#this is like. walking through run down streets and barbed wire

[unknownarmageddon]

daily hozier!!

YOOOO

[alittlebitofloveliness]

It’s not until he’s already whaling on the kid that Paul realises exactly who it is he’s decided to jump.

He’d been out for a drive with Ty, shooting the shit and showing off the new Camaro his dad bought him for his birthday when they spotted the greaser kid- a guy with slicked back reddish brown hair, small but tough looking like all the kids from the east side, walking alone down one of the back roads. One look and a grin shared with Ty was all it took before he was shooting down the street, forcing the kid to jump into the ditch or risk getting run over.

Ty had laughed, mirth shining in his handsome green eyes as the greaser sprang to his feet, swearing colourfully. Paul wasn’t gonna pretend to have any sort of love for the east side, but he couldn’t deny that greaser folk didn’t turn out any sissies. For all the kid probably wasn’t more than fourteen, his greyish eyes didn’t show a trace of fear. Annoyance more than anything, and something that looked like…recognition, maybe? Didn’t matter much. What came next was the fun part- greasers didn’t break easy. It was always fun to see how much they could take before they finally started crying for their mothers.

In the time it took for Paul and Tson to get out of the car, the greaser had snatched up a broken beer bottle and leaned into a defensive slouch.

“Hey Buddy,” Ty grinned.

“Fuck off.” The kid spat, gripping the bottle tighter. Paul took a step closer to him and…there! The kid’s eyes- which had been laser focused on him and Ty- flashed left. 

“Not so fast,” Paul stepped sideways, effectively boxing the kid in. In the ditch, with a barbed wire fence from an old farm at his back, the camaro blocking any escape to the right, Ty in front of him, and now Paul at his left, the kid was well and truly trapped. Paul could see the moment he realized it, a flash of unease flitting over his face before smoothing into a tough mask once more.

“You know Ty,” Paul said, “I think this kid needs to learn some manners. And I think we should teach them to him. What do you think?”

Ty grinned. “Y’know Paul, I think you’re right.”

The kid spat at him. Saliva dripped down Ty’s face, his friend apparently too stunned to do anything but blink at him. 

The greaser snickered.

Paul lunged. 

For all the kid’s bravado and tough facade, even with that bottle in his hand, he’s still just a kid. Paul is twenty now, a linebacker for the University of Alabama, not afraid of a kid who could swing a bottle but not hard enough. He’s got him down in a second. 

The first punch shatters the kid’s nose, blood immediately pouring down his face. It still takes two more hits before he starts screaming. When he does, Paul’s blood runs cold

“Darry!” The kid, no longer tough looking by any means, cries out, “Darry help! Darry!”

The name, torn from the past Paul had worked so hard to forget, pulls him up short. He remembers now, Darry Curtis always speaking with fond exasperation about his two little brothers, about how one of them always tracked mud through the house and drove their mother crazy, and the other one climbed trees and got stuck in them because he couldn’t remember how to get down.

He also remembers the time Darry found out someone was picking on his brother, the one who was a freshman back when they were seniors. They practically had to peel the guy off the pavement when Darry was done with him.

Shit.

There’s a lot of things he remembers about Darry Curtis. He can’t decide whether they make him wish he’d punched the kid harder or never punched him at all.

The kid, Darry’s little brother, takes advantage of Paul’s brief distraction, bucking his hips and rolling. It’s a good maneuver, one that probably would have managed to throw Paul off if it weren’t for Ty grabbing the kid’s hair and slamming his head back against the ground.

Ty starts punching him then, and all Paul can do is sit there half frozen, seeing Darry’s eyes in someone else's face, his sharp jawline framing someone else’s mouth, his weird, sticking out ears on someone else’s head, all the features beat to a bloody pulp.

And all the while the kid keeps screaming.

“Darry! Soda! Help! Johnny, Steve, Dally, anyone! Please! Darry!”

It’s too much. Whatever he and Darry once had, whatever happened between them, no matter how bad it ended, it shouldn’t have come to this. There shouldn’t be a mixture of dark satisfaction and soul crushing guilt warring in his heart at the sight of Darry’s brother bloody and bruised. 

Ty’s fist raises once again and the kid on the ground flinches, cries.

Paul reaches out to grab Ty’s shoulder, to tell him it’s enough, that they should get out of here, to escape from the memories and the guilt and the rage.

He never gets a chance.

“‘Hey asshole!” Before he can grab Ty’s shoulder someone else grabs his shoulder and punches him hard enough he feels his teeth rattle in his skull. He stumbles back, clutching his cheek and looks up into the coldest eyes he’s ever seen, a glittering, intelligent, blue-so-deep-it’s-black shining with malice. A thick scar peeks out of his attacker’s hairline, but other than that the guy’s smooth brown skin is largely unmarked, features handsome in a dangerous sort of way. His head tilts, the way a cat’s might before it pounces on its prey, as he pulls a switchblade from his pocket, clicking it open. The handle is worn but the blade is no joke, six inches of razor sharp steel, glittering in the sunlight. 

Paul gulps. He’s not stupid enough to bring fists to a knife fight and he sure as hell doesn't have a blade on him.

The guy notices because he grins, revealing pearly white teeth and canines just a bit sharper than the average person’s.

Paul opens his mouth, to say what exactly he isn’t sure, but before he can he’s interrupted by a scream. Except this time it’s not the kid’s- it’s Ty’s.

He whirls with a gasp to see Darry Curtis on top of Ty, knuckles already bloody from hitting him so hard. Beside them, the greaser kid has managed to pull himself to his knees, an impressive feat considering the state he’s in.

Questions and emotions swirl through Paul’s head so fast he feels dizzy. How could Darry have snuck up on them so fast and so quietly? Did he really hear the kid screaming? Who’s the guy with him?

The guy with him…

His distraction is his fatal mistake, because he turned his back on the guy with the knife, who has him in a headlock with a blade against his throat before he can so much as yell.

“So,” the guy with the knife says in his ear. He’s disarmingly casual, for all he could kill Paul at any moment if he so chose, “you’re the famous Paul, huh?”

Fear, cold and paralyzing, floods through him.

“How the fuck do you know my name?”

The guy with the knife chuckles, grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to watch as Ty’s face gets bloodier and bloodier, his handsome features turned into a crime scene. There’s an almost animalistic rage in Darry’s eyes, a look Paul’s only seen once before, and he knows that when Darry pulls his punches it will only be because he feels justice has been served.

“I know everythin’ that happens in this town,” the knife at his neck doesn’t waver so much as an iota, as his captor laughs again, “and I heard a lot about you Paul Holden. Football star but never good enough to be captain. A bigger petty thief than half us east side boys, but daddy always bought you out of it. And apparently a big fan of jumping little kids- y’know, like a coward.”

Paul growls, trying to twist loose from the guy’s hold, but the greaser is stronger than his wiry frame belies, and he’s still got the advantage of a knife in hand. He presses it close enough that a small bead of blood wells against the steel and Paul stops struggling.

“Maybe I am a coward,” Paul grits out, panting, whether from fear or exertion he doesn’t know, “but Darry Curtis isn’t any braver than me.”

The knife bites into his neck a tad deeper. 

“Darry isn’t the one who just jumped a little kid.”

Paul grins. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You’re full of shit.” The guy’s voice is as measured and cool as ever, but the grip on Paul’s hair tightens painfully and he knows he’s hit a nerve.

“Maybe,” Paul admits, “but I’m not wrong. You’re his new guy, right? Well he fucks good but he’ll betray you in the end, just like he did me-”

A burning flash and his cheek is suddenly pouring blood.

“Watch. Your. Mouth.” The guy snarls, “Or next time I won’t just cut your pretty face I'll cut your damn throat.” 

Paul falls silent, not willing to call his bluff. Mostly because he isn’t entirely sure the guy is bluffing. Whoever Darry’s got himself mixed up with now is a whole lot more dangerous to him and probably for him than Paul ever was.

Figures.

He focuses back on Ty and Darry’s fight. Darry’s got a black eye and a small cut on his temple, so apparently Ty has managed to fight back a little, but he’s still a lot worse off, still pinned by Darry, face a twisted mess of what it once was.

“Darry,” the kid has managed to stumble to his feet, the eye that isn’t already swollen shut, wide and horrified, “Darry stop. C’mon, that’s enough, you're gonna kill him.”

Paul sees the moment Darry comes back to himself, watches as the feral look in his eyes melts into concern and pain so deep it would have cut twelfth grade Paul to the bone. Hell, it does something to him now.

“He deserves it, Ponyboy,” Darry says, “look what he did to your face!”

“I’m fine Dar,” the kid tries for a grin, but the blood in his teeth defeats the point of any sort of reassurance, “let’s just go home. Ain’t like he’s gonna try anything now.”

On the ground, Ty moans something incomprehensible. Shit, Paul’s going to have to take him to a hospital when they get out of this.

“Yeah,” Darry nods like he’s trying to convince himself, “yeah okay. Go ahead an’ git in the car okay? Me’n Tim’ll be there in a second.”

He’s talking full grease, the way he always used to when he was real upset, and Paul can’t help the satisfaction that runs through him at the sound of it. 

“Ok, just…don’t do anythin’ you’ll regret,” the kid starts limping in the direction of a beat up pickup truck Paul hadn’t noticed before, casting wary glances over his shoulder the whole time. He’s lifted the hem of his shirt to press against his nose but it doesn’t seem to be doing much to staunch the flow of blood.

Paul looks back at Darry and finds himself staring into the coldest eyes he’s ever seen. He used to think those eyes were beautiful, back in high school, when they twinkled with mirth or glittered with determination. Some part of him acknowledges that they’re still beautiful now, even filled with hatred. 

They stare at each other for a moment, Darry standing over the body of Paul’s new best friend who they both know is probably more than that, Paul with Darry’s new lover's knife held tight against his neck.

In those seconds he remembers everything they ever were, ever fought for, fought because of, why he left. He remembers meeting Darry in eighth grade and immediately being drawn to him in a way he could never properly explain. He remembers the first time they kissed, in tenth grade, the fear that had gripped him but the longing that had claimed him, making terror a backseat to passion. He remembers two years of dreaming, days and nights, soft lips and warm hands and a body like a greek god, remembers when longing gave way to love. He remembers screaming and fighting and words neither of them could ever take back. Remembers leaving. Remembers regretting it. Remembers trying to go back and Darry refusing him. Remembers heartbreak. Remembers rage.

Darry punches him.

Pain blooms across his jaw and he swears he feels a tooth crack, the only thing stopping him from hitting the ground the fact that Darry’s guy still has him in a vicelike grip.

“If you ever,” Darry spits through gritted teeth, and there’s no forgiveness in those eyes, no nostalgia, only hate, “lay a finger on my little brother again, I swear to god I’ll kill you.”

He won’t, Paul knows, because Darry is and always has been too good for this earth, and that hasn’t changed even if he now wears anger the way he used to wear arrogance- but he isn’t going to test that theory. There’s plenty of other greaser kids to jump that don’t come with dredging up the worst memories of his past.

Darry gives him one last disgusted look and spits at his feet, before his gaze slides to Paul’s captor. Tim, Darry had called him earlier.

“Ready to go?” The ever so slight softness in Darry’s eyes when he looks at Tim- crazy fucking Tim who is holding Paul at knifepoint- shouldn’t bother him nearly as much as it does. The fact that it bothers him at all leaves a bitter twist in his stomach.

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, “I'll be there in a second. You go check on the kid, the way he was walkin’ I think he mighta sprained his ankle.”

Darry nods, concern lighting once more in his eyes, and he jogs over to the car, immediately shaking his kid brother awake who had fallen asleep against the window.

Tim’s knife skates over Paul's neck, not deepening the shallow cut, but definitely drawing it longer.

“Listen here Holden,” he practically croons, pulling Paul’s head back, “you and I both know Darry would never make good on his promise. I on the other hand,” the knife flashes and Tim opens yet another cut on his cheek. Paul howls. “Have no such qualms. So if you go near any of the Curtis boys ever again, I will kill you.” His voice softens, a murmur so low Paul can hardly hear it despite Tim being quite literally right beside him, “I’ve done it before. I know how to not get caught. So if you think for a second that I am lying…”

He turns Paul in his grip so they’re suddenly face to face. 

“Call my bluff.”

He shoves him, hard, and Paul stumbles back, landing hard on his ass beside Ty who seems only semi conscious, lying supine on the ground. 

Tim smiles, like he didn’t just threaten Paul’s life and confess to murder in the same breath, before turning on his heel and making his way over to the car, climbing into the driver's seat.

Paul’s past and his new bogeyman drive away and he sits in the ditch for a long time, too terrified- or maybe just too shocked- to move.

[st-el-la-luna]

Thinking about being a civilian in Las Almas when shit goes down

You'd been invited to stay with a friend and, being in desperate need of a vacation, you'd agreed. It was fun, staying with them, meeting their family, learning about their hometown and childhood.

The fun ended pretty quick when these cunts dressed in black started killing everyone.

You and your friend had been out enjoying the night, eating, drinking, dancing. You were on your way back to their house when you heard it.

A gunshot.

Your friend tells you this isn't entirely abnormal. Tells you to ignore it and keep walking.

So you do.

But the gunshots are becoming more frequent. Louder too. They're getting closer.

A woman you vaguely recognize, one of your friends neighbours, rushes out of an alleyway, terrified and bloodied.

You can only understand so much about what's said before her head suddenly... Not there. Bits of skull and brain and blood spattered all over you as you watch her body drop.

You turn to your friend. "This is normal? Dude...."

You're friend tells you to shut the fuck up and that you need to run. As the sound of heavy footsteps and voices (American accents you register) get closer, accompanied by the sound of a gun being reloaded, you agree.

The two of you make a run for your friends house, passing all sorts of horrible sights. You're a block away when a gunshot rips through the night and your friend suddenly just... Stops.

You look back in disbelief. Their eyes wide with shock, lips parted, slack jawed... The new hole in the middle of their forehead. They try to say something to you, but all that escapes them is a choked groan. They throw you their keys, then collapse.

They're not dead yet. You can tell by their sounds and the rise and fall of their chest. A part of you wants to help them, grab them and drag them off to safety.

The other part of you recognizes the man dressed in all black (he looks suspiciously military but that doesn't make sense, killing civilians is a war crime... isn't it?), who's walking closer as he reloads his gun.

So you run.

Run and run until your legs are burning. Taking back roads and side streets, jumping fences, the adrenaline making it easy to ignore the way the barbed wire tears at your skin.

When you make it to your friends street, you find the door to their house is already open. Kicked down.

You find the dead inside.

A part of you wants to stop here, curl up and break down. The other knows that these people, these men in black, could come back at any moment. And so you do what you can to prepare yourself.

You empty your backpack of your belongings, filling it instead with anything you find around the house that might be useful.

A first aid kit buckled to the side. Rubbing alcohol and tequilla and whatever else flammable you can find poured into glass bottles, the lips stuffed with socks. Kitchen knives. Fire crackers and fire works. A couple flares. You manage to break open the safe and get a gun. An eight round revolver that you have no clue how to shoot but figure, hey, its better than nothing. At the very least, you could use it for intimidation.

You're heading to the garage where you're pretty sure you remember seeing a bow and full quiver of arrows (you were obsessed with the hunger games when you were younger, actually got pretty good with the weapon) when you freeze.

The man in black also freezes.

He's bloody and out of breath. Face smeared with dirt and oil. His mohawk disheveled. His blue eyes land on you laser focused. He's got a gun. A big one.

And he's looting the corpses. Your friends roommates, their bodies still warm as blood pools beneath them, some of their eyes still open, casting judgmental stares, lay there limp. And this fucker is acting like this is a D&D campaign.

You've got the revolver trained on him with shaking hands.

He points his gun (some sort of automatic things) at you. His hands are steady, practiced. His eyes sharp.

He opens his mouth to speak and takes a half step towards you.

You pull the trigger.

Nothing happens.

"Aye," the man speaks in a thick Scottish brogue. He sounds like he's laughing. How dare he laugh? If you could figure out how the stupid gun works you'd shoot him. "You've got to cock a gun like that 'fore you shoot it."

You freeze, your arm drawn back ready to throw the revolver at the man. His accent gives you pause. The other men in black, they were Americans. And this guy... His clothes are a bit different too. Though he's clearly also army.

You lower your arm hesitantly. "You're... You're not one of them."

"The Shadows?" he asks. "Tch, no. You'd best thank your lucky stars for that, they'd have killed you in a second flat."

"What the hell is going on here?" You demand, slipping the gun back into the makeshift holster you had made out of a couple belts. You step around the man to the garage and he follows.

"You're not from here, are ya love?" he asks as he watches you scan the shelves.

"I'm here on vacation," you say bitterly as you stand on your toes, struggling to reach the quiver of arrows. He pulls it down and hands it to you. The arrows are dusty and old, though still sharp. He hands the bow to you as well, albeit unstrung, and you let out a quiet hum in thanks. He watches as you string the bow, a brow raised. He looks like he's going to say something, but you cut him off. "You didn't answer my question... What's happening? Who are those people?"

He hesitates a moment, you notice his ear piece. Someone else is speaking to him. "Aye, i know, I know, but I cannae very well leave her here now can I?"

At the mention of being left, you panic. There's a pair of handcuffs on his belt. You grab them and before he has a chance to react, you've cuffed your hands together.

And swallowed the key.

Yeah... Not your brightest moment.

The man looks at you dumbfounded. Then speaks to the man in his ear. "Uh... Lt? Got a bit of a problem..."

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Masterlist

[jasonsknight3]

Alright, it is time for chapter two! Enjoy!

⚠️warning⚠️ violence, mentions of gore, gun, and drugs.

The longest night

Chapter two

Fear Begins Now

Ever since you lost Jason it felt like a piece of you was missing. In its place was a deep hole that was filled back up with loneliness, sadness, and emptiness. Sure, you picked yourself back up but you have never loved another since Jason. You tried but. O filled that void. That loss. However, picking yourself up doesn’t mean that you are completely healed. In fact, you weren’t. You knew that. Sometimes you still have nightmares about that film. The film Joker sent Batman.

Your presence wasn’t known to Alfred, Batman, or Nightwing. All of them watched the film. Jason was so…broken, dead eyes, empty. He was empty. His body, broken and hurt. Misshapen, pieces missing, cuts, burns. A horrid sight. He was tied to a chair with barbed wire. Joker's voice came through the video. “Have you got something to tell the nice man Jason?” Joker questioned. Jason’s voice was rough and barely audible. “My name…is Jason Todd.” He said without looking at the camera recording him. Joker walked into the camera view and circled around Jason. “And who do ya hate?” Joker asked with an edge of humor in his voice as if trying to not laugh at a cruel joke. “Batman.” Jason answered quietly. “Excellent, of course you do.” Joker turned back to the camera, his face taking up most of it. “Here that Bats? Kidd not yours anymore. He’s mine. Mine to do with as I wish.” Joker walked away from the camera screen and spoke in a “hey I just got an idea” kind of way. “Hey, I never asked, what’s the big secret?” Joker curled around Jason leaning down to him. “Who is the big bad Bats name?” He cooed. “Tell me?” Joker walked away standing a little bit away from Jason. “Of course sir, it’s…” before Jason could even say a word Joker pulled out his ace of spades. His 15-3 revolver and shot Jason knocking him over. Seeing that you screamed in pain. It felt as if you had been shot too. Except there was no freedom of death. The bullet leaving you with pain, loss, and suffering. Bruce had you dragged out of the room by nightwing. Everyone mourned, everyone except Bruce. He never openly cried and you didn’t forgive him for that.

Currently you work at a business office as a “coffee girl” is what they call you. However, you really just work the front desk answering calls, organizing documents, and running errands. Surprisingly, you made good money but were treated poorly. Your second job was a bit more secretive. You still stayed in the loop with Batman and the rest of the crew. Often you walk the streets dressed in dark clothes and eavesdrop on criminals. Most of the time you find a nice spot to sit. Listen. When you listen you hear plans. Hear information on criminal activity. Your second job was slipping information to the vigilantes.

Standing on the rooftop the night sky was cloudy tonight as usual. The air smelled of rain to come. Rain would feel nice on a night like this. “Hey little birdie.” The sudden sound of Nightwing’s voice scared a small yelp out of you before you punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t scare me like that Dick!” He just laughed, “Ow, you didn’t have to hit me.” Sick rubbed his shoulder with a smile. Dick changed as he grew older and more mature. He grew up becoming a Boy Scout. A happy go lucky kind of guy. Sometimes it was nice and refreshing. Even better, sometimes his attitude was infectious in the moment. Let g out a small laugh and your body relaxes. “So, got any info for me little birdie?” He asked, leaning on the roof railing. “Yea actually, heard about some possible two-face activity. Harley Quinn may be coming back. Her heavy mourning stage is over….” The words catch in your throat. “Joker's death.” The name left a foul taste in your mouth. “I think she’s going to make a comeback.” You say quietly. Dick nodded “Okay, got any specific information on the Two-face activity?” He inquired. “Bank heists in old Gotham. Other than those two it’s been quiet. The bad kind that makes your stomach twist.” You explained finally leaning against the railing as well. “Thanks for the info.” He paused “How are you (y/n)?” The question threw you off. “Huh?” Was all you said as your eyebrows knit together. Dick frowned “well, I just know that…” Dick but his lip trying to find a way to word it. Even though you knew exactly what was coming. “His death anniversary is tomorrow.”

The words made your body feel heavy all of the sudden. Science says that women have heart strings. Those heart strings can break when really hurt. Could lead to early death even from not properly being able to pump blood. You know for a fact the day he died one heartstring broke, but every year when his anniversary comes back around it feels like another heart string begins to break. Hurts but doesn’t break. “I…” you start your sentence if you couldn't finish it before the tears start slipping down your cheeks. Dick pulled you to him so fast and wrapped his arms around you tight. “It will get easier.” Dick cooed. “I know.” You reply. You say those words but you didn’t honestly believe them. Not now anyway.

Eventually he let go and smiled at you to which you retired the smile. “Well, thanks for the information. You’ve always been a good help. Just as he wasn’t about to leave he turned back to face you on his heel. “And little birdie, tomorrow's Halloween, please, please, please, stay inside. Tonight and tomorrow night are some of the most dangerous nights of the year. When you go home stay safe, don’t be out tonight. Okay?” Before you could speak a loud screeching sound echoed throughout the whole city. All the screens began showing a scene, Paula’s dinner. I adore people screaming and tearing each other apart. A real blood bath, a scary sight to see. Even gunshots echo through the scene. “What is this? What’s happening?” You asked Dick. “I don’t know, I’m calling B.” As Dick walked off and began talking to Batman there screens all changed to a familiar face. “Scarecrow….” You breathe. He began to speak, his voice refined and calm. “This demonstration used just 5 ounces of my latest toxin.” That was only 5 ounces used? That small amount just caused over ten deaths. You picked up on the conversation Dick was having. “Only one survivor? What are we doing? What’s the plan B?” The scarecrow spoke once more. “Tomorrow, this will seem like child’s play.” That made your heart sink to your feet. “Gotham, this is your only warning.” Was the last thing scarecrow said before the recording cut out and played again. You look over at Nightwing who was off the call with Batman. “Dick?” He approached you, true uncertainty in his eyes.

“They are evacuating the city.”

Close up of scarecrow

[jackactuallywrites]

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x You

Rating: Nothing explicit, no sex or egregious violence

Warnings: Gun violence? And he does steal her phone

Summary: You go chasing cats and find a lot more than you bargained for

Notes: It’s been sat in my drafts for ages and the first part is a little slow so bear with x

Word Count: 1,893

ao3 link

Yet again, it was there.

A little cat, dark grey, striped with lighter grey, with a white belly and paws, sniffing around the large green bins in the dingy alleyway. The white of its fur was stained with various unpleasant shades of brown, the cause for which you didn't want to think about. It had clearly found something of interest to it underneath the large dumpster, crouching down on its elbows, stretching out one of its front paws to try and grab whatever lay there, unbothered by the wet grime on the ground staining its fur. With your human eyes, you weren't privileged enough to see what tasty treat lay just out of reach, but you were able to see the thick ring of plastic that was wrapped around the creature's neck, no doubt digging into the skin, tighter and tighter as the smaller kitten grew from a desperate mewling creature into a lean, wary cat. As of yet, it hadn't seen you, still focused on its mission, but the second you took a single step forward, a tiny pebble grated underneath your shoe, and the stray's head snapped up, its distrusting yellow eyes slicing over to you.

"Kitty-" You ventured, trying to keep your voice as gentle as possible, soft and sweet, but the kitten took off, sprinting down the alleyway, the plastic from the six-pack ring sticking out above it as it ran. You briefly glanced back to the road that led you back home, already idly entertaining giving up on your quest. The sun was beginning to dip in the sky, as it did on your walks home from work, giving you at least two more hours of sunlight. And yet, it wasn't like you had anything all that important to get to at home; besides, it was a fairly pleasant evening, still warm and sunny despite the clouds, and you didn't keep cat treats in your pocket for no reason, so you took after the little cat, doing your best to keep a distance enough not to spur it into sprinting away. It was only vaguely suspicious of you, looking back over its shoulder at you every so often to see if you were still following, its sprint having slowed into a trot, its tail low, yet not poofed up, uneasy, but not afraid.

It was taking you on an incredibly complicated path through the city, zigging and zagging through innumerable side streets and alleys, making you increasingly thankful that you'd chosen to wear your trainers rather than the slip-on shoes which would have given you a throbbing blister after so much running. Slowly but surely, the cat was taking you further out from the populated areas into the industrial zone where every other building you walked past had been abandoned. You assumed that it had someplace out here, safe away from anyone who would wish it harm, sheltered from wind and rain, and undoubtedly near a decent supply of mice and rats. It was doing a good job at trying to throw you off, and you almost lost it a few times, but eventually, it led you to a dead end, a skinny alleyway ending in a tall chain-link fence topped with razor-sharp barbed wire. At least, you thought it was a dead end, yet down in the corner, you could see the way the links were slightly uneven, breaking the pattern. In a closer look, you could see where the fence had been cut, the fence curling away from itself, and it was through this small gap that the cat escaped yet again.

You were beginning to believe that you were wasting your evening; clearly, this cat was far too wily to allow itself to be caught by any bumbling human, but it was watching you from the other side of the fence as though it was waiting for you to catch up, as though all this running had been a great game to it. You could give it one more try, at the very least. The break in the fence was plenty large enough for you to slip through, even standing straight up, the sharp metal tugging on the fabric of your jumper and sliding harmlessly over the thick denim of your jeans. The cat was waiting a little ways away from you, sitting at the edge of a building up ahead, two buildings down from you, watching you with its large, suspicious eyes before taking a leisurely walk around the building, its tail now held straight out, flicking slightly. It was intrigued by you. You moved quickly, half crouched as you walked over to where the cat had disappeared, glancing down the gaps between buildings as you did so.

There was a large security camera pointing directly at you, staring down at your face as you peered around the corner of the building. You froze in your place, terrified that at any moment, the police would be called. The cat was sitting almost directly underneath it, watching you leisurely, entirely unaware of your human problems. It was so close to you, and you glanced between it and the camera, trying to weigh up the danger you were in. The light on top of the camera was dark, where it could have been blinking red, and you decided that it must mean it was off. After all, these buildings were abandoned, and as long as you weren't doing anything too illegal, you doubted that the red and blues would come running. You crouched down, holding out your hand to the cat, gently rubbing your fingers together to beckon it, making soft kissy sounds at it, keeping your voice quiet, "Kitty! Come here, kitty!" It didn't move towards you, nor did it move away, flicking its tail as it watched you. You closed your eyes slowly at it, trying to demonstrate your pure intentions, and after a minute, the cat returned the gesture, a great step in the right direction.

You remained still, unwilling to take a single further step toward it lest you spook it. It remained still, watching you blink at it, apparently having every second in the world to play around, enjoying making you work for its friendship. Then, it shot to its feet and sprinted away, leaving you puzzled. You hadn't made a single further move toward it. It only took a second for you to realise what exactly had spooked it, but by then, it was too late. The hand was already on your shoulder, spinning you around and pinning you against the wall, the hard edge of a gun pressed into the centre of your chest. Your attention was fully dragged away from the cat, flicking over to the person holding you at gunpoint. They were taller than you, not that they needed the advantage of height when they had a gun to your chest, dressed in black tactical gear and wearing a black balaclava with a white skull painted on it, with only their eyes revealed. A warm green colour, but they were cold, like chips from a mossy glacier. That iciness was reflected in the voice, his voice, whisper quiet. "Don't. Move."

You weren't sure you'd ever even seen a gun in person, yet now you had the barrel of one pressed up against you, and you felt as though every drop of blood in your body had gone cold. "I'm just looking for a cat." Your voice was a soft plead, not a tone you'd ever heard from your own mouth before, your body acting entirely on instinct. The man frowned at you, using only his gun to hold you in place as his other hand reached out to pat you down. He was a soldier; that much was clear from his uniform and the casual indifference with which he seemed to regard the concept of killing you. His hand roamed down over your arms, roughly grasping at them underneath your jumper, then went down your sides. You allowed it, knowing that it was necessary in order for you to escape with your life, knowing that he would find nothing. He paused at the bulge in your front jean pocket, his pale eyes flicking up to you questioningly, and you answered, "Cat treats." Still, he didn't trust you, digging them out of your pocket to confirm your answer, his eyes flicking over the bright colours of the packet before tossing them aside. You didn't dare even breathe as he patted down your jeans, identifying your phone in the other front pocket. He pulled out your phone, his eyes flicking down to the screen and then back up to you, showing you the lock screen.

"Unlock it."

Even with the gun to your chest, you still hesitated about unlocking your phone for a stranger, your mouth opening to argue with him before your brain caught up with you, not allowing a single word of dissent past your lips. He pressed the gun harder against your chest, the metal digging into your chest through the thin material of your jumper, his eyes hard, and you gave up, reaching up with your fingers to tap in your passcode. He looked down at your phone, swiping through to see your apps and then flicking through your recent photos, only finding endless pictures of you and your cats, as well as the various street cats you encountered on your walk to work. His gaze snapped up to your face once more, flicking across your features as though he was beginning to understand something about you.

Finally, he let up.

"How did you get in?" His voice was slightly less harsh this time. There was still the hard military edge, but now he had more of a questioning tone, as though he was beginning to believe your innocence. "There's a gap in the fence. The cat went through it. I followed." He frowned, his brows furrowing underneath the slightly smudged black paint, and he lifted the barrel of the gun off your chest, taking a step back from you, pocketing your phone as he did so. "Show me." There was no polite question in his voice, only demand, and you knew you had no choice but to obey. With the gun still pointed directly at your heart, it wasn't like you were in any position to refuse. At least now, the barrel wasn't pushed up against you, and you relished every inch of freedom given.

With one last look for that mildly traitorous cat, you led the soldier over to the small gap in the fence you had come through, acutely aware of the weapon still aimed directly at you, gesturing towards the broken chain links with your hand. "It came through here." You felt the tap of the gun between your shoulders, and another command was uttered to you, "Go on then." You glanced over your shoulder at the man, "My phone?" “Go.” You hesitated, but it quickly became apparent that either you left without your phone or you didn’t leave at all. It wasn’t a decision you were happy to make, but it wasn’t as though you had much choice in the matter, so you left it in the hands of the soldier, not giving him a second look as you left, hoping to leave it all behind as an unhappy memory.

[unseededtoast]

Turtle Doves | Joel Miller

Part Eight

Chapter Directory

Series Summary: In which two broken souls connect so deeply, that if one should perish, the other would surely die of a broken heart. (slow burn, timeline changes. After TLOU1, before TLOU2, assumed knowledge of infected, uses elements from both show and game)

Series Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, and sexual content.

Also cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3. Link to my masterlist for everything else I’ve posted!

Though he is a man of few words, his actions speak for his character.

Heading west, I keep walking through the night, though it's less than ideal. I take my time, wanting to stay quiet and undetected by both infected and people. The silence of the night allows my mind to mull over what I found today and how everything is supposed to fit together.

My mind can't seem to figure anything out that makes sense. The map is the only thing that makes the most sense to me. The notes, the game tallies, they all seem so odd but there has to be some connection. There has to be some reason these people were tasked with killing a specific age range of children in QZ's across the country. There has to be some reason they're connected to the Fireflies. I'm seeing bits and pieces of the picture, but not the full painting.

But what if this is all a bit bigger than I can take on? Am I walking myself right towards a death sentence? Maybe. Could I be making the wrong decision to go to Nebraska? Possibly.

The other alternatives are either to retreat back to the QZ and be stuck wondering for the rest of my life, or try to track down which QZ the others went to, and I could miss them and have wasted time. But if I guess which QZ they're going to next, I could possibly save more lives. I've never been good at gambling, and yet I find myself playing at the highest stakes.

Each step seems to take ten times the effort as normal as I consider my options, trying to see which is the most logical, which would give me the best odds of finding these people. As soon as I think I've made a decision, I second guess myself. It feels like there's no right decision to be made.

I stop walking in the middle of a street and stare straight up at the dark sky, the stars shining brightly down. If only they could give me the answer. The sound of a clicker in a nearby skyscraper gets me moving again, towards the interstate. It seems I've made up my mind, and only time will tell if this was the right decision.

Readjusting my backpack and yawning, I take in my surroundings so that I'm not ambushed by infected. Sometimes it seems like they come out of nowhere. My thoughts seem to run in circles until it starts to drive me mad. I have to think of something else or I'm going to go insane. And after searching for something, the green sign above the road distracts my mind and reminds me of the stranger I met only yesterday.

I wonder how Joel is doing, how his journey is going so far. He seemed seasoned to life outside a QZ, his time away from Boston likely forced him to adapt. Whatever job it was that he took to get out of Boston must have caused him to not want to return. But no matter the reason, I hope that he has a safe journey, I'm sure whoever is waiting for him is worried sick.

My path leads me to a roadblock where an old FEDRA checkpoint used to be, just before the entrance ramp of the highway. Cars are parked bumper to bumper and there's sandbags stacked on top of each other supporting a thick line of barbed wire. Knowing I can't climb overtop of it, I take a right and decide to go around. Sure, this is going to delay my trip slightly, but it's better than trying to go overtop of barbed wire. I don't really feel like nursing open wounds on my way to Nebraska.

As I go to turn left to get back on track I immediately stop moving. Standing in the street are three runners, all hunched over with quiet sobs. A clicker cries out somewhere close, its screeches ricochet off the buildings and echoes into the open air. My heart hammers in my chest and I take careful steps backwards so that I can keep my eyes on them. Thankfully, they don't see me and I'm able to get back to the front of the barricade.

I take a left instead, and hope for a better outcome. Bracing myself, I turn the corner and am in disbelief with what I see. There are four runners standing in the road. My eyes trail down the street and I see that they're all trapped here. The FEDRA barricade extends down the streets so that the infected in the Boston area can't use this ramp to get onto the highway. On one of the barricade sections I see the telltale sign of a door, there's a giant FEDRA sign hanging above it. That door would be a direct path to the road if it weren't for the infected. It seems that there's no unobstructed way for me to get to the highway. I'm up against seven runners and a clicker, at least. Even during the day I don't know if I could take this on.

Ducking back behind the building I try to formulate some sort of plan. How can I get through this barricade without the infected noticing me? I know the door is to the left, but there's no way I can get past all of those infected and open it. Even if I do sneak to the door, I know it's going to make sound when I open it, and that's like ringing the dinner bell for them.

Sound would be like ringing a dinner bell. An idea comes to my mind and I spot an abundance of bricks laying beside one of the cars. If I can get those bricks to all fall at the same time across the street, it should draw them away long enough for me to get to the door. It's still risky, but I think it's my best shot. But how do I get them to fall at the same time?

I don't see a way that I can pull that plan off without considerable time, and I don't have time to be stopped up here, not with all the infected. I stare at the pile of bricks and another idea crosses my mind. What if I use them to get over the barricade? I could lay the bricks in a way that I could get over the barbed wire. It might not be the most sophisticated plan, but it's going to have to work.

Quietly, I walk over to the pile and begin picking them up slowly. The barricade is at least six feet high, so I'm going to have to bring bricks up to the top of the sandbags and lay them there before I can construct something over the wire. I slide my backpack off my shoulders so that it's easier to get the bricks to the top of the barricade. Clutching three bricks under one arm, I climb the sandbags and drop them on top. Thankfully, the sand masks the sound of the bricks landing.

I take another trip up with three more bricks without incident, and feel more confident in my plan. On my last trip up with bricks, I drop them on the sandbags, but one of them hits the corner and falls down to the road with a loud crash. The infected hear it and I can tell they're rushing to investigate. I drop down to the road to pick up my backpack and see them coming towards me on both sides. Shit.

With the speed of lighting, I put my backpack on and start climbing the sandbags. I hear them getting closer as I reach the top, their carnal breaths loud in the night. I'm about two inches away from pulling myself to the top when I feel one of them grab my foot and it yanks me down.

My fingers slip on the sandbags and I fall a few inches before I'm able to grab ahold of something. Wildly, I kick my feet in an attempt to get them off of me, but there are too many. In a last ditch effort, I grab my gun from my thigh holster and shoot the ones who drag me down. The shots ring out in the night and I know it's only going to attract more.

The few runners I've shot collapse to the ground, which gives the clicker more space to reach for me. Clickers are infinitely more terrifying than runners, and they're about ten times stronger too. Runners take one bullet to kill, clickers can take at least two or three. I aim my gun towards the clicker and pull the trigger, but it just clicks. It's empty. Quickly, I shove the gun back in the holster and use both hands to grab onto the sandbags.

Adrenaline pumps in my veins and I fight harder to pull myself away from the feral infected. My pant leg rips at the bottom from their clawing and I feel my fingers beginning to slip. Clenching my eyes shut, I grit my teeth and pull with all my might to get away.

Just as I'm about to accept my fate, a shot rings out and one of the infected crumples to the ground. Four more shots hit the clicker, and it falls as well, body twitching on top of the others. Without thinking I pull myself on top of the barricade and whip my head from side to side to see who shot them. I grab my curved knife from my belt and hold it in front of me.

My chest heaves with each breath I take as the adrenaline begins wearing off and the panic sets in. Whoever shot them could be coming for me next. What if it's the T group?

From the shadows I see a figure approaching, slinging a gun behind them as they quickly jog towards me. Once they get close enough, I recognize who it is immediately. It's Joel.

He runs to the barricade and holds out a hand. I put my knife away and offer him my help up the sandbags. We both start using the bricks to construct a makeshift bridge across the barbed wire, the screeches of a dozen approaching infected rushing our movements. Joel takes bricks from my shaking hands and practically stands me up on his own and pushes me across the bridge, my other pant leg ripping from the barbs.

My feet hit the ground with a hard thud, quickly followed by Joel. His hands push on the back of my backpack and one word is clear over the coming stampede.

"Run." We take off sprinting down the highway's entrance ramp. He's slightly faster than me but I keep up well. Joel points to an abandoned car that crashed into a guard rail and I nod, showing him I understand the plan.

We yank open the doors and climb in. If the infected make it over the barricade, they shouldn't see us here and eventually will disperse. The two of us are out of breath and we sit in silence, trying to regain our bearings.

After a few minutes of steadying my breath, I take my backpack off and sit it in my lap. I rest my head on it and lean forward, closing my eyes in an attempt to calm myself down.

"Thank you." I say, slightly breathless. Raising my head from my backpack, I look over to Joel, who's glancing in the mirrors to see what's behind us. His eyes flicker to mine and he gives me a stern nod, opting to stay quiet.

If it weren't for him I'd be some infected's dinner. That fact sinks in and I feel an immense amount of gratitude. He didn't have to save me. He could've left me for dead. Most people wouldn't stick their neck out for someone they barely know, but he did. Though he is a man of few words, his actions speak for his character.

My gaze turns to the mirrors as well, the two of us anxiously wait to see if the infected are going to make it over. The runners would have no issue scaling the wall given the proper motivation to do so, but they're less likely to if they can't immediately see something that grabs their attention.

After hours of us hunkering down silently in the car, Joel opens his door and gets out. He slings his bag and rifle on his back, looking behind him one more time. I get out and gear up as well. And just like the first time I met him, the silence is almost overwhelming. The morning sunlight begins rising, and I realize we spent almost the entire night in the car.

I chew on the inside of my cheek as I debate whether or not I should say anything. Seeing as how he just saved my life, I decide it's the least I can do. I clear my throat and scratch the back of my neck, looking down at the ground to avoid awkward eye contact.

"I just want to thank you again for saving me back there. You really didn't have to put yourself at risk, but I appreciate it." I find the courage to look up, only to see him staring at me already with a fierce intensity.

"I thought you were headed towards that camp?" He asks, totally disregarding my appreciation.

"I was. I mean, I did. One guy was left but he was infected. I found clues though, about where they might be going." I tell him, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. He nods,

"So where're you headed?" He asks again, and it throws me off. This is the most talkative he's ever been.

"Omaha, Nebraska." I say, recalling the city where the large 'T' was located. Joel's eyebrows raise.

"That's quite a ways from here." He points out and I sigh, knowing I'm severely underprepared for the long road ahead.

"Yeah, I know. But I have to do this. I won't be able to live with myself if I don't." I confess to him. I'm well aware my choices defy logic, but, the alternative of letting the guilt eat me alive is worse.

Joel rests his hand on the top of the car and looks down the highway. He shifts his weight around like he's deep in thought for a few minutes. He's probably trying to think of a way to ditch me. Feeling like I'm intruding on his venture home, I speak up again.

"Listen, I appreciate what you did for me back there, all of it. But I know you're trying to get home so I'll get out of your hair, for real this time." I say and extend a hand out to him again, probably for the last time. Like before, he stares at my hand.

"I'm headed west and go right by Omaha." He says, squinting in the sunlight. I drop my hand once I realize he isn't going to take it, meaning we aren't splitting quite yet. My eyebrows draw tightly together in confusion as I try to understand what he's trying to get at. I think I understand, but I need to hear him clarify.

"Meaning what? We tag along 'til Omaha?" I hear the insecurity in my own voice and I hate it. Joel takes his hand back from the top of the car and nods.

"Safer that way, for the both of us." He confirms my thoughts and starts walking down the highway. I follow him, accepting his offer.

We walk side by side down the road, the only sounds being the birds in the sky and our gear rattling around. My mind is buzzing with questions I want to ask him, but I respect that he's a quiet, reserved man.

Every few minutes I check behind us, feeling paranoid that we're being followed. There's never anything there, but I'd rather check and see nothing than not check and be surprised. Joel is less paranoid I think, he walks with a silent confidence that tells me he's no stranger to the outside world. He understands it far better than I do.

The two of us walk for miles without saying a word until we come to an exit ramp. I recognize it as a suburb outside of Boston, but I've never been there before. Joel veers off the highway to the exit and I follow without question.

Off the ramp, there's a small town to the left and a bunch of housing complexes to the right. Seems like the perfect place for infected to be lurking about. But for some reason, I put my blind faith in the man leading me and trail him into the town.

He looks over his shoulder at me and points at a small brick building. I nod and approach it with him, preparing my knife for use. He stands on the opposite side of the entrance doors with his knife in hand, looking to me for confirmation that I'm ready. Silently, I nod and watch as he swings the door open. I wait for the sound of infected, but am pleasantly surprised with silence.

Joel seems to know where he's going though, he heads straight for the back room. I take my time to look around at the front room, seeing if there's anything of use. Most likely there isn't, but every once in a while I get lucky. The sound of whatever Joel is moving is enough to catch my attention, and I stand in the doorway. He's moving a large piece of plywood that's on the floor. There's a hole in the ground, and he drops down into it.

Curiosity gets the best of me and I go over to peek in the hole, seeing a small stash of supplies. Joel rummages around and picks up ammunition, a few cans, and another knife. He turns around and sees me staring above him, and he hands me items he can't carry himself; some cans of food and ammunition, before he pulls himself back out of the hole.

"You stashed that?" I ask quietly. He huffs as he puts away the extra supplies.

"A while ago." He answers and the two of us quickly shove the items in our bags. My bag feels like it gained fifteen extra pounds, but I can't complain. The extra weight means we have better survival odds.

Wordlessly, Joel moves out of the store and heads towards the suburban side of town, only a few miles walk away. The cookie-cutter houses remind me of the neighborhood I used to live in. A small, idyllic place at one point in time, turned to nothing but a ghost town now. Joel approaches the porch of one and opens the door. Luckily, it's empty and I follow him inside.

He blocks the main entrances to the home without a word, and I move to help him. I shove a strong chair underneath the handle of the back door and try to turn the handle to test its durability. After that, I make my rounds on the curtains and close them all. It seems like we're making this our base for the night. Once we've taken all the safety measures that we possibly can, Joel finds his way to the living room and unloads his stuff on the old, worn-down couch.

I place my backpack on the floor next to the couch and lean against the doorframe that connects the living room and kitchen, watching as Joel straightens his back out on the floor. His arms reach above his head to elongate his spine, and I hear the bones pop and crack. Wincing slightly, I turn my attention elsewhere in the house.

My eyes catch the fading family portrait on the wall and I go to look at it. The black frame houses an old photo. There's a man, woman, two kids, and a dog. They're all smiling, even the dog looks happy. My heart tugs at the sight of the happy family, and I can only assume what happened to them, just like so many other families. Sighing, I look at the other photos on the wall, seeing the slow growth of the children through still images. They look like they were probably high school age. My fingers find their way to the necklace that adorns my neck and I squeeze it tight.

A sound from behind me snaps me out of my thoughts and I turn back to see Joel staring at me. I offer him a polite smile and go to take a seat across from him on the floor, resting my back against the old couch. I fiddle with the torn edges of my pants, and can no longer restrain myself from asking questions. There are too many things I want answers to.

"How did you find me at that barricade?" My voice is soft. Joel clears his throat and shrugs.

"I took the long way 'round so I wouldn't interfere with whatever you were doin'. I was plannin' on taking this highway back home anyways. Guess it was just a coincidence." He plainly answers and I nod, accepting his answer.

"What a lucky coincidence." I smile, trying to break through the tension that always seems to hang over us. It's going to be a long trip west if he keeps things this short. He just shrugs in response,

"So what did you find 'bout those people?" He asks. I'm surprised he even cares, but I reach for my bag to show him what I've found. I spread the documents out in front of me and let him look. I explain to him what I know and what my theories are.

"Whoever they are, they need to be eradicated. Those kids, they were-" The tightness in my throat constricts my ability to talk and I take a shaky breath, remembering what it felt like to cradle the dying girl's head. Joel just nods, not needing further elaboration. He holds up the scraps of paper I found in the fire and reads the simple words.

"I'm not sure what those have to do with anything, and I'm not sure there's any sort of connection." I speak up, truthfully not knowing if they're of any value.

He puts the scraps down and picks up another piece of paper, the one with the Firefly insignia on it. As he reads the paper it's like the blood is drained from his face. My eyebrows knit together,

"What is it?" I ask and his startled eyes look deep into mine with fear that he tries to mask. An uneasy feeling settles in me. He looks back down to the paper and re-reads the note before he says anything.

"These bastards aren't going to live much longer." Is all he says before handing everything back over to me. The look on his face is unsettling, so I don't push anything further.

There has to be something he knows about this.

Part Nine

[k8epot8e]

Train in Vain: Chapter 10 The Gig

Summary:

The three of you finally reach the venue after your Odyssean journey to get there. You attempt to use some critical thinking skills and good judgment, but that doesn't last long. You meet some new friends and some more large men.

Notes:

Hi hello. It's been a hot minute. Hope you've all been having the brattiest of brat summers. Life is way too much, so it is once again time to retreat into the ample, nurturing, and supple bosom of fanfiction.

TWs: Weed usage, drinking, cursing, flirting, topical burn.

The three of you walked in silence with Kid leading your group like he had earlier. You thought briefly of telling Tashigi and Smoker that you weren’t taking them up on their offer of a ride, but you thought better of it. They might use it as an opportunity to pressure you into going home. Besides, you didn’t even know where they were; they’d kinda disappeared.

The silence you now walked in with the two men was no longer casual like it’d been earlier. There was a lingering awkwardness that radiated through your group with each step you took. You started to worry that the three of you wouldn’t be able to return to your previous, carefree dynamic after what just happened.

You’d cried in front of them. Not just cried, you’d sobbed. This made you feel self-conscious. While the crying was fairly understandable given the situation, you realized that Kid and Kil were probably the only people who’d seen you cry in the past five years. The little speech that you so confidently gave only moments ago had felt right in the moment, but now that the adrenaline was waning, some discomfort settled in.

Your anxiety, still heightened from your earlier predicament, swirled worries around your head like a hurricane.

You were put in a really dangerous situation because of these two, why are you still following them to their show? What if they don’t even have a show and they’ve just been planning to kidnap you the whole time? Is this what Stockholm syndrome is like? What if the show got canceled or something? Why do you keep thinking about how good it felt to have Kid hold you down? What if, after all this, their band sucks?

You flinched as you walked into something hard. You shook your head. You’d accidentally run into Kid’s huge back.

“Ow! What the hell!” You said rubbing the pain from your nose.

“We’re here, space cadet.” Kid smirked down at you.

Kid had led your party down a maze of winding side streets; you’d just now emerged out of the grid of apartment buildings and warehouses and into a wide thoroughfare with a port on the other side. Kid and Kil jay walked across the thoroughfare; you jogged to keep pace.

The port was what you would expect of a port. It was dark with wide open spaces and stacked shipping containers. You didn’t see any people inside. Separating you from the port was a tall chainlink fence with rows of barbed wire strung along the top.

“Oh god, I am getting kidnapped.” You thought to yourself.

Kid sauntered down the fence line, running his calloused palm against the links. After he went about twenty feet, he coiled his fingers around a split in the fence you previously hadn’t noticed. He used his large arms to flex the opening wider.

“After you, girlie.” He said.

“The concert is in an abandoned port?” You asked.

“It’s on the other side. Cutting through the dockyard is faster.” Kil said.

You sighed. You daintily stepped your right foot through the slit in the fence. Kid was holding it fairly wide but you still didn’t want to get caught on the rusty metal. You had to rotate your body to go into the fence at an angle. This maneuver put your back flush against Kid’s broad chest. As your body touched his, you just barely heard him let out a soft purr. You straightened your back and your face heated as you stooped over to pass through the opening.

Each man pried his own way through the fence with surprising ease. You could’ve done the same, you were fairly muscular, but realized Kid probably wanted to show off anyway.

Once you were all on the other side, Kid led your group diagonally across the unlit dockyard. Without the streetlights, it was getting hard to see.

You thought too much about not being able to see and immediately tripped on your own foot. You shoved your arms out in front of you instinctively to catch your fall, but felt a deft arm tug your waist back upright; Kil had scooped you so quickly you’d barely seen him move.

“Thanks.” You mumbled, embarrassed, as you started walking again.

You saw his surgical mask raise slightly; a sign, you’d deciphered, of a smile.

Kid had never stopped walking, so the two of you hurried to catch back up with the redhead.

After you crossed the wide dockyard, Kid led you through rows of stacked shipping containers. You heard it before you saw it. A low din that quickly became louder with each step you took. Once the roar of voices was loud enough to flood your ears, you saw an open area emerge past the rows of containers in front of you.

The open area was ringed by floodlights and four shipping containers positioned in a circle with a fairly large crowd of people in the middle. The shipping container nearest you was the venue’s stage; instruments and gear were assembled on top with towers of amps on either side. You were obviously entering the venue from the back as the stage was oriented to face away from you. You could see that two of the containers, one on either side of the crowd, were being used as bars. You assumed the fourth, furthest away from the stage, was for tickets.

You exhaled deeply. It’d been a long night but you’d finally made it.

The three of you emerged out from the rows of shipping containers into a smaller open area behind the stage. The area seemed to be used as a greenroom of sorts; there were old couches and chairs scattered about, coolers, vanity mirrors, and tons of instrument and gear cases. Multiple vans had been backed-up to the area as well, one of which you assumed was Kid and Kil’s.

You hadn’t previously thought that other bands would also be playing the gig, but it made sense now that you were at the venue. The green room area was busy; there were probably about thirty people hanging around in different groups. Some were drinking, some were tuning guitars, some were lounged or asleep. Most of them were dressed like Kid and Kil, in punk getups with lots of leather and spikes. You stuck out like a sore thumb.

As the three of you entered the area proper, you saw both of the men put on a bit of a swagger. They normally walked with brusk confidence, but now they were exaggerating this confidence ever so slightly; their pace slowed and shoulders rolled back to show the full extent of their frames. You smirked at their peacocking.

Kid and Kil sauntered towards one of the vans. It was an old Dodge Street Van custom-painted black, grey, and green. The front of the van was painted to be, what looked like, a mosasaurus skull. The van’s sliding doors were adored with a jolly roger made to look like Kid himself. You laughed, imagining how the conversation surrounding choosing their logo went.

There was so much to look at you ended up falling behind. Some of the people in the small groups that were scattered around watched as you passed. You blushed as you felt their eyes roll up and down your body. You heard some disapproving tsks, assumedly about your outfit, and you crossed your arms over your chest defensively.

Once Kid and Kil had gotten to their van, you heard some loud exclaiming.

“Thank fucking god!” a man with long blue hair said as he dapped up Kil and then Kid. The man was fairly tall and shirtless with a muscular build. His chest, arms, and face were covered in line tattoos made to resemble stitches. His tattoos imparted an intimidating quality to an otherwise kind-looking man.

“What took you guys so long?” A taller man who was standing behind the blue-haired guy asked. He was lanky and even taller than Kid; he had to be like 6’7” or 6’8”. The man’s height, while impressive, did not shock you. You’d finally accepted that, for some reason, you were in the company of shockingly large men tonight. The tall man wore fishnet stockings and a black jacket. The hood of his jacket was pulled up but the front was left unzipped, showing off a leather harness he had strapped tightly to his chest.

Damn. You’d have to go to more of these shows if the guys dressed this slutty.

The blue-haired man tried to launch into a conversation, but Kil stopped him.

“Hey, before we get into it,” Kil turned around and motioned in your direction. You trotted up to the group so Kil could introduce you more easily.

“This is (Y/N). She’s a friend. She’s going to be hanging out with us tonight.” Kil said.

You smiled and waved awkwardly.

“Oh,” The blue-haired man said, “Oh, okay. Cool! Hey. I’m Heat.” He pointed to himself.

“And this is Wire” he said, pointing at the taller man behind him. Wire only offered you a stoic nod of recognition.

Kil turned to you.

“Hey, so, I know we just got here, but we’re going to need to do some band stuff before we go on. Gotta tune, go over the setlist and all that. We might be a little busy. Is that…okay?” Kil hesitated in his phrasing.

“I’m not a baby. Go do your ‘band stuff,’ I’ll be fine.” You said, chuckling at him.

“Okay, awesome. You can hang out wherever back here. If anyone asks, just tell them you’re with us.” Kil said.

“Don’t get lost now, doll.” Kid said as he slung a maroon Ibanez guitar over his shoulder.

You rolled your eyes. Before you could say something sarcastic, he’d kicked open a cooler with his combat boot, bent over, grabbed two beers and tossed one to you.

You were taken by surprise but managed to catch the Miller High Life with relative ease.

“Nice” said Heat.

You popped the tab, gave Heat a wink, and turned on your heel.

--

You’d very confidently said that you’d be fine to Kil, but as you sipped your Miller and walked away from the band, you quickly realized that Kid and Kil were the only people here you knew. This realization was a little intimidating. You hesitated deciding where to go, pausing in your tracks.

“Hey!”

You turned around to see who was calling. Tucked down one of the rows in between the stacked shipping containers was a lemon-yellow VW bus. The side doors were slid open, and three people were hanging out around it.

You pointed a finger at your chest.

“Yeah you! Come here” One of them said, barely holding back a giggle.

You’d always been told to not follow strange men’s calls down dark alleys, but you’d already done some pretty dumb stuff tonight so, despite knowing that lost cause is a fallacy, you figured why not do some more.

As you approached the group of people, you noticed that they were all wearing white boiler suits which you found odd. The guy closest to you had been the one calling out. He had long, orange hair that hung loosely out of his turquoise beanie. He and another man wearing a ball cap with ear flaps were leaning against a container wall while a woman was sitting across from them on the side of the bus. The woman wore an orange-striped bandana over her beautiful, coily brown hair.

As you approached the group, you were assaulted by a sticky-sweet cloud of weed smoke. You blinked the loud out of your eyes and waved to clear yourself a path.

“What do you want?” You asked.

The orange-haired guy who’d called out to you giggled. You watched chucklehead number two, Mr. Ear Flaps, elbow the orange-haired stoner into pulling himself together.

“We uh…just wanted to know if you wanted a toke!” He said, holding a joint out to you.

“YOU wanted to know. YOU, Shachi.” The woman clarified, shaking her head.

“Hey! You and Penguin did too!” Shachi said. The man in the ear-flap hat, who you assumed was Penguin, laughed and looked away.

“Sorry about them,” the woman said, “I’m Ikkaku. You’re cute and looked lost so they wanted to invite you over. You’re welcome to take a hit or not. Whatever you prefer.” She winked at you and your heart fluttered.

“I’m (Y/N). Um, sure. I’ll take a hit.” You said, setting down your beer.

Shachi passed you the blunt and flicked a flame to life on his lighter which he offered to you with experienced ease. You put one end of the blunt to your lips and dipped the other in the dancing flame.

As you were lighting the blunt, a third man emerged from behind the VW bus.

The man was lanky, that’s for sure. He was decently tall with a long back and arms. His skin was olive-tan with spots of vitiligo in places. His hair was jet black and jut out of his fuzzy white ballcap (another odd accessory if you’d ever seen one) in all different directions. He wore skinny jeans, boots, and a lemon yellow dress shirt that he kept unbuttoned to his waist, exposing his intricately tattooed heart and skull motif chest piece. He sported a soul patch like Kil, but had long side burns to match. His dark brown eyes were lined with kohl and he had multiple gold hoops dangling from each of his ears.

Your eyes met his and your jaw quite literally dropped from how handsome he was.

Your jaw going slack caused the blunt to slip out from between your lips. Luckily, you were able to quickly snag it out of the air before it hit the ground, but you ended up burning your palm on the blunt’s lit end.

You cursed under your breath as you fumbled the blunt back into your mouth.

Shachi and Penguin both chuckled at your clumsiness.

“You okay?” Ikkaku asked.

“I’m fine but my pride isn’t.” You responded.

“Don’t worry girl, I got you,” Shachi said as he bent back over to you with his lighter.

As you relit the blunt and took a proper draw, you tried your best not to ogle the handsome man who’d now joined the circle.

“Law, check her hand. She burnt it on the blunt.” Ikkaku said.

The handsome, tattooed man began to approach you.

“Oh, it’s nothing! It’s fine I’m just stupid. I—”

You fumbled words out of your mouth but the man paid your protests no mind. Once he was less than two feet away from you, he stuck out his hand, palm-side up.

“Lemme see. I’m a doctor.” He said, staring you in the eyes.

You thought it was weird for a doctor to be in what you assumed was a quirky, stoner punk band but he said the fact so nonchalantly that you believed him.

Your mouth still agape, you placed your left hand face-up in the man’s grip and passed Shachi back the blunt with your right.

His tattooed fingers gently but firmly inspected your hand. He peered down at the burn and ran the tip of his pointer finger over the mark. You expected it to hurt but his touch was gentle enough that you didn’t wince at all.

“I mean, it’s a burn Ikkaku. I think she’ll live.” He said flatly, still looking at your hand.

He looked back up at you and said, “You’re gonna want to run this under water at some point. It’ll probably blister but you’ll be fine. Does it hurt?”

You stared into his dark brown eyes and managed to stammer out “Uh. No.”

“Good,” He said unceremoniously, dropping your hand and turning around to walk back to his place in the circle.

Ikkaku locked eyes with you over the man’s shoulder as he walked away and winked at you. Shachi and Penguin giggled again.

“(Y/N) this is Law. He’s our bandleader. Law, this is (Y/N), Shachi’s crush” Ikkaku smirked.

Law leaned his long body on the side of the yellow VW bus and took the blunt from Shachi.

“Is that right, Shachi?” Law asked, amused.

“No! I mean, only if you’re interested.” Shachi said, wiggling his orange eyebrows at you.

Penguin lost it and started rolling against the container wall in laughter. You and Ikkaku both snorted and even Law chuckled lightly as he exhaled smoke.

“Don’t answer that,” Ikkaku said to you, accepting the blunt pass from Law.

“Well I’m technically here with a rival band so I wouldn’t want to cause a war,” you joked, picking back up your Miller and taking a swig.

“Oh really? What band?” Shachi asked.

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but I actually don’t know their name. I’m just friends with two of the members.” You said sheepishly.

“That’s okay. We know most of the people here. What are their names?” Penguin asked.

“Eustass Kid and Kil,” You said, Law’s attention snapped toward you.

“You’re here with the Victoria Punks?” Shachi asked incredulously.

“Um. I guess so.” You responded.

“Aw, I knew it was too good to be true” Shachi lamented.

“What does that mean?” You asked, slightly taken aback.

“Well, you were fairly spot on before. They’re one of our main rivals. So you being one of their groupies—” Ikkaku explained.

“Oh, I’m not one of their groupies!” You cut-in.

Was that true? Weren’t you kind of a groupie? You didn’t really have a better way to explain your presence backstage at the gig.

“Wait, Kid and Kil have groupies? Plurl?” You asked.

“They always have a gaggle of women following them around,” Penguin said with a hint of jealousy.

“Law specifically has female fans too but he doesn’t let them hang out with the band,” Shachi said, also with a hint of jealousy.

“Well, I’m not here to be arm candy. I’m just a friend.” You laughed.

Were you just a friend? Were you not just here to be arm candy?

Law stared at you silently from across the circle. You could feel his intense gaze studying you and you realized you probably shouldn’t have said anything about Kid and Kil.

“Oh shit, Law shouldn’t we go over some stuff for the set?” Penguin said, checking his watch.

“Yeah that’s probably a good idea,” Law acknowledged.

“Um. Thanks for the hit. It was nice to meet you guys! I hope you have a great set, but I should probably get back before they think I’m lost.” You said, awkwardly excusing yourself.

“It was really nice to meet you, (Y/N)! We’ll definitely see you later.” Ikkaku waved at you cheerily.

You turned and began walking back to the green room area, still feeling eyes on your back.

[taylor-swift-bracket]

🎇Please reblog!🎇

Notable Bridges

(Under the cut)

Speak Now (Taylor’s Version)

Dear John

You are an expert at sorry and keeping lines blurry

Never impressed by me acing your tests

All the girls that you've run dry have tired lifeless eyes

'Cause you burned them out

But I took your matches before fire could catch me

So don't look now

I'm shining like fireworks over your sad empty town

Oh, oh

Enchanted

This is me praying that

This was the very first page

Not where the storyline ends

My thoughts will echo your name

Until I see you again

These are the words I held back

As I was leaving too soon

I was enchanted to meet you

Please, don't be in love with someone else

Please, don't have somebody waiting on you

Please, don't be in love with someone else (Ooh)

Please, don't have somebody waiting on you (Ooh, oh)

Back to December

I miss your tanned skin, your sweet smile

So good to me, so right

And how you held me in your arms that September night

The first time you ever saw me cry

Maybe this is wishful thinkin'

Probably mindless dreaming

But if we loved again, I swear I'd love you right

I'd go back in time and change it, but I can't

So, if the chain is on your door, I understand

Long Live

Hold on to spinning around

Confetti falls to the ground

May these memories break our fall

Will you take a moment? Promise me this

That you'll stand by me forever

But if, God forbid, fate should step in

And force us into a goodbye

If you have children some day

When they point to the pictures

Please, tell 'em my name

Tell 'em how the crowds went wild

Tell 'em how I hope they shine

Long live the walls we crashed through

I had the time of my life with you

Mine

And I remember that fight, 2:30AM

As everything was slipping right out of our hands

I ran out crying and you followed me out into the street

Braced myself for the goodbye

'Cause that's all I've ever known

Then you took me by surprise

You said, "I'll never leave you alone"

evermore

champagne problems

Your Midas touch on the Chevy door

November flush and your flannel cure

"This dorm was once a madhouse"

I made a joke, "Well, it's made for me"

How evergreen, our group of friends

Don't think we'll say that word again

And soon they'll have the nerve to deck the halls

That we once walked through

One for the money, two for the show

I never was ready so I watch you go

Sometimes you just don't know the answer

'Til someone's on their knees and asks you

"She would've made such a lovely bride

What a shame she's f*cked in the head," they said

But you'll find the real thing instead

She'll patch up your tapestry that I shred

ivy

So yeah, it's a fire

It's a violent blaze in the dark

And you started it

You started it

So yeah, it's a war

It's the fiercest fight of my life

And you started it

You started it

Tolerate it

While you were out buildin' other worlds, where was I?

Where's that man who'd throw blankets over my barbed wire?

I made you my temple, my mural, my sky

Now I'm beggin' for footnotes in the story of your life

Drawin' hearts in the byline

Always takin' up too much space or time

You assume I'm fine, but what would you do if I

Marjorie

The autumn chill that wakes me up

You loved the amber skies so much

Long limbs and frozen swims

You'd always go past where our feet could touch

And I complained the whole way there

The car ride back and up the stairs

I should've asked you questions

I should've asked you how to be

Asked you to write it down for me

Should've kept every grocery store receipt

'Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me

Watched as you signed your name Marjorie

All your closets of backlogged dreams

And how you left them all to me

Right where you left me

Did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen?

Time went on for everybody else, she won't know it

She's still twenty-three inside her fantasy

How it was supposed to be

Did you hear about the girl who lives in delusion?

Breakups happen every day, you don't have to lose it

She's still twenty-three inside her fantasy

And you're sitting in front of me

[rmngers]

understand

by keshi

She's waking up from a nap, raising her head from a couch that's too soft to be hers, she notes. She's in an unfamiliar house, but it seems... warm, soft, definitely lived in, the kind of aura that brings to mind wood coloured like her shed back in Ohio, before everything happened; chocolate chip cookies and milk, a hazy, golden-tinted filter like a lullaby cast over it. It's ornamented by things like a piano left open, the page of a score on it lazily flipping as the wind wafts through the house, and there's a shopping list written in loopy, classic handwriting left on the table. It knocks the breath out of her, seeing all these things that seem so achingly ordinary, that it feels like she's slipped into a fever dream, one she'll wake up from any moment. 

She turns, and her heart stills so abruptly it scares her, because Steve's on the other side of the couch, his steady presence one she didn't detect- how could she have- ? She'd be dead by now, if it were anyone else, hell, if he'd had other motives.

But those thoughts dissolve away into the back of her mind as they lock eyes, because, who is she kidding, it's Steve, and in this moment, he looks so... serene, that little twinkle in his eye. Like he'd been waiting for her to see it, the hazy glow of a lamp resting on his cheek.

That's all it takes. 

There it is again, flooding her chest, again, all warmth and mush and something else that makes her heart hum with satisfaction-- and it's the first time in years, illogical, catastrophic, feeling it before she can even put it into words. 

He smiles, like he knows. 

He always does. 

It's the sort of thing she's never had to communicate to him, because somehow one look at her and he just understands. Pretty laughable, what with all her steel walls and barbed wires, when she just feels like a glass onion whenever it happens. It's probably one of the things she loves the most about him.

Loves about him.

Loves.

She blinks slowly, and it's like a million scenarios flash through the house where they're seated, snatches of toothy grins, a hand brushing away the wetness on her cheek, which should be the first indication it's not real, but she can't stop them coming-- her throwing her head back and laughing as he chases her under some trees, the sun slidding between the leaves dancing on her feet as she runs; little girls scattering flowers on the floor as she walks down the aisle, and he's grinning all the way down the other side; lips locking with his as he grabs her, chuckling, and she almost hears the roar of faceless friends and family in the church pews; holding onto a key together, sweaty fingers hastily unlocking a door and bursting through it when it opens, laughing at the space, the empty floor only boosting her spirits as she starts thinking about furniture; on a street faintly lit by the dingy lampposts that flicker like they're about to fizzle out, and he's got her right hand in his, her other hand over her tummy-- it's subtle, but she's starting to show.

She swallows. 

It's weird, the little spark in her chest. Usually it's an ache, one that grows as her eyes fall and she lets the thoughts wither. 

Maybe there's something about this place, because the scenes are staying in her head, her chest, swirling around as she blinks. Savouring them as she turns them round and round and round.

It's stupid. It feels like hope.

Suddenly, Steve shakes his head, a little wake-up call, and Natasha snaps out of it too, only just realising her right arm's heavier than normal, bandaged and wrapped. Details of the battle flood back, and the last thing she remembers was the enhanced twin running as she turned, red wisps floating from her fingers. 

"We're laying low here. I hope your arm's okay, I tried my best, but clearly, I'm no Dr Cho," he says, eyeing your bandage and grimacing slightly. 

Natasha swallows, dry lips parting. "Where are we?" She asks.

"Oh, I..." He rubs the nape of his neck. "My apartment. It was the closest, so..." He shakes his head as he looks around. "It's a mess, nothing much, but... it's home." 

"It's nice."

[105nt]

Strike Walk #4

All around Barrow-in-Furness

Career of Evil chapters 24-27

This is Part Three - there's links to other parts below.

Leaving The Last Resort "feeling pleasantly well fed" Strike and Robin return to the Landy and proceed to Stanley Road to check out Noel Brockbank's last known address. We don't know their exact route, but at some point they take a right after passing Skint (a nightclub that confirms Strike's theory about Barrovians telling it like it is).

Skint is closed, according to the local newspaper, and it seems the building is currently empty and unloved by all but dedicated Strike Fans. 😁 Let's hope it finds a new purpose soon.

Passing Skint only makes sense if Robin leaves the car park by The Last Resort and threads through some back streets, if she went back to Rawlinson Street and turned left or right she'd get to Stanley Road, but wouldn't see Skint on the way.

"Ahead, a gigantic cream building with the name BAE Systems on it blocked any view of the sea front."

Hard to describe how vast the BAE complex is ... it dominates that half of the town, and is visible from most vantage points.

They hang a left, possibly into Hindpool Road after going down the left of Skint into Market Street, which would have taken them over the Michaelson Road Bridge and along Bridge Road.

Stanley road runs "in a straight line with houses on one side and a high brick wall topped with barbed wire in the other." Signs on the wall read "Nuclear Site Boundary" which Strike tells Robin is because they are building submarines.

There's no barbed wire any more, just an extra fence on top of the wall.

Go to Part Four:

Go to the beginning:

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Her Own Brand of Ritual

Wind whistled through the alleyway. A cold breeze raised the hairs on Jericho’s neck. His stomach knotted as he froze mid-motion.

Feeling watched.

His footsteps had stopped casting echoes once he stopped. Nobody else walked nearby. All nocturnal traffic sounded so distant in this back alley of Vegas.

Colored lights from the road awaited at the far end of his path. Close enough to have been guiding him on his search for a car to jack, far enough to ensure he could steal a vehicle without witnesses, and too far away for any sense of comfort once paranoia took root in his mind.

He cast a glance around him, expecting to spot pursuers. Or watchers.

Instead, he glimpsed only shadows. Barbed wire drooped over the edge of a concrete wall where someone had cut it. A vacant parking lot to his right, encased by the low buildings all around him, offered ample space for drug dealers to peddle crack cocaine. Graffiti marked the surface of every wall around him.

Not a single camera surveilled his surroundings. Not a soul in sight. Not a single person would witness it if anybody jumped him now.

It dawned on Jericho that his chosen alley had put him in the exact kind of place where he could get attacked. Ever since he had been hexed the way he was, he had stopped fearing conventional hoodlums.

Even so, the threat of physical violence triggered primal fear in him. That knot in his belly. A cold dread, fueling his imagination; an imagination in which every shadow could turn alive at any second, and turn hostile.

When the silhouettes of two people entered the alleyway behind him, a cold shiver ran down his spine. He fought the instinct to run.

Then he gave up on fighting it. Legged it towards the light.

The two figures dropped all pretenses. They started running.

Chasing him.

His dirty old military boots slowed his every step with their weight. Tortured by a decade of chain-smoking, his lungs screamed at him through ragged gasps, desperate for the fuel he needed to escape.

Shooting looks over his shoulder lent him wings. His pursuers were gaining on him, even if not by much. The dread had given him a good head start.

The lights gave him courage, made him believe he could make it.

Get away.

Newfound, unnatural strength gave him speed. He almost slammed into a pedestrian on the brightly lit sidewalk and a car emitted angry honks at him as he ran a diagonal route across the street. Someone else’s tires screeched and that someone slurred out drunken slurs from the driver’s window.

The echoes of his pursuers’ shoes tapping behind him had been swallowed whole by the city’s nightly traffic.

He cursed as he knocked over a trash can in his mad dash, stumbling until he found his stride again down the next alleyway, skidding as he rounded a corner, and sprinted down the next.

He needn’t fear mundane violence, and yet—

Another right around the corner took him back onto brightly lit streets, past a cluster of wide-eyed passersby, shuffling out of the way and making it easier for him to dodge through the middle.

The adrenaline helped him abandon all thought. It helped him to act entirely on instinct.

He had run away like this many times before—even long before the curse. Long even before his first brush with the invisible world. Running from an angry father, from bullies, from shopkeepers, from police, from thugs.

Every time caught had been a painful lesson. He had the scars to show, both on body and soul. Jericho refused to learn a lot of things in life, but he learned best this way.

The bell of a brightly lit diner jingled merrily where he ducked inside. In a fluid motion, he tore his black leather jacket off and tossed it into a booth, then slid into the seat opposite an entirely unfamiliar man.

That man looked up from half a cup of coffee, staring at Jericho in bewilderment.

A man in his fifties. Long, shaggy gray hair framed a haggard face. An oversized beige knit sweater covered the man’s bony shoulders, and the stains on it and his green shorts reflected the image of a laid-back, unemployed slacker.

Jericho cracked a crooked smile at him and stuffed his jacket into the corner closest to the window, then dabbed the sweat from his face with some paper napkins.

“Hey, hi,” he wheezed, feeling older than the man on the other side of the table. “Please, do me a favor and, uh, pretend you know me. Like, pretend I’ve been sitting here for a good whole while, okay?”

The stranger pushed his plate across the table so it came to rest in front of Jericho. All it featured was an unappetizing, crescent-shaped morsel of a mostly-eaten burger, with a side of fries, less thoroughly depopulated from the plate.

“Knock yourself out, buddy,” said the stranger.

Surprised by such an unexpected act of kindness, Jericho chortled and gasped out, “Thanks, man.”

His heart still pounded like a drum. His lungs screamed at him while he forced his body to look like he had been sitting and not running for his life.

He snatched a French fry off that plate, jammed it in the smear of ketchup left over on the edge, and nibbled on it.

Two figures dashed by, just outside the diner, right past the window next to which he sat. So close that the slapping of their shoes rang loud enough to travel through the glass.

He kept his composure and forced himself not to track their movements, allowing them to vanish from the corner of his eye.

The stranger whose table he sat at only shot them a furtive glance and then looked back at Jericho.

“Friends o’ yours?”

“Everybody’s got friends like that in this shitty city, right?” Jericho said.

He burst out into a nervous bout of laughter, cutting off abruptly when his self-consciousness kicked in.

The stranger’s lips curled into a lopsided grin, revealing crooked teeth. The man scoffed.

“You ain’t a fed, are ya?” asked the stranger.

Jericho laughed again, choked on it, coughed. Then coughed out another hysterical bout of laughter. Several other heads in the diner turned to gaze at him, then returned to their hushed conversations, averting their eyes.

“Do I look like a fed to you?” he asked the stranger in return.

“No. No, you don’t. And I oughtta be gettin’ real paranoid if you looked the part.” The stranger extended a thin hand across the table for him to shake. “I’m Frank, nice to meetcha.”

Jericho cleared his throat and considered himself lucky.

Finally catching a break again.

He grabbed Frank’s hand with force and shook it with an enthusiasm he hadn’t felt in a while.

He had gotten away from… whoever those people had been. The thrill of it still beat to the rhythm of his racing heart, and his aching chest swelled with a twisted sense of pride.

“Pleasure, Frank. I’m Jack,” he lied with complete confidence, punctuating it with a confident smile. “Jack E. King.”

Frank chuckled. “Strong name, Jack. There’s power in that.”

A middle-aged woman stopped at their table. Dressed in white and blue, she was chewing gum and reeked of stale smoke. While refilling Frank’s cup, she did her best to feign a smile at the diner’s patrons, and Jericho couldn’t have appreciated it any more right now, beaming back at her as he felt more secure at blending in.

“What can I get you, hon?” she asked Jericho.

He shook his head and then nodded and waved with a vague gesture at the table between him and Frank.

“I’ll have a plate of what—whatever he got, and a coffee, thanks.”

The waitress shot him another fake smile, scrawled a note, and scooted on to the next table.

Breath and pulse steadied more for him by the minute. Jericho slumped into the cushioned seat of the booth with a deep sigh.

“So, Frank, what brings you to this wondrous shithole of a city?”

Frank chuckled again and sipped his coffee, wincing at the sharp taste it bore.

“Ley lines,” he said. “I’ve been mapping out North America’s ley lines and I needed to soak up what appears to be a major confluence of ‘em. Right here.”

Frank tapped the table’s surface twice for emphasis.

“This diner is an energy vortex?” Jericho asked.

Frank’s eyebrows shot up.

“You’re in the savvy about ley lines?”

Jericho shrugged. “Heard a thing or two about all kinds o’ mystic mumbo-jumbo. Not sure I buy into any of it, though.”

Frank smiled and scanned Jericho up and down. In his brand-new white T-shirt and the black denims he had just shoplifted the same day, Jericho probably looked like any other regular jackoff from the street.

Looks were deceiving. He knew a necromancer who looked like a rock star, a psychotic killer who could have doubled as super model, an old husk of a man who controlled THE HIGHWAY, the nervous system of the world.

“You religious, Jack?”

Jericho chuckled.

“Fuck no.”

“Well, my friend, I’ve been traveling this country from coast to coast while researching and mapping out its ley lines, and it feels like I’m only scratching at the tip of a—the tip of a ginormous iceberg. I’ve come across many strange things I can’t explain, and I’ve dismissed my fair share of mystic mumbo-jumbo—as you call it. Can’t blame skepticism, either. Skepticism’s good. Because there’s swindlers aplenty, there’s people believing in quack esoteric crystals, there’s crazy people who believe in phenomena you can rationally explain—you name it.

"I’d wager most unnatural things are the result of mass hysteria, or hallucinations, or misguided beliefs, because some people want to believe in something—anything—really hard. That being said, circling back to what I said, there are some things that are difficult to explain by conventional means. And some religious people are sometimes also scratching at the tips of their respective icebergs, I feel. Authentic mysticism, ancient traditions, tried-and-true practices that yield tangible effects, y'know—Yoga, I-Ching, traditional exorcisms, OBEs, apparitions, I just don’t know it all, man. There’s more weird stuff in this world than we can probably learn to comprehend in a lifetime.”

Awed by Frank’s short-lived rant, Jericho fell into silence once the words had stopped flowing.

Ceramics clinked with the stained white table. The waitress plopped down a plate and coffee in front of Jericho.

“Enjoy your meal, hon,” she said before returning into the kitchen.

Jericho murmured out a timid word of thanks and permitted himself to cast a nervous glance out the tall window, assuring his pursuers had truly missed his sudden dive into the diner.

Frank said, “No worries, kid. They disappeared down 'round the next corner. Didn’t even bother to ask anybody by the looks of it. I think it’s safe to say you shook 'em. Who was that anyway? They looked like feds.”

“I’m not entirely sure I care to know. You get look at 'em?”

“Hardly. Mostly just saw the suits. African American lady and an Asian fella.”

Jericho grimaced.

Agents. Agents of the House of Change.

He struggled to remember their names.

Frank added, “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah, well, fuck the feds, am I right?” Jericho forced a smile.

Frank reciprocated.

Jericho continued in his usual bullshitting tone and added, “I’m kind of in a hurry to get on with things, got places to be—no offense to you, Frank. But if you don’t mind the company, I’ll sit here for a few more minutes, wait till my lungs go back down to their rightful place.”

“Then dig in, Jack. Wouldn’t want to let that food go to waste. The fries aren’t the best, but the burger’s real good.” Frank gestured to the plate in front of Jericho.

His stomach growled. He wondered how long he had been out cold after Michael kidnapped him from the Penn & Teller show.

Michael.

Three dead bodies with their entrails strewn about the truck garage’s concrete floors.

The imagery haunted him and he screwed his eyes shut until he saw stars, replacing those awful sights.

He had to get to Klemens. Warn him about Michael.

The diner’s door jingled and Jericho cast another nervous glance that way.

But nobody had entered the diner. Instead, a young couple was leaving. At second blush, Jericho reckoned the girl looked like a prostitute.

A soft breeze blew the smell of his burger into his face and he figured he might as well eat. While he still had a chance.

“Jack” moaned with pleasure after the grease and ketchup reached his tongue. Frank was right. The first bite proved to be delicious. Best burger he had gotten to enjoy in a long time.

He didn’t enjoy it for long so much as he wolfed it down in a series of fast and greedy bites, barely chewing to savor the flavor before it all disappeared down his gullet.

He had, in fact, been starving. It only caught up to him now.

“What parts do you hail from, if I may ask?”

Jericho snatched another napkin and wiped his mouth. Chewed more and swallowed.

“East coast,” he said while smacking his lips. Licking his fingers.

Frank chuckled and said, “Hah, me too. Small world.”

“Okay, Frank—Frank, right?”

Frank nodded.

“How’d you get into this ley lines stuff? Because, I don’t mean to sound rude, but the line between healing crystals and ley lines is pretty damn blurry to me. But, well, I have a few minutes, and an open mind tonight.”

Frank nursed his cup of coffee and nodded slowly. Once Jericho started scarfing down the fries, Frank replied.

“I’ve seen some… some really weird stuff. Opened my eyes. I’m wide awake now. I know there’s a secret world behind the one we know. Illuminati, Freemasons, Knights Templar, witch covens, all that stuff, conspiracy theories, right? I know it’s crazy talk, but all those legends, urban legends, you know there’s a kernel of truth to every tale. For example, I do kinda believe there is a sasquatch out there, even if ninety-nine point nine sightings are all made up.”

Jericho waved a fry like a magic wand, pocketing a mouthful in a cheek, and in between chewing, asked, “You know any conspiracies that are, in fact, real, Frank?”

Part of him wanted to laugh out loud. Laugh in Frank’s face.

But it felt cruel. Not his style.

“Well, not really, but I know there’s gotta be a kernel of truth to them. I barely know the tips of any icebergs. Government coverups happen all the time. CIA, FBI, they’re all doing shady stuff. Mind control experiments, weird science stuff, right? It’s like, you know, Area 51? Maybe there aren’t any little gray men or UFOs there, but who’s to say there isn’t anything else there? Ghosts, teleportation experiments, who even knows what. I don’t know. But what I do know is that some people stumbled onto something real with ley lines. Theories might be bogus, and if you want to know of a real conspiracy, it’s the scientific world always immediately bashing anything that sounds even remotely esoteric.”

Frank’s burst of enthusiasm afforded Jericho more time to eat. He welcomed the diversion.

Part of him had to keep stuffing his face just to prevent himself from sputtering all the food back out in an explosion of laughter.

Frank was one of those guys.

The little fish, just outside the shark tank. Separated from the big fish by a thin layer of glass.

The types who were so close to getting it. To really getting it. Unfortunately for them, they knew nothing of the invisible world, and the people in the invisible world had nothing to gain from them, nothing to exploit but their obliviousness and the white noise they created in society—so they’d at best only ever come across as crackpot loonies to everybody else.

“I know most of it sounds hokey, but I get a specific kind of vibe from places where the ley lines meet, you know. It’s probably the realest thing I’ve ever experienced in terms of the occult or different types of meditation. Short of meditation itself, of course.”

Jericho gulped another wad of barely chewed fries and washed it down with a shot of black coffee.

“So,” he interrupted Frank’s monologue, clearing this throat, “you get good vibes from this shithole of a city? From fuckin’ Vegas?”

“No, no, not at all. No good vibes from Sin City, Jack. But powerful—powerful vibes. It’s one of those hotspots in America. Like I keep telling people, like Chicago. I’m not even sure what that means for people’s everyday lives, if it means anything at all. I don’t have the answers, man, but I got some hunches. Like, take this same place. Why else would anybody in their right minds build a city in the middle of a desert?”

“A bunch of people wanted to… uh… hide?”

Frank chuckled.

“Heck if I know, Jack. I just think it’s hardly a coincidence. I read there used to be an oasis here but it all dried up, and only the city remained. Against all odds, this city thrives. Y'know, I used to have a student who’d say this city is an affront to God.”

Almost choking on another mouthful of food, Jericho slapped his chest and coughed, then asked, “You used to be a teacher?”

“Yep. Geography teacher, high school.”

“Jeeze, man, why’d you quit? Isn’t that like, a great job to hold down?”

“Well, uh, I, well, uh, l-let’s just say I had some philosophical differences with the principal.”

Sounded familiar to Jericho.

“Lemme guess—principal was a giant cocksucker,” Jericho said with another grin.

“Well, beans, not the kind of word color I would go for—force of habit, I guess—but, yeah. Principally, the principal was a dick.”

Jericho picked up another fry but hesitated to eat it. “Maybe… that’s the only way to get in.”

“Huh?”

“The only way to become a principal is to be a gigantic, flaming cock.”

Frank chuckled. “I dunno about that, but it sounds like there’s at least two rotten principals out there.”

“The cock I knew got me expelled from high school for, well, never mind.”

“Ah, sorry. You ever finish your education elsewhere?”

Fighting back a frown, Jericho bottled up all resentment and painful memories from his teenage years. He chomped down on another fry, and stewed on that question.

Frank added, “Not to say you couldn’t have gotten by fine without it. You seem like a bright fella. Y'know, my philosophical disagreements are based on the education system to begin with, among other things.”

“Among other things?”

Frank grinned with his crooked teeth on full display again. “Between you and me, the principal also didn’t like that I was, uh,” Frank paused to mimic someone smoking a small joint, “y'know, having good times with the custodian.”

“You were sucking the custodian’s dick?”

Flustered, Frank sputtered about and waved his hands, looking genuinely misunderstood.

“Easy, man, I’m just fuckin’ with you,” Jericho said, chuckling some more. “I catch your drift. It’s funny, you know, I used to smoke reefer with the janitor of my high school too. This kooky old guy named Gambino.”

Frank blinked. He tapped the table twice and asked, “You say his name was… Gambino? Red cap, thick glasses, Paul Gambino?”

Jericho froze in the middle of chewing fries.

How in the—

Frank asked, “You went to Evergreen High?”

A chill traveled down Jericho’s spine.

“Holy shit,” Jericho said with his mouth full, pausing to swallow, and then adding, “You were a teacher in Evergreen? You must have been there before or after my time. How old are you?”

Frank scratched his head. “Either you’re way younger than you look, or I simply don’t remember seeing you around there. I was a teacher for over a decade and only got—I only quit a little over a year ago.”

Jericho’s stomach knotted again.

As tightly and badly as when he sensed his pursuers in the alleyway, just before they appeared.

Just before they chased him.

“Now you’re fuckin’ with me, old man. Stop fuckin’ around, that’s just not possible. I would remember a teacher like you, especially if you smoked with Old Gambino in the—”

“Boiler room basement,” Frank said, staring intently at Jericho.

The lighthearted mood had evaporated. The ceiling fans hummed overhead, the waitress buzzed busily about other customers, and Heart-Shaped Box by Nirvana played on the diner’s radio. Other patrons chattered away, oblivious to the wrinkles in reality.

Boiler room basement. Jericho had smoked with Old Gambino in the basement. So had his high school friends.

But he had never seen Frank in his life.

Something was deeply, horribly wrong.

Jericho pointed a fry at Frank. Ketchup dripped from it, splattering on the table like a bright drop of blood.

“You, sir, are full of shit, whether you’re lying, or you just smoked yourself stupid in that boiler room. I was—I was infamous. The—I was kicked out of high school for the disaster I caused. The fire, remember? In the reservoir uphill?”

Frank raised his hands, exposing his palms in surrender.

“I swear by my mother, I’m telling the honest truth. I was a teacher at Evergreen High from, uh, '82 to '93. I knew some of the kids who smoked with Gambino in the boiler room, and I don’t remember any Jack, and I certainly don’t remember that fire getting any kids expelled.”

Frank’s weary blue eyes locked onto Jericho’s.

Radiating with honesty.

Vertigo gripped Jericho, melting the edge of his vision and distorting it in a slow vortex; the first herald of nausea, creeping up on him, and twisting his gut in the opposite direction of the world spinning around him.

Jericho crashed the rest of his coffee down his gullet and the bitter black stuff almost made him vomit on the spot.

“You need to shut the hell up, right now. That's… impossible, old man. I was in Evergreen High during your time.”

“Sorry, Jack—”

“My name’s Jericho Kane, asshole.”

“Okay, beans, sorry, well, no—you said you’re Jack—hold on. Look—”

Frank scrambled to dig a wallet out from behind his rump, then rifled through the wallet’s contents. All the while, the world continued to twist and churn like Jericho’s insides. The urge to throw up translated into a wet burp from Jericho’s lips, and a muttered curse to chase it.

Frank placed an old laminated ID card on the table. Time had yellowed its material, and he looked half a decade younger, but already sported the long shaggy gray hair on its photo.

FRANK WILLIAMS

The card unmistakably certified Frank as a teacher in Somerset County and Evergreen High specifically.

Even that “cocksucker”, Kevin Franklin, had left his signature as the principal next to Frank’s own signature, validating the teacher in question.

The sense of vertigo only intensified. The seat under Jericho’s ass burned with the heat of a raging volcano. The hard surface of the table melted under the sweat and grease on his trembling fingertips. With a deep-rooted anger budding deep inside his bowels, he slid the ID card back over the table at Frank with too much force—in rejection, in utter disbelief.

Impossible.

Jericho incessantly shook his head, and the blossoming anger scrambled his mind. His words crackled out like broken glass.

“The reservoir fire, I—this—I need to, I—”

“Sorry,” Frank said, “sorry to upset you, Jack—I mean—Jericho? Ah, beans, this is very strange.”

The diner’s bell at the door jingled again and the rage collapsed in on itself into a tiny black hole of dread. Jericho’s head jerked around to see who had entered.

No agents from the House of Change.

Before any relief could set in, the dread blended with the anger and the nausea, and the adrenaline from the chase shot back into overdrive, like someone flashing his face with a blinding flashlight.

Then he did a doubletake to see who had entered the diner.

Karma.

The black-haired beauty—the Way King’s deadliest killer—glared directly at Jericho. She stood in the entrance. The bell jingled again as the door fell closed behind her, punctuating the predator’s arrival.

She had not shown up here by coincidence. Dressed in a white hoodie and brown leather jacket with bright jogging pants to match, she approached the booth where Jericho and Frank both sat.

The footfall of her sneakers revolved in Jericho’s skull like thunderclaps.

The malevolent grimace on her face twisted into a grotesque smile. A smile that reached her eyes, for they flashed with a sudden glimpse of murderous glee.

The obnoxious noise of her dragging a chair up to their table caused several heads to turn. She sat down at the head of the two men’s table.

Karma nodded at Frank and asked Jericho, “Your new girlfriend, bitch? Cute.”

So dizzy from anger and nausea that he was practically swaying on a ship at high sea in a storm, Jericho sneered at her.

“Can you kindly go back into the hole you crawled out of and die?”

Frank studied their reactions to one another and muttered, “Pleasure to meet you too, miss—”

“This asshole,” Jericho growled, “is Karma. Karma, meet Frank. Frank, meet Karma.”

Frank said, “You wanna talk about, uh, ley—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Karma snapped at him. “Hit the road, you crusty old pile o’ crap, or I will beat you within an inch of your life, and feed your insides to your mewling grandchildren while you watch. Mommy and daddy need to talk now, so get going.”

He had to get out. Frank did, and so did Jericho.

Hiding a mien of both bemusement and frowning with displeasure, Frank clapped his hands together in front of himself like a praying man, then slid out of the booth.

“Sorry to bother you,” he muttered.

Though he yanked his old green coat off the cushion, Frank projected an air of defeat, the air of someone accustomed to groveling.

“Good boy,” Karma said at him with a smirk. She mimicked a dog’s barking and then giggled. “Off you go, Old Yeller. Git.”

Frank shuffled away with his head down. He muttered something to the waitress on his way out the diner’s front door, and Jericho got even angrier when he reckoned how Frank had just let her know he’d be footing the bill for him.

Karma focused on Jericho again and the sadistic smile on her face quickly faded.

“I came here just for you, shit-head, and I have great news for everybody.”

Jericho gripped the edge of his seat with growing rage. Its frame cracked and the cushion’s fake leather tore under the pressure of his fingertips. Just loud enough that Karma could hear it and raise a brow, but too quiet for anybody else in the diner to notice.

The trembling in his extremities unloaded into the booth’s bench and it shook until he clenched his jaw.

Taking a deep breath.

He snapped back at her, “What do you want?”

She tilted her head. The way a deadly predator watched its prey. One way, then the other. With an unearthly, unsettling grace to her fluid motions.

“Michael sent me here to murder you.”

Her lips curled into a faint smile.

The waitress stood behind her.

She had heard Karma’s words. Loud and clear. The waitress backed away slowly, feigning obliviousness.

Karma either ignored her or had not noticed. Either way, she opened one side of her jacket to show Jericho—and only Jericho. To let him know. To make him see.

Her machete and a cracked white porcelain mask, hidden inside her jacket. The tools of her trade.

Telegraphing what came next.

Feeding fuel into the fire of his growing dread.

A dark fire with hungry flames so high they eclipsed his anger.

The brighter they burned, the more he wanted to run. Run even faster than he ever had before. If Michael wanted him dead now, he could easily be killed. The hex was off. His mortality restored.

And Karma would ensure Jericho suffered every second of it. Such fear fed her power. The chase—she drank from its essence. Reveled in the hunt. Perfecting the shadows she cast, the shadow of the killer following the victim down a long dark hallway.

Her method.

Her magick.

Her own brand of ritual.

[chaletnz]

Ometepe Island: Tamales for Dinner

Georgi and I had carefully planned our time out so we could refill the bikes with gas and make it to the meeting point to give them back before the rest of the group arrived. All was going to plan, we filled them up with 100 cordobas in each tank and then drove through the forest to the exact point on the map that we had been told. It was very rural. The shack opposite where we stopped looked like it probably had no power or running water. The family sat outside staring at us, their chickens running around wildly behind their barbed wire fence - I joked that this would be the chicken we were eating for dinner and they'd make us catch and kill it. We waited and 10 minutes after the designated 3pm meeting time, the bike guys showed up to take them back. We were reluctant to let them take them as we were worried the group wouldn't come for us as then we'd be stranded but the main guy who could speak English took us on the back of them to a landmark down the road where he let me use his phone to call Dennis. The group was running late as per usual but directed us out to a treehouse where they picked us up and we got our deposit back. The guy tried to argue with us that we hadn't put enough gas in the bike so I argued that this bike had been replaced because one was broken and it had arrived with a half empty tank. I told him we put 100 cordobas in both bikes and showed him the receipt from the gas station. With all eyes on him, he gave us the deposit money back and then left us to go to our dinner. He'd ripped us off already for $20 because when Emily bailed she left the helmet at the hotel so he decided he was keeping $20. Later Emily made sure she brought the helmet with us only to abandon it later just so that slimy guy wouldn't end up getting it back!

We drove down the road (quite far away from where they'd told us to meet them) and arrived at Casa de Vicky. She introduced herself, her home and her ingredients for our dinner. We were each given some banana leaves and then could go about creating our own little tamale with a corn base, meat, vegetables, and a sprig of mint. They were wrapped up tightly and secured with dried banana skin rope. Each of us attached a colour ribbon to tell them apart and they were left to boil for an hour or two. Usually they'd cook for 48 hours but Vicky had precooked the ingredients so we could eat them quicker! While the tamales boiled we were taken to Punta Jesus Maria to walk around on the beach and watch the sunset. The fishermen were dragging in their nets to fill baskets upon baskets of fresh fish, presumably to cook up or sell the next day at market somewhere. Georgi and I were super hot and sweaty from our ride and wait in the humid forest for everyone to show up so we went for a quick dip in the lake! It was a nice cool off, but the sand was sticky and I didn't have flip flops so ended up a mess. We took photos of the sunset around the volcano and the lake and then finally headed back to Vicky's for our hotly anticipated tamales served up with bread and fresh coffee. They were absolutely delicious, so much better than the pupusas in El Salvador! We all could've easily eaten two or three tamales each but made do with what we had and then convinced Horacio and Dennis to take us for ice cream in Moyogalpa afterwards. They found a broken freezer with melted ice creams which some of the group bought but the rest of us headed down the street to the ice cream shop I'd seen earlier today. I was first in and ordered a double scoop of caramel and coconut for 40 cordobas (about $1.20) and the rest of the group followed suit. We rode back to our little chalets for a shower and bed, ready to wake up early again tomorrow for the ride to San Juan del Sur.

[woundsinverse]

You were supposed to be somewhere else by now,

weren't you? Somewhere quieter, where the air doesn't

stick in your lungs like tar. You've felt it.

The other lives brushing past,

like strangers on the street,

looking right through you,

not even seeing the way you fold your hands

in your lap, like someone praying

for something that won't come.

There’s a version of you that didn’t make

that wrong turn. Who didn’t love

like a house on fire. That version

walks down a different street,

one where the sky stays intact,

where your body doesn’t ache

for everything it will never hold.

But this is the life you’re in, isn’t it?

You keep waiting for the door to open,

for the air to shift, for someone to say

Here it is. Here is the place you were meant to be.

But there’s only this,

a room with too many exits

and none of them lead where you need to go.

You dream of running, but even your dreams

have fences now, and barbed wire.

There’s a version of you that didn’t get caught.

But that’s not the one you wake up in.

This is the life you chose, or it chose you.

And it’s the wrong one.

You could scream about it,

but who would hear?

Not the other lives. They’re busy,

they’re living.

- KSR

[sociologyonthemove]

A walk with a writer by Ottis Bailey

It’s been a while since I’ve seen my old friend Dexter. A lot has changed since he dropped out of university; he’s fallen into a life of urban deviance, fuelled by a substance abuse problem. Although he’s now housed in social housing, he’s started a new hobby: graffiti.

I meet him outside his front door and shake his paint-specked hand.

“Dexter, mate… how are you doing?”

He laughs under his breath and smiles. He’s glad to see me. 

“Not great to be honest, I need a drink. Buy us a pint or what?”

I agree, and we head off towards the centre of Barry on foot. 

It’s nearly dusk and car headlights come towards us through the purple light of the evening, it’s quite warm for March. As we pass a small shop he ducks inside and quickly comes back out with a four-pack of Polish beer and some stronger “Super Brew”, which I can only assume he didn’t pay for.  I’m used to this sort of behaviour with Dexter, and the panicked feeling that comes from being around him. He was a hot target for the teachers in school, and his friends were too by association. Feeling that nostalgic panic, I tell him to run and we both turn a corner into an alley, away from the streetlamps. He laughs again and begins to swagger down the alleyway. 

As we walk he cracks open a lager and begins to tell me what’s been going on; he’s been arrested for graffiti recently. He begins to walk quickly; “I’ve gotta go get something”. 

The alley meets a footpath parallel to the railway lines, and we are submerged in light again. He talks about his most recent arrest, two nights prior, where he “tagged” a wall under a bridge that crossed over the train tracks. He tells me how he was caught by “the British transport police Gestapo” with dogs, and spent an evening in hospital getting stitches from where they bit him. He proudly shows me the stitches, pulling down his hoody and telling me to take a picture (Photo 1). In the low light under the bridge my old manual film camera struggles to focus on them but indeed they are there.

He suddenly sets his beers down and hops over the railing of the footpath, into the bushes before the high, barbed wire fence of the railway itself. 

“What are you doing?” I find myself laughing as he scrambles through the bushes down towards the tracks.

“I threw a disposable camera over, had to get rid of the evidence!”

“What evidence?” 

He’s down by the fence now, looking for a way over. He’s like a caged animal, jumping up and down, back and forth along the fence to find the best place to scale. He eventually finds a wall to the right, and with a quick leap he jumps onto the high wall and uses it to leverage himself over the even higher fence. I see his jogging bottoms swing over the top of the fence, and I take a picture.

I hear a thud, and now he’s running around beyond the fence, onto the tracks, desperately looking for his camera in the near-dark. A middle-aged man is making his way down the street-lamp lit footpath towards where I’m standing. 

“Have you found it yet?” I shout to Dexter.

I think “I must look strange shouting into the darkness over the railways tracks with 8 beers on the floor next to me”. 

Soon Dexter scrambles back up over the fence and then hops the barrier, his retrieved camera in hand.

“They can’t get me now” he smiles, “I’d be fucked if they got that one”, talking about the British Transport Police.

“I want to show you something” he says as he strides confidently through a turnstile, leading back into the town through a tunnel. As we walk I get the sense that he is trying to prove his fearlessness, he doesn’t seem to care about danger or being caught.

He stops again.

“It’s over here” he says, and begins climbing over a wall, using an overturned bucket as a stool. I take two pictures, the long shutter speed I set to adjust for the low light blurs his motion as he levers himself up in one quick motion.

On the other side, he’s already made his way through an overgrown and junk-littered garden over to a large abandoned house. He’s pointing to the wall in the near-darkness. I make my way through the garden, jumping from sheets of corrugated iron to pieces of plywood that form a path through the bracken. 

I get near and he’s proudly pointing to a large “throw-up” he’s sprayed. It looks like he’s tried more than usual, but the result is astoundingly ugly, even for street graffiti. I tell him so, and he seems defensive; “It’s trash-graff, it’s meant to be. It’s like brutalism.”

I nod, actually seeing what he means. He begins to recreate how he painted it, ducking and weaving his beer-can around in the air like a spray-can. 

He murmurs “I just love the movement, you know?” 

He’s taken pride in this tag on the abandoned building because he has more time to create it, due to the private nature of the location. He can slow down and practice the more careful, creative side of the practice. 

In her 2001 ethnography “Graffiti Subculture”, MacDonald (pp.81) writes that “A larger piece will earn a writer more respect because its size indicates that he spent more time in danger and physically extended himself to cover this space”. I imagine that Dexter is practicing his craft in “safer” unseen locations before he attempts something this large in a more visible space. He encourages me to inspect the smaller details of his work. It also seems important to him that he found this spot that hadn’t been tagged yet, so he’s now “claimed” it. In this moment, the abandoned building is his. 

He turns and asks me for a picture next to it, and I oblige him. I feel like now that I’ve taken a picture of him standing before his work, I’m somehow complicit in the embodied practice. I’ve secured the complete work, the writer and his writing. The complete picture.

I turn around and take one more picture of the adjacent brightly lit hotel buildings before we climb back out and head to the train station where I’m catching the next train home. 

I can’t help but feel panicky as I hear stern voices over the other side of the wall, and I’m beginning to wonder what I’m doing here. It seems I’m nearing the end of his personal tour of Barry, and I’m relieved. 

He points out other tags he’s sprayed on the way, identifies potential spots to spray, and criticises other writers work. 

“I see that tag everywhere. I think I know who it is, I’ve seen him around. Absolute prick!”

Dexter takes notice of every tag on the walls as we pass through the alley, identifying the name of the writer, “Pezz” for example who has written his tag higher up the wall than his, a mark of disrespect in his view. He promptly sprays a single line through the tag when he sees it. MacDonald connotes this action of “tagging over” another writers tag with the phrase “you mean nothing”. (MacDonald, pp 209). It’s a message of disrespect to the other writer. 

He sees a large “throw-up” and praises it. I suspect the praise is more for its central, high risk, location inside the fence of the train station. 

“Look at that. So sick. He’s a legend!” He points. 

The writer has somehow gotten up onto a large sign that stand stands 12 foot or so above the ground. Another writer interviewed by MacDonald states “you might do a piece and it might not be that good, but because you’ve done it in a certain depot or certain night or because the spot is considered “hot” (risky) and you’ve still gone in there, you still get respect”. (MacDonald, pp. 84) So it seems the greater the risk, or mystery of how the space was reached and painted, the greater the respect earned in the writers urban subculture. 

The interviewed writers in Graffiti Subculture (MacDonald, 2001) comment on how all the writers in the city “know” each other on the basis of “nothing more than their written names”.

Walking with Rufus in this way is like walking with a different lens on seeing the town, I’m aware that I don’t usually notice tags like this. It seems like a constant battle is being fought for prominence. In this sense, the public, including me, are ironically excluded from the meaning of this very public form of paint warfare. Although many eyes will see the tags every day, they won’t appreciate who wrote what where, who climbed what fence, and who’s got to the most respect in the city. 

Horowitz (2013) states that people have their own expert lenses in which they view the ordinary sights of the city. Dexter’s lens is that of the “writer”. He sees the good spots, the tags, the bad spots, his previous work, the work that’s been removed or tagged over. He see’s physical obstacles as pathways to unexplored areas to “claim” with his tag. He is both a writer of Barry’s unconscious narrative and a writer of the walls of physical space itself, writings which “howl without raising their voices”, as Certeau (pp.102) described 80’s New York graffiti. 

As we near the station he asks me to send him the pictures I took when I get them developed. This shared hobby of photography makes our worlds merge, he’s always encouraged me to take  pictures of him; it naturally brings my research into the etic side of the writers world; and gives him a mirror to show himself his world. 

After a few steps he suddenly stops again, a worried expression on his face; “I can’t go any further, cameras at the station.” 

I shake his hand goodbye and he turns away and walks back up towards the town. 

Further Analysis

In “Walking in the city”, Certeau (1988) compares walking the streets to narration of the city’s life itself. We must walk to discover the city’s “symbolic order of the unconscious”, separate from the rational birds eye view. Dexter guides me through a walking, running, climbing tour of his embodied practice in relation to the urban space he inhabits, allowing me as a researcher to observe and become emerged in the walk as he retraces his notable tags, retrieves his tools, and tells me his stories. As he retraces his steps, he “weaves together past, present and future” (Radley et al, 2010).

Being a “writer” is an embodied practice of emotional movement through space with a focus on the temporality and visibility of the action, the quick but precise motion of the arm, the bending of the knees, the tip-toeing horizontally from one side to the other. The writer relies on his fear of being caught and the feeling of adrenaline fuelled risk; the rushed nature of either being in a forbidden area, or being in a public space, acting out a forbidden action. 

For young men especially, Graffiti can act as a rite of passage; “the negation of the weakness endemic to childhood, the affirmation of the strength required of manhood”. (Raphael, 1998). Graffiti surely has provided Dexter with a hazardous means of which to test his skills, mainly evading being caught and the almost parkour like skills he utilises to gain access to forbidden zones of the urban landscape. The tag itself acts as the “proof” that he endeavoured to get to that location and claim it as his own. Through these tests, Dexter develops a sense of identity around his actions, and a sense of notoriety; 

“People don’t know you, but they know you, you are famous, yet unknown.”(MacDonald, 2001)

Macdonald (2001) comments on how “writers” believe that street fame, and respect from total strangers is the reward. The visibility of their work makes them “known” and arguably notorious,a stereotypically hyper-masculine trait. I certainly felt this embodied sense of notoriety just walking with Dexter, his behaviour and his chosen path through the town certainly made some pedestrians avoid us and made me feel anxious at times.

When I asked why he “writes”, he responded only; “I just want to see my name up in lights.”

It is only reflexively through a researcher’s lens that I can see this walk as something other than a dangerous and strange experience, but this all part of the practice for Dexter; an element of competition drives writers to out-do each other;

“Writers must be more daring, more suicidal, more artistic and more innovative than their peers.” – Macdonald 2001 pp. 105

Flannigan-Saint-Aubin (1994) writes on masculinity;

“Contest, opposition appears to be the masculine modality… I come to know myself only by knowing that something else is not me and is to some extent opposed to or set against me.” 

Dexter faces two oppositions, the British Transport Police and other writers. He’s playing a constant game of visual-spatial cat-and-mouse with the two forces, chasing the writers who could out-do him and running from the BTP, who he is constantly on alert against. 

References

Certeau, M. D. (1988) The practice of everyday life. Berkeley, University of California Press.

Flannigan-Saint-Aubin, A. (1994) The male body and literary metaphors for masculinity. SAGE books. 

Horowitz, A. (2013) On Looking: Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes. Scribner, New York.

Macdonald, N. (2001) Graffiti Subculture. Palgrave Macmillan. 

Radley, A., Chamberlain, K., Hodgetts, D., Stolte, O. & Groot, S. (2010) From means to occasion: walking in the life of homeless people. Visual Studies, 25(1), pp. 36-45.

Raphael Reed, L. (1999) Troubling Boys and Disturbing Discourses on Masculinity and Schooling: A feminist exploration of current debates and interventions concerning boys in school. Gender and Education. 

[nonchalantnightowlsworld]

31 Prompts for October: Horror

Day 8: Undead

She had been running for days, hiding in abandoned buildings, scavenging for food and water, avoiding the horde of undead that roamed the streets. She was the last survivor of her group, the last human she had seen in a long time. She had lost count of how many days had passed since the outbreak, since the world turned into a nightmare.

She was tired, hungry, thirsty, and scared. She knew she couldn’t keep going like this forever. She needed to find a safe place, a shelter, a hope. She had heard rumors of a military base in the outskirts of the city, where some survivors had gathered and fought back against the undead. She didn’t know if it was true, but she had nothing else to cling to.

She decided to make her way to the base, hoping to find some signs of life, some help, some salvation. She grabbed her backpack, her knife, and her gun. She had only three bullets left, but she hoped she wouldn’t need them. She stepped out of the building where she had spent the night, and looked around. The street was empty, but she knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long. She had to be quick, quiet, and careful.

She started to walk towards the direction of the base, keeping an eye on every corner, every window, every door. She knew the undead could be anywhere, waiting for a sound, a movement, a smell. She had learned to avoid them as much as possible, to not attract their attention, to not make any noise. She had learned to survive.

She walked for hours, crossing blocks and blocks of ruined buildings, cars, and corpses. She saw no signs of life, no signs of the undead either. She wondered if she was getting closer to the base, or if she was walking in circles. She checked her map, but it was old and torn. She tried to remember the landmarks she had seen on her way, but they all looked the same.

She was about to give up, when she saw something that made her heart skip a beat. A fence. A high fence with barbed wire on top. A fence that surrounded a large compound with several buildings inside. A fence that had a sign that read: Military Base - Authorized Personnel Only.

She felt a surge of hope. She had found it. The base. The place where she could be safe, where she could find other survivors, where she could start over. She ran towards the fence, looking for an entrance. She found a gate that was locked and chained. She looked for a way to break it open, but she had no tools.

She cursed and kicked the gate in frustration. She looked around for another way in. She saw a hole in the fence on the other side of the compound. It looked like someone had cut it open with something sharp. She wondered who it was, and why they did it.

She decided to take her chances and go through the hole. She ran across the compound, hoping no one would see her or shoot her. She reached the hole and crawled through it. She felt a sharp pain in her leg as she did so. She looked down and saw blood dripping from a wound caused by the barbed wire.

She ignored the pain and got up on her feet. She looked around and saw several buildings in front of her. Some looked like barracks, some looked like offices, some looked like warehouses. She didn’t know which one to choose.

She decided to go for the closest one, hoping to find some medical supplies for her wound. She walked towards the building and opened the door.

She wished she hadn’t.

She saw dozens of undead inside the building, all wearing military uniforms and carrying weapons. They turned their heads towards her and growled.

She realized too late that she had walked into a trap.

[jackzillanyanut8008]

The Last Of Us Part 3: Fan Write (Part 5)

Author’s Note:

This fan write of the 3rd addition to The Last Of Us franchise is completely fan made, I own zero rights to the game, tv show, or merchandise. Any and all properties of this franchise are owned by Naughty Dog Studios, Sony Computer Entertainment, Sony Interactive Entertainment, and PlayStation Studios. And of course, please support both the previous games, as well as the HBO series.

-Stone CL Williams

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Chapter 13: Rip and Tear, Until It Is Done…

Thatch runs through the thick forest, dodging incoming arrows and gunfire as he darts through the trees. “Almost there, just gotta get across the state border and I’ll be in Wyoming within a few hours” he says, almost laughing with joy before crossing into an open highway before hearing that terrible sound…

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!!

The sound echoes through the quiet highway like thunder, getting louder and louder as it speeds up in tempo…

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!!

“No… nononononono NO!” he screams before an arrow flies through the air, piercing his calf as he screams in pain.“AH SHIT HOLY FUCK!!!” he screams as breaks the arrow and pulls it out, using some old rags to bandage the wound.

But it's too late.

His pursuers surround him. Some on foot, most in cars or off road vehicles like four wheelers and bikes. And the ringleader stands in front of him, like a king beneath his slave, atop a semi truck with a throne on the roof. It was covered in pipes and barbed wire, like something in an old biker flick. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t old Thatch Murphy. You thought you could escape after you ripped us all off all those winters ago… but now, after 3 years of searching and sacrifice, we got you by the balls” the ringleader says as they climb down the semi.

The ringleader was tall, about 6 feet by Thatch’s judgment, and fairly built. They had dark skinned arms and held an ax made from an old baseball bat and an old street sign. They also were wearing a black leather jacket, white tank top, and gray jeans. “What are you gonna do? Kill me? HA! Seems like more of a mercy than making me a slave or whatever gets you fuckers off, by the way how’re those Rattler dicks that died out last month? Heard they died nice and-” Thatch snaps before a soldier hits him in the face with a club knocking him to the pavement.

“Pin him to the car” The leader says. The soldiers obey their boss and pin Thatch to the car, Thatch meanwhile lashes out and spits blood at the bastards the whole time they do so.

“GO ON DO IT! WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IN YOU FUCKERS!!?! WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IN!?!?!” Thatch yells before they cover his mouth. The leader then takes off his mask revealing himself, “I believe whatever doesn’t kill you, only makes you… Crazier” he says with a wide smile across his scarred face, his teeth yellow and his eyes sunken.

Chapter 14: Separate Ways

Deacon, Abby and Lev exit the truck and walk up to the tower. Much to no one's surprise, it WAS massive. “About 20 floors, you sure you’ll be alright Abby?” Deacon says as Abby grabs the duffle bag and a gas can “Yeah, me and Lev have been through WAY worse than this” Abby says as she and Lev walk up to the door. 

Deacon holds up a hand and grabs his banjo, this time playing the riff to “Stairway To Heaven”. Surprisingly, no infected came out or made any noise. “I don’t like that, Maria says the place was full of Infected” Lev says as Deacon throws the banjo over his shoulder. “Probably all went deaf, let’s try something else real quick” he says as he grabs his pistol and shoots a nearby squirrel. He then grabs it, skins it and flings it around a little. 

Much to Lev and Abby’s disgust, the smell attracts the Infected and the trio kill them off and move deeper inside…

After a few hours of “extermination work” the building is cleared and the three sit down in an old lobby “Worst. Job . Ever.” Lev says as he tosses his gun onto the table. “Try killing 5 Infected all fused together into one giant blob, now THAT’S a nightmare” Abby says, gloating about her past victories from her days in Seattle. “You mean a Rat King? I’ve only seen one, supposedly they’re only in ground zero areas of the virus. Hospitals, churches, schools, etc.” Deacon explains as he sits down before looking over Abby’s shoulder “Hey look, a recording booth” he says as the two look behind the couch and see the room. 

“Finders keepers D, I’m beat for the time being” Abby says, kicking up her boots “Amen sister” Lev says, mimicking Abby’s behavior. “Whatever, If I find anything good it’s mine, no bitching at all” Deacon says as he gets up and walks over to the studio.

Deacon enters the studio and finds what he expected to find: Some records, old radio equipment, and musical instruments. Except theirs one that really catches his eye, an old BC Rich Mockingbird guitar. He grabs the instrument and plugs it into an amp and begins to play.

Someday love will find you

True love won't desert you

You know I still love you

Though we touched and went our separate ways

“Nice singing' D” Abby says, Deacon jumps and sees her and Lev standing in the doorway with huge smirks on their faces. Deacon laughs, puts the guitar in its case, and throws the case over his shoulder. “Lets lock up and head back, we’ll get a cleanup crew set up tomorrow” he says as the three board up and barricade the lower floors of the tower before leaving for Jackson.

Chapter 15: Cuff Love

Thatch wakes up in an old apartment, he gets up before realizing he's cuffed to the radiator. “Ah shit” he says before the leader of his pursuers opens the door with a huge smirk on his face, his yellow teeth showing through just under his gums. “Morning fuckface! Martha made some Venison Gumbo that is to DIE for, try some!” the man says as he sets the tray down and slides it to Thatch. 

“Where am I? Hell?” Thatch says as he spit at the bastard who cuffed him. The man cackles with laughter as he sits down on a nearby stool “No, not that there’s much of a difference” he says as he turns to Thatch. “Oh right, we never formally met, Hi! My name is Sam, I’m the leader of this group. We call ourselves the Forgotten Ones” he says as he takes a swig from a canteen in his jacket.

“So why did you try to go to Wyoming of all places? Got some good loot? A settlement?” he asks as he puts the canteen back in his jacket. Thatch curls his finger, signaling Sam to come closer before spitting in his face and biting a piece of his ear off. The leader screams in agony as he covers his ear, his hand slowly filling with blood. “Well then, the hard way it is…” he says before whistling to his subordinates. Three enter the room, one with a bat, another with a crowbar, and another with a hammer. “He’s all yours guys, but try to not kill him… we still need some more slaves” Sam says as he walks out of the room. “No problem boss, we’ll be nice and gentle with this asshole” the woman holding the crowbar says as Sam shuts the door.

Back in Jackson, Deacon and Ellie are going over plans for fortifying the tower before a scream is heard all throughout Jackson. Ellie and Deacon race out and see the commotion and are shocked by what they see. They see Thatch shuffle on horseback before he falls over onto the street, his body covered in burns, bruises, and cuts. “Holy shit, DAD!!” Deacon says as he runs to his father, who only utters a few words:

“The Forgotten… are coming… leave… or be exterminated….” he mutters before Maria and Tommy send a few citizens to bring Thatch to the infirmary. 

“What happened to him?” Ellie asks as she catches up to Deacon. Deacon clenches his fists and grits his teeth “Fucking bastard, I knew I should’ve gutted him when I had the chance” he says before storming off in the opposite direction.

Abby comes in with Lev, who were both at the stables and walks up to Ellie “What’s up with D?” Abby asks Ellie. Ellie gives her a shrug “I don’t know, some old guy came in covered in cuts and burns, he must’ve known him” she says before Lev freezes in shock “Thatch” he says as Abby goes after Deacon.