, and the motion of the fingers.

-I wanna go feed squirrels tomorrow. – Luna said, adding some last pinches of spices into the dough.

-No problem. – Hermione told her.

-If we feed them tomorrow, October will be sunny and not too dull.

-What about the birds?

-The birds can feed themselves. They are wizards and witches too.

-Really? – Hermione couldn’t help but smile.

-Not all of them. Robins are, and so are magpies and crows. But not sparrows. No, that’s silly.

The pie was in the oven, and Luna joined Hermione in her seat. Every now and then they would share a kiss, or laugh at a silly joke, or simply look at each other, and see sparks in each other’s eyes. Hermione was never good at feelings, but she knew one thing – this is where she belonged. With another person, in her own house, where it was safe to be who she is.

-What kind of baby names do you like? – Luna asked, completely out of the blue.

-You want kids?

-One day. I like flowery names, like Lilly. Could we name our kid Lilly?

-That’s what Harry’s daughter is called.

-Right. – Luna frowned. – Okay then, what about Poppy?

-That’s our old school nurse, Madam Pomfrey.

-Hmmm. – Luna paused, then smiled. – I know! Rose.

-Rose?

-Yeah, Rose. It’s a lovely name, isn’t it?

-Sure it is. – Hermione agreed. – We will call our daughter Rose then.

-Uh-hu. – Luna confirmed. – We can come up with more names later.

Hermione nodded, and continued to knit.

The world could be a nasty place sometimes, but it had nice things too, and it was hers – or, rather, theirs. And their world was bright, complicated, exciting and absolutely, mind-blowingly beautiful.

[esamastation]

Flame, 6

Newt

For your information this correspondence is being heavily monitored, so, I'm afraid I can't quite express the sentiments want in the ways that I want to express them.

It was long time coming, your desertion. And I don't blame you for it, not really, knowing your circumstances only makes me wonder how it did not come faster. Duty, I suppose.

I won't forgive you because your infraction isn't something for me to forgive. You made me no promises. The letter you sent makes up for the note you didn't leave, however, so I will forgive you for that, at least.

It's good to know you're, if not well, then at least still alive. I wish you the best, I honestly do. Because, speaking of things you hardly deserve, this war is certainly on top of the list. And while I might have preferred it otherwise… I'm glad you found your way out.

Sincerely Graves

"In a brown study?"

Newt looks up, automatically and somewhat guiltily folding the sheet of paper and pushing it back into his pocket. "Sorry," he says awkwardly and shifts where he's sitting, so that he isn't quite so hunched over. "I didn't mean to be inattentive."

"It's fine, my boy," the other wizard answers, walking over with a book in hand. "Here we are – have a look."

Newt accepts the book, grateful that for once his hand doesn't shake noticeably. The book in his hand is old, a hand written manuscript rather than a printed book. When he cracks it open, he finds the text nearly illegible. "This is…" he trails off, frowning.

"Quite," the other wizard smiles, taking out his wand and casually commanding a tea set from nearby table to prepare itself. "Notes on the Most Perilous and Terrible Afflictions of the Magical Mind, by Ignotus Peverell."

Newt glances at him at the obvious emphasis on the wording and the elder wizard laughs quietly, not unkindly. "Apologies," he says. "I re-read the book myself just the other day. Afflictions of the mind affecting magic are, while more widely understood these days, not exactly new. It was fascinating, reading the older perspective."

"Right, of course," Newt answers and looks at the book. "But this looks… original. Surely this is invaluable piece of history."

"It's not the original – it's a very old and very well made forgery," his old teacher says and runs a hand along his short beard. "However whoever made this had the original in hand, so the text is accurate to my knowledge, minus some minor errors with dots and dashes and such."

Newt shakes his head, in something like wonder, and looks down at the book again. "Most Perilous and Terrible Afflictions," he murmurs. "Spellshock is fairly new thing, though."

"Not as such," Dumbledore says sadly. "For as long as humans have been able to do magic and get into trouble, the possibility has been there. It's only that this war has made it all too common, and now we have name for it. Ignotus calls it the Wingstroke of Death."

"That's… fairly ominous," Newt says quietly.

