#this means a lot more considering my mental health was deteriorating for months

[thefairylights]

Can’t wait for June because pride month and Nola and gay vampires and dragons and more Salem and so many things I’m so happy to be alive!

[lunatic-pudge]

Postal Dad Headcanons

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(Requested by Gojifan1962)

HAPPY POSTAL 2 DAY!!!!! Can't believe Dude is finally old enough to drink. Homie is going places and I'm proud of him!

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

-Aight, so I'm turning this request to a pregnancy/dad headcanons cause why not. Kill two birds with one stone and might as well start from the beginning, breaking the news that you're pregnant

-Now, Dude doesn't seem one to want kids. But since these are my headcanons, too bad. I'm sure he's thought about it before, but never really took time to truly consider it, especially with his deteriorating mental health and a marriage that has lost it's meaning long ago

-He's always had Champ to look at as his baby. His spoiled little baby at that. But now that he isn't with his ex-wife anymore, and is now in a happier relationship (with you, dear reader) having a kid or two might be something for him to start considering, might

-The pregnancy was definitely unplanned. A little "oops" if I may. It was nervewracking to tell him. How would he react? Does he even like kids? Could he handle being a dad?

-So, after some pep talk, you finally tell him. It doesn't register at first. KInda goes in one ear and out the other. It takes a few seconds of him blankly staring at you for him to finally understand what you said. And, surprisingly, he's ecstatic! Pick you up, swing you around, give you some smooches. Maybe some tears even shed

-But then the hard part starts, the big thing is that there's gonna have to be some changes (the crack addiction). After years of doing it, it's gonna be hell to quit. But if he kicks it now, it won't be a problem later when the baby is born. So be ready to have a cranky Dude around. You're both gonna be taking care of each other during this time. He's gonna need a lot of support during this

-Once the rough part of withdrawls is over, and he starts feeling better, he'll be already coming up with ideas for the baby's room. I'd like to think that his trailer has two rooms, one the guys you sleep in, the other is probably where he keeps his weapons. So he's gonna have to find a new place to put all his weapons cause we can't have the new baby trying to use the Napalm Launcher... yet

-At some point, he's gonna question if staying in Paradise would be the best choice. He doesn't want his kid to get hurt or deal with the consequences of being his kid, so you guys might pack the trailer up and start anew somewhere else, let's just hope the chaos doesn't follow

-As the months go on, Dude will start to get anxious. He worries that he won't be a good dad for the little one. He never had a good relationship with his Father's, one's dead and the other he basically has no contact with. He knows you'd make an amazing parent, no doubt about it. But he will need a lot of reassuring that he'll make a good dad. Plz help him

-He's ready to deal with anything and everything you throw at him. Morning sickness, cravings, he will go out at 3am to get you whatever you're craving if it means making you happy. He'll let you lay around and do nothing while he takes care of the place. Hell, even Champ will be loving on you as well. Staying by your side during the whole pregnancy (Dude gets a little jealous)

-When it's baby time, he's in full panic mode. Speeding to the hospital and refusing to leave your side. He'd be ready to fight the doctors and nurses if they don't listen to you or are even slightly rude. By the time the baby is born, he's gonna have a broken hand by how hard you were gripping it and he almost got kicked out of the hospital three times

-So now baby is born and Dude now has a new best friend. He just met his kid and he's already planning all the fun chaos the two will have. He's so excited to finally be able to hold his baby. He already knew he was gonna spoil the fuck out of them

-He's a lot more of an active dad than you'd think he'd be. He's rather a night owl so he doesn't mind being the one who's getting up to take care of the baby, he wants you to get your rest.

-Is the type to get the baby onesies that say things like, "I can't fucking read". He thinks it's hilarious. And if you don't stop him, he'll be trying to teach the kid how to swear and flip people off.

-The type of dad you'll catch sitting at the tiny kids table with your kid, wearing a tiara and getting his nails done by your kid. Yes, he will wear a dress if his kid asks. How is he supposed to say no to such an adorable face?

-He can't help but spoil them. Again, he struggles to say no to them. He would kill for his kid. He would steal toys for them as well. He will shank a bitch for an American Girl doll, he doesn't care. His child NEEDS this doll, and he will stop at nothing to get them what they want

-He will teach his kid how to defend themselves. He doesn't trust people and he wants to make sure his kid is safe. He'll be gifting his kid weapons once they turn 13. The kid will have an alarming knowledge about different types of weapons

-He doesn't want his kid seeing him killing people. He knows how traumatizing it can be to see such a thing. He'd feel so horrible if he was the cause of his kid's trauma. But he sees his kid kill someone, he's helping with hiding the body. If they're killing someone, then clearly that person was in the wrong cause his kid can do no wrong

-He really do be a dad that is chill and you can tell everything to. If his kid is in deep trouble, they know they can call their dad to help. Very rarely will Dude ever be mad at his kid. They have to do something really horrible for him to be upset with them. He's also the type of dad who wouldn't care if his kid smokes and/or drinks. He'd smoke with his kid if it didn't make his schizophrenia worse

-So to finally end this long post, Dude would be a good dad. He wouldn't be perfect, but he's trying. He would want the best for them. He does get overprotective of them as well. He'd be a content man in life with his family. Ain't nothing gonna ruin it <3

[lupins-hehim-pussy]

Just speed consumed all of addison lee very much enjoyed I am waiting with my popcorn for next chapter! I did have a wonder while reading, what is Wriothesley's scope of vision? Is it like this needs to be 3 inches in front of his face? Can he see faces clearly if he's close enough? Loving the fic, keep writing!

The short answer is:

No matter how close he gets, it's still gonna be unclear. It's not quite like myopia/short-sightedness where the blurriness can change with glasses/distance. His vision is more like looking through foggy glass. If something is pressed right up to the glass, you can see it more clearly, but it will still be foggy. Additionally, the guy has always been red/green colour-blind, so that doesn't change even after his war injuries, but because his vision is worse in general, he can barely tell colours apart lol. Unless it's bright blue.

LONG ANSWER UNDER THE CUT.

HAHAHHAHAHAHAHHA HEHEHHHEHEHHE WHUAGHAHA sorry. I like to infodump about my fics.

Not kidding when say this: I have a document that have notes on every single year in the 10 years between the Celestia war and current INGITAL events.

Unfortunately this was all planned before Sigewinne release, so I didn't have her canon birthday (AND I DON'T CARE ABOUT CANON ANY MORE I'm burying my head in the sand.) but it accounts for every year that Sigewinne grew up and some other random lore bits. "What does this have to do with my question?" you ask. Well, I have the 10-years progression notes specifically to keep their life events in order and Wriothesley's and Neuvillette's healing progress consistent KJNDSKJNSANSKJHASDJNJSNDKJNASJNDSAJNKSAKJ.

SO. Detailed answer is this:

At this point in INGITAL, if you stand 1-2 meters away from him and wave, he's gonna notice if he's looking at you, paying attention, and you're both indoors, or he's wearing sunnies. He's not gonna be able to recognise anything, though, he can just tell something is moving. He can sort of read regular text on a computer screen at about 2-3 inches (on a good day) using his better eye (left, so he always sorta lean that way when he's trying to look at something), but it's a struggle and he'd rather not do it. His right is worse.

There's also his field of vision. So like, his peripherals are pretty much gone, and he has some dark patches/blind spots. He's also light-sensitive, so everything's kinda painfully bright sometimes, but his vision is also bad in the dark, so he needs a happy medium, but that can shift from day to day.

Very rough idea of what Neuvillette might look like to him on a sunny day. Veeery rough idea. I'm not blind I just researched a lot.

And then, regardless of what he can actually physically see, if his eyes hurt or feel too sensitive to keep open, it's all moot anyway. And once again, usually that depends on the day.

When Sigewinne was born, he had functionally decent vision in one eye (had a corneal transplant on his right). Legally can't get his driving licence, but y'know, he still felt confident enough to drive (Neuvillette did not let him, though.) The transplanted eye deteriorates over Sigewinne's first few months, and so did his better eye. He got another surgery for his left eye (the better one) when Sigewinne