"Not, if you consider that he named good half of the afflictions he studied Death's something or other. The man had something of a fixation," the elder wizard chuckles and then floats the teacups over. "Here – camomile with dash of lemon and honey."

"Thank you," Newt says, setting the book down to catch the cup. It gives him the excuse for silence and he uses it to examine the room they're in. In all honesty, it hasn't changed much – few new knickknacks and magical instruments he doesn't immediately recognise, but that's about it.

To think it had only been four years since he'd been a student here, sitting in this same chair, while Dumbledore tried to talk him through his expulsion.

"It looks strange now, doesn't it?" Dumbledore asks gently.

"Pardon, sir?" Newt asks, turning to look at him – at his hands, actually.

The elder wizard smiles and nods at his office. "The past. You've been through a lot – a lifetime's worth of experiences, and more. And now you're here, again – and this place has hardly changed."

Newt frowns, looking down at his tea cup. "Yes," he then says. "But… right now nothing feels normal for me."

"Yes, quite," Dumbledore says and peers at him attentively. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's… reasons why I can't," Newt says and frowns. "In all honesty I really shouldn't be here at all, especially not because of this. It is only… I didn't know who else to ask, really."

"I'm glad you did, my boy," Dumbledore says, but he's frowning. "But what about your family? Last I heard, your parents were quite well."

"I'm sure they are, but…" Newt hesitates and then sips his tea before turning his attention to the book. "Ignotus Peverell wrote about other things in here, not just Spellshock?"

"The man had interest with the separation between magic and will," Dumbledore says, letting the subject pass. "His brother Cadmus was a deeply troubled man who, ultimately, took his own life – Ignotus developed quite the interest in figuring out why. His theories and ruminations are, while often wildly inaccurate, quite interesting."

Newt frowns a little and then sets the tea cup down to open the book again, turning the pages in search of anything resembling an index. There wasn't one, really, but separate sections were marked on the book by fabric strings. They weren't in any sort of order – the Death's Wallow was followed by the Animagi Affliction and then Mind in Twain and so on. Dumbledore sat by patiently as Newt glanced over the entries, dismissing them as irrelevant to his case until he ran into.

"Obscurus?" he murmurs, reading few sentences of a charm suppres'd by the mind of issue innocent of evil whatever that meant. "I've heard of that, I think."

"In a history lesson, I suppose," Dumbledore comments, frowning slightly. "It's a term older than even the original book – named by the Romans, naturally. An Obscurial is a child who fights to suppresses their own magic, and has that magic turn on them; it forms into a dark, destructive force that is known as the Obscurus."

"Oh, yes, I remember. Happened a lot during the seventeen hundreds, didn't it?" Newt muses and then shakes his head. "Not really applicable to here."

"No, not quite," Dumbledore says and lifts his tea cup. He considers Newt as he leafs through the book for a while and then speaks, "I understand there are aspects of the war that are, naturally, quite confidential. But speaking of your experiences, even in a roundabout manner, might help."

Newt's shoulders slump a little at that. "I reckon you're right, professor," he admits. "I just… don't know how. It seems so… so utterly ludicrous, to be like this after…"

"My boy, there is nothing ludicrous about this," the older wizard says gently. "People die. It's perfectly natural to be traumatised by it."

"But… it's not the people I ever cared about," Newt murmurs.

There is a moment of silence and he doesn't dare to look up during it. Eventually, Dumbledore sets his own teacup down. "I do correspond with your brother, you know," he says. "It was the hippogriffs, then?"

Newt's fingers shake against the pages of the old, forged, manuscript. Quickly he draws them away, clasping them in his lap. "Yes… in the beginning, it was the hippogriffs," he agrees. "The Ministry appropriated over half of Mother's herd for the war effort. I… can't even remember what came over me, but I suppose I went after them."

No, he did remember what came over him. What came over him was the shame. Theseus had just been named the commander of a task force, it being so early in the war that they hadn't yet needed the higher ranks. He'd been… not quite flaunting the medals, and everyone was so proud, congratulating him, telling him he'd do them all proud.

Newt had just been expelled from Hogwarts. It was school term and he was at home, doing nothing, mainly feeling sorry for himself – missing a girl who in the end didn't even…

Newt clenches his hands and shakes his head. It doesn't matter. "There were other factors, but I joined with the idea of becoming part of the Hippogriff Cavalry if I could. I had heard that in the war they didn't care so much about school records, that everyone got trained with the same spells and tactics nevertheless, and if you passed that, you were in."

"And you passed," Dumbledore says gently.

"Barely, but yes," Newt agrees with a mirthless smile and shakes his head. "I never did see my Mother's hippogriffs. The one I was assigned with was a different strain – a beautiful piebald. We trained together for two months before we were assigned to the Hippogriff Cavalry Company Twenty-Thirds. I named her Tessa," Newt pauses there and then frowns. "She… died two years into my service. She and everyone else in my company."

They'd named his company the Black Birds after that and as far as he knows, it hadn't been re-established.

"How long were you in the ICW military?" Dumbledore asks quietly.

Newt thinks about it. "I joined… five months after I was expelled from Hogwarts, I think," he says. "So… about four years."

Dumbledore stares at him for a moment, an unreadable look on his face. "Newt, my boy," he says softly and sadly.

Newt shrugs and doesn't meet his eyes as he pushes on. "Anyway, after the Twenty-Thirds was disbanded, I floated about for a while, not really part of any company," several months he can't remember much about because he had that lovely, unending bottle of Dragon Fire to keep him company, "until I got my assignment. It was my last."

Newt frowns a little. "I didn't even see any battle in my last assignment – it was almost a year, and… it was with creatures again. And they died."

Dumbledore doesn't say anything, just watches him sadly.

"I deserted," Newt confesses quietly. "I left. I couldn't…. I couldn't anymore."

And he still can't. Can't sleep through a night without nightmares, can't think back without going into a panic, or just shutting down like a Muggle machine out of power. Can't hold a wand without his hand shaking. And the thing that keeps happening…

"If the spellshock was properly diagnosed, I'm sure there had never been any need for desertion," Dumbledore says gently and then lifts a hand. "No, I'm sorry, that is terribly unfair of me."

"No, it's nothing I haven't thought myself," the younger wizard sighs and then unclenches his hand. The tremor isn't as bad as it is on some nights, but it's still there, ever present. "It's not as if it is hard to spot – I figured it out two days after I left. I could have gone back, but… at that point it was far easier to keep going. So I did."

"Hmm," Dumbledore agrees and steeples his hands. "And do you have other symptoms?"

"… yes," Newt sighs. "That's why I am trying to fix it – if it was just the tremor, I would be fine, but… my magic."

"It has started backfiring on you," Dumbledore guesses.

"I… yes," Newt says again and then pulls up his sleeves. Thanks to repeated applications of Dittany, the burns don't actually hurt – but the scars are at this point permanent. "I've put my wand away," Newt admits. "I can't do much with it, right now. Nothing good anyway."

His old teacher watches him, examining the burns around his wrists and all along his arms. "My boy," he says gently. "You need a Mind Healer, not a research project."

Newt bows his head. He's painfully aware of what it says about his mental state that his own magic is trying to burn him alive, and it's nothing good. "I can't let… I'm a deserter and Theseus is looking for me, I can't," he says, shaking his head. "As it is, I haven't the money for that sort of thing."

"If you went to your parents…"

Newt shakes his head sharply. "No, I can't." With his luck he'd set the house on fire and the barn too and get the rest of his mother's Hippogriff's killed. If he wasn't carted off to a court-martial and sentenced a traitor, which he might very well be considering the fate of Iron Gut.

The professor sighs and then looks up. There is a knock on the window that makes Newt almost jump, but it is only an owl with a letter tied to it's leg. "Bit late for mail," Dumbledore murmurs and gets up.

Newt fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt for a moment and then pulls them back down to cover the burns. He reaches first for the tea cup but in the end takes Ignotus Peverell's book instead, and starts leafing through it for the section on Spellshock – or Wingstroke of Death.

"Newt," Dumbledore says. "Seems like this is for you, not I."

Newt looks up and the letter is immediately recognisable – the ICW logo on the seal and Theseus usual green ink on the envelope. "Oh," Newt murmurs and accepts the letter, already feeling the trepidation he felt every time he got a letter from Theseus. "Thank you. Do you mind if I…?"

"Not at all – I can give you privacy if you wish," Dumbledore offers.

"No, I'm sure it's fine," Newt says and breaks the seal.

Dearest Little Brother

There is no kind way to put this, and believe you me I tried to come up with one… so I will just have to come out and say it.

On the 31st of September, Lieutenant Percival Graves of MACUSA Eighty-one-Fourths Cavalry Company was wounded in battle against the German Inferi troops. His current whereabouts are unknown and as of 1st of October, he is considered Missing in Action. It is however suspected he's been taken captive as Prisoner of War by the German Magical Military Forces, as his body wasn't to be found on the field.

I'm so sorry I can't tell you more, brother. The battle was chaotic and over quickly and I can't put more detailed information concerning it on a letter. I know it's little solace, but we are doing what we can for him and hopefully, if he is still alive, he may come home – once the war ends if not sooner.

I hope you are well.

Sincerely Theseus

-

Graves looks up blearily as the metal cell door is opened, shining light at last into the dark metal box he's been thrown inn. There's a soldier there, a German one judging by the looks of his coat, who despite the fact that Graves is all but covered in magically restrictive metal is holding a wand on him.

"American," the man says. "Get up."

Graves gets up, wincing as the barely healed wound pulls on his side. "Where are my men?" he asks, making sure to keep his voice level. "Are my men alive?"

"No questions," the German wizard says and motions at him with his wand. "Out."

Graves walks out, blinking blindly against the light outside. He hasn't seen anything outside the cell since he was captured – even when they'd decided to keep him from bleeding to death, the healer had came to the cell and Graves had never been let out.

He's fairly sure that when he'd been loaded into the damn box, it had been on the ground. They're inside a building now – a spacious hall with metal floors walls and ceilings that remind him of nothing as much as a Nomaj airplane hangar. The windows show image of clouds and sky, but that's probably just an illusion.

It's probably underground. Most German bases are.

"Forward," the soldier commands and Graves moves. He doesn't bother hiding his interest as he looks around, taking in the hall, the people there – the devices. There are number of Nomaj vehicles in the place – motorcycles and couple of trucks and such, which some wizards are poking and prodding at with their wands, taking them apart. There are Nomaj weapons on tables, dismantled and marked with tags.

Then he's out of the hangar like hall and they're going down a corridor, metal doors on each side and stairs leading up or down every now and again. It's a big place, Graves muses. Easily big enough to house hundreds of wizards, if not more.

They go up a set of stairs – and suddenly there is natural light. Graves stares, blinking against the brightness, at the windows. They are on what looks like about a Quidditch's field's worth of open space, with metal ceiling above and windows on all sides. They all show the same image – clouds against clear blue sky.

They're not illusions.

"Well, now," a voice says and Graves startles, turning. There is a wizard there in dark coat, pale hair pushed back neatly. On his coat he has the pins of a general of the German Magical Military Forces. "You'd be our American guest, then. Your name."

"Lieutenant Percival Graves," Graves introduces himself slowly, trying to take in as much information, trying to figure out who this is. He could recognize most of the high ranking enemy officers by sight, having seen their faces on propaganda posters and newspapers, but this man is unknown to him. His accent is very close to British too, which is strangely unnerving. "And you?"

The wizard smiles and walks closer in slow, measured steps. "Graves – related to one of the Original Twelve, I suppose? Long and distinguished Auror ancestry," the man says and then looks Graves up and down. "Yes, I do believe I recognize you," he then says with satisfaction. "You were at Iron Gut. I remember you because you were the only one on a broom."

Graves smothers his reaction and then takes the man in a bit more closer. The man is… paler than he would have assumed, strangely enough.

"Yes, you are the one," Grindelwald says and then, nonchalantly and wandlessly, conjures two chairs. "You may go," he says to the soldier who escorted graves and with a down right Nomaj-like salute, the man turns and leaves them. "Please, take a seat," the man says, even as he sits down himself. "I have many questions."

"And why would I answer them?" Graves asks with a slightly confused frown.

"Because I am going to ask nicely," Grindelwald says with a smile, and then conjures a table between their two chairs, similarly wandless. A snap of the man's fingers, and there is a pot of coffee with cups and assorted snacks on top of it. "Please, Lieutenant," the man says and motions.

After a moment, Graves takes a seat. "I'm not going to tell you anything," he says slowly.

Grindelwald's smile widens a little. "We'll see," he says, even as he pours the coffee. "Though, to be frank, there is little new information you could give me. Iron Gut was a failure and everyone knows it – the dragon breeding program is never going to work. Every time it's attempted, it's just waste of everyone's time, entertaining though it might be."

Graves frowns at the man and then at the cup Grindelwald offers him. "I promise you," Grindelwald says with some amusement. "If I want to kill you, poison will be the last tool I use."

"… I don't know about that. It was the first tool you tried to use, as I recall," Graves says and nods at the cup. "Veritaserum?"

"Oh, how sharp of you," Grindelwald says with a smile, and then sips the cup himself. "There, now we can both be dosed," he says licking his lips and offers him the cup again. "I have to warn you, though, it's quite strong."

Graves frowns and then shakes his head and lifts his shacked hands, accepting the cup.

It is strong – the Veritaserum hits him like shockwave and leaves staring rather blearily at the man across the table. "You're a fucking genius," Graves says and then grimaces. Shit.

"Oh?" Grindelwald asks, sounding delighted. "Oh, this is going to be interesting. Do tell me, Lieutenant, what did you think of how I took down Camp Iron Gut?"

Graves grinds his teeth and breathes slowly in and out. "Veritaserum doesn't force you to speak," he says, and it's the truth. "Only to speak the truth when you do. It can be evaded."

"Yes, quite right, well done indeed," Grindelwald says. "But that was a triple dose, so it is going to be quite difficult to resist, I think. Especially with repeated questioning. So come now, tell me, what you think of my tactics?"

"I think – if you didn't use Inferi, you'd win the war," Graves says and then inhales sharply to stop the words there. "Where are we?" he asks, just to break his own stride.

To his surprise, Grindelwald answers. "We are in my base. The LZ 49 – she's a zeppelin," he explains with definite pride. "Magically enhanced and warded of course, quite well hidden from view. Funny thing actually – did you know you can make a vehicle Unplottable, if it is big enough?"

"…no, I did not know that," Graves answers, more than a little incredulous. "Did you just dose yourself too, you madman?"

"Yes," Grindelwald admits without hint of concern, looking actually a little pleased. "Why not? If this conversation doesn't go my way, I will simply kill you and be done with it. So, my dear Lieutenant," he smiles even wider. "Let's be honest with each other."

- - - 

I’m going with Harry’s Interpretation of Grindelwald here. 

As a young man, Grindelwald had golden blond hair and a "merry, wild" face. Harry Potter thought he had "a Fred and George-ish air of triumphant trickery about him" 

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

Longview - Chapter 2

[Ch 1]

Some actual interesting stuff!!

CW: cutting hand (not SH but still happens), stabbing, whumpee with healing powers, implied kidnapping, drugging,    

Nick laid awake that night. He didn't know what to think. Nick turned onto his side. Maybe I didn't really cut myself. Maybe it didn't really happen. Nick turned to his other side, going over his thoughts over and over again. He laid in his bed for what felt hours. Something must be wrong. It can't be true, can it? Nick sat up and turned on his bedside lamp. He held out his hand and looked it over carefully. His palm seemed normal, there wasn't even a scar. He hadn't told his aunt what happened, how could he? Nick pushed a on his palm where the knife had fallen. It felt normal. Maybe it was just that one time. 

Or, I could... He reached into his drawer and pulled out his Swiss Army knife. This is nuts. I shouldn't do this. He started to put it away, but he wanted to know. Nick very lightly scratched the front of his hand. He grit his teeth, watching the scratch very closely. Slowly, the tiny cut smoothed over and disappeared. Nick breathed deeper and tried again, but cutting deeper. It hurt his hand, but healed even quicker. Something is very wrong. Nick couldn't get back to sleep that night, and was groggy at school that day. Sitting in history class, he couldn't pay attention and doodled all over his third period notebook. This day was turning into one of those long dull days.

"New kid!" yelled Jake. This is the last thing that I need now, thought Nick. He turned around to face him, and was hit in the face with a spitball. Nick wiped the sticky gob from his face and turned around to walk away. Two more hit him in the back of his head. Nick pulled himself through the day, making it out until Mr. Scott stopped him, again.

"Nick?" He called from his office as the ending bell rung. Nick groaned and veered into the room. Mr. Scott seemed different today though, more alert. Unlike me, thought Nick.

"How's life? Anything weird happening?" Nick sat up taller. Yes, things had been getting strange, but how would Mr. Scott know that?

"Umm. Not really, no. Can I go?" Nick stuttered. He felt the grey eyes drilling into him, looking thought him.

"You can tell me anything, no matter how strange." Nick began to feel very uncomfortable.

"I think I should go," said Nick bluntly. Maybe I should tell him. He could help. Or he would send me to a mental hospital. I think I'll stay with a secret.

"Nick, you-" said Mr. Scott. He was walking over to his desk, and Nick saw an opening. He got up and dashed for the door. Nick had left his backpack in Mr. Scott's office, so he just started for home. This is too strange, he thought. A light blue, chipped, beat up pick-up truck watched him leave his school. Nick didn't see it, and kept walking away from the school as fast as he could. When Nick was out of site from the school, a man stepped in front Nick, stopping him.

"Hey, kid." Nick froze up.

"What do you want?" he said stiffly. The man was tall, with light short hair, wearing jeans and a tee-shirt.

"I think you know, but you might just not be done yet," he said mysteriously.

"What-" The man grabbed Nick's hand, pulled out a knife, and stabbed it through. Nick cried out and tried to pull away from the man, but he held his wrist tight. Nick pulled and tugged, but he held him firm. His hand throbbed with pain, the knife still sticking through it. If I couldn't heal once, it would be great if this was the time. Sadly, the man pulled out the knife, and the hole closed itself up. Nick tried to make a dash for it again, but the man caught him. Still saying nothing, he used a towel and wiped away the blood. Nick's hand was completely healed. He man smiled sickly, and let go. Eerily silent, he walked away. Nick gasped and ran home as fast as he could, not looking back. If Nick had looked back, he would have seen the man leaning up against his truck, an old, beat-up light blue pick-up. He would have seen him dial his phone, and start a conversation.

"He's ready." 

Nick hadn’t known that he had been day dreaming as he walked, but soon he was back at his Aunt’s house and he didn’t remember walking there. He was there

Nick got to his front porch, out of breath, and out of bravery. Aunt Jenny was sitting out on the swing, waiting for him.

"Oh! There you are!" She said with a wave, "You forgot your backpack at school, so one of your teacher's came by and dropped it off! How nice of him." Nick left his backpack in the kitchen and ran up to his room. He shut the door behind him and pulled his bed over the door. Sitting on his bed, he was finally able to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, hopping that all of this was just a bad dream. He would wake with his mom in the kitchen making pancakes, his dad reading the paper, in Dallas, with everything normal once more. He jumped at a knock at the door.

"Honey? You forgot your backpack." Nick sighed and pulled his bed away from the door. Opening it slowly, he saw his aunt holding it, with a worried look on her face.

"Nick are you okay? Did anything happen on your way home?" Nick grabbed the backpack from her, and slammed the door. He leaned up against it and felt terrible. What am I supposed to say? He thought. Oh, yeah Aunt Jenny, a man came up and stabbed me, but I'm fine now, have any ice cream? Maybe he could learn more about what was happening. Maybe it was some sort of disease. Nick got out his laptop and started to research healing. There was no disease that created accelerated healing, most did the opposite. Nick made a decision to use hand sanitizer for the rest of his life after looking at some of these web sites. He was getting nothing on the medical side, so he started going to some conspiracy websites. Nick had looked for hours, finding nothing, until he found an article on how the body could do amazing things, like replicating cells, quickly. Nick started to have a small amount of hope again. The article was by some doctor guy, with many letters behind his name.

In special cases, the body changes in the stages of adolescents, the cells of the individual, can mutate into different abilities. These mutations can happen to anyone, and there are different degrees that the mutations take. There are many different ways that these cells can mutate, including abilities like mental power, flame, speed, physic powers, the ability to control elements, and in very rare cases, regeneration. Some mutations could be so powerful that the subject does not survive the first few years of life. There has been cases that the mutations have overpower the natural development of the human brain, causing mental illness.

 So that's what's wrong with me, thought Nick. My cells are changing and whatnot. He skimmed through the rest of the article, but he had trouble to understand most of it. Regeneration, that sounds way cooler than healing. Does this mean that I am a super hero? I hope not. Ugh, why does everything always change?

There was a soft knock at the door.

"Nick? Are you okay?" asked Aunt Jenny through the door. Nick closed his laptop and opened the door.

"I'm okay. Sorry about closing the door in your face." He said quietly.

"What's wrong? Is something happening at school? Is someone bothering you?" she asked.

"I just feel alone." Nick was surprised. He didn't mean to say that, but it just kind of came out. His aunt smiled.

"You know," she said, walking into the room and sitting on Nick's bed, "when your uncle died, I started to travel. I was afraid that I was going to be alone in this house, so I stayed as far away from it as I could. I thought that the more people that I knew, and the more places that I went, I wouldn't feel so lonely. I was wrong. I was lonely until I came back home. It was hard, but I after it was over, I felt much better." Nick smiled slightly. His aunt met his smile with one of hers. We are talking bout two completely different things. How could she understand? Aunt Jenny tried to connect to Nick the best way that she knew.

"Would you like some ice cream?" Nick smiled and nodded. He pulled himself through the next day, much like he did yesterday. He tried to pay more attention in biology, but it was about plant cells and didn't help much. Jake hit him with more spit balls, and everyone else ignored him. 

Nick was sitting in math, and doodling again on his notebook. He looked up to see if there was any notes, and saw Mr. Scott standing outside the door of the classroom. Nick blinked, and he was gone. Nick rubbed his eyes, but Mr. Scott was still gone. After class got out, Nick walked into hall, looking for the strange counselor. Nick passed by his office a little slower, but he wasn't stopped. Mr. Scott had stopped him everyday since Nick came to Reading. 

He got into the library, sat down at his desk, but he couldn't concentrate. This is useless. There are way bigger things happening to me now than the square root of 73. Slowly, he gave up on his homework and started to look around the library. After browsing for awhile, Nick walked back to the computers and looked up a book about cell mutation. There was a few books about cell mutation, but they were complicated, and not helpful. Nick closed the last book and bit his lip. 

Where else could he find information on the freaky stuff that was happening? There was a little boy a bit over in the children's section of the library. He was reading a superhero comic. Nick snorted quietly. Want to trade? He thought jokingly. Nick stopped. What could it hurt? He picked up his stack of boring, thick books and put on the cart for re-shelving. He went back to the computers, thinking that he might have gotten a decent idea. He searched; Real superheros, Real-life Power, and Science Superheros. The first two came up with nothing, but science superheros did. The Real Science of Superheros. Nick's hope raised, and he looked for the isle. Then the hope fell. It wasn't at his library, it had to be ordered. Nick sighed and hit the link to order it. It would take two to three days, so Nick packed up his things and left. It had gotten colder, and he pulled his jacket close around his neck. Looking beyond his breath that hung in the air, he scanned the area very carefully. Nick wasn't about to let anyone sneak up on him again. He pushed his hands farther into his pockets. His aunt's house was directly in front of him, but something was different. Nick couldn't tell, but something was wrong at home.

~

Nick started to walk into the house as quickly as he could. He couldn't tell what was wrong, but something was.

"Aunt Jenny!" called out Nick, the door slamming behind him. The kitchen was a mess, and it never was.

"Aunt Jenny!" Nick called again, this time more franticly.

"Nick? What's the matter?" called down Aunt Jenny. Nick let out a sigh of relief. Must have just been all in my head. His aunt was coming down the stairs, with Nick's suitcase. His heart started to race again.

"Am I going somewhere?" he asked shakily. His aunt didn't look right, her eyes where all glazed over and her was hair all over her face. Aunt Jenny kept her hair in a tight bun on the top of her head for as long as Nick could remember.

"Oh yes! I didn't tell you! You won a scholarship to Longview High. Isn't that great?! You leave in three hours." She said cheerfully. Nick's eyes widened.

"I didn't enter a drawing for a scholarship.'' said Nick. Aunt Jenny smiled very stiffly.

"Of course you didn't silly," she said coming down the rest of the stairs, "Your parents did. Here, have a brochure." Aunt Jenny put down his suitcase and handed him a little pamphlet.

Come and Join us at Longview High! We have special classes for people with special abilities! We are an accredited boarding school located in New Jersey, with various famous alumni.

"Longview High helped me find my true potential. The people there were so nice and caring. Now I'm best friends with my roommate for life! Thanks Longview High!" -Alumni Nikkie Bedet

 "Longview High was a great place to learn and grow. The teachers were kind and there were classes that I was interested in. Me and my roommate got along swimmingly! Longview High, you're the greatest!" -Alumni Taylor Ceday.

 "Longview High taught me to just be me. The other people there were friendly, and the teachers really knew their stuff. I still keep in contact with my roommate, we just clicked. Longview High is wonderful!" Alumni Trey Nummer.

 Come join the family!

 Nick re-read all of the information. All of the recommendations sound the same... On the  back, it talked more about the facilities and how Nick would be flying to New Jersey in the school's private jet. Cool. Thought Nick. Aunt Jenny seemed fine with it, so he helped her pack up his stuff.

Soon enough, a suitcase was packed for him, and they would ship the rest later. There wasn't an airport in Reading, so they had to drive to St. Paul. Aunt Jenny didn't want to talk on the way to the airport, which was a little strange for her, but Nick didn't notice. They got through the ticket booth easy enough, and saw the jet. It was huge, and looked very nice. Nick was getting nervous, but Aunt Jenny rushed him through security and to the gate. 

Something was bothering him, his parents had said nothing about signing him up for a scholarship. He thought that they had been going to a high school reunion. Aunt Jenny really knew her way around airports from her years of traveling, and before Nick really knew what he was doing, they were at the gate and she was gone. No "have a good time Nick", no "be good at school Nick", not even a goodbye, she just left. Nick stomach turned and he started to feel uncomfortable. He looked around again to see if she had just stepped away for a moment. There was a hand on his shoulder and he sighed. He was just being silly, of course she hadn't left. Nick thought that was kinda funny, so he turned to tell his aunt. The hand on his shoulder was not Aunt Jenny's. It was the hand of a friendly flight stewardess. Nick tensed up again at the fake smile plastered on her face.

"Do, do you know where my aunt went to?" he asked cautiously. The stewardess smiled more.

"Oh, she just left. Boarding is now." She said, steering him into the gate. There was no one else on the plane, and it was nice, first class. There was a thick carpet on the floor, and only a few big leather arm chairs. There was many TVs and windows, and tables. Nick forgot about how nervous he was and looked around the plane. The stewardess motioned to one of the black leather chairs off to the side. Nick sank down into it, looked out the window onto the runway. When he flew to Reading, he had been in coach, and was stuck in-between two large men. First class on a private jet was much better. Soon they were in the air, and Nick was watching the tiny world go by. The stewardess came back around, and brought him a snack and a cup of soda. Nick watched the windows for a while, and drank the coke. This is the life. Thought Nick. He started to fell drowsy, and reclined his chair. He was out in a moment. The stewardess walked over and put the table. She made eye contact with the other steward, and he picked up a walkie.

"He's out. Take us home." The plane turned sharply to the left.  

~ Raccoon Notes ~ 

Omg a spitball?? Did he go to school in the 90’s omfg

“He said mysteriously” yeah no SHIT 

“There was no disease that created accelerated healing, most did the opposite” AGAIN NO SHIT

“Does this mean that I am a super hero? I hope not. Ugh, why does everything always change?” OH MY GOD. I’m nOt LikE oTHeR boYS

The names of the personal Experiences review where 3 of my friends at the time but with different last names. 

He accepted that…. So fast. Just “oh. Cool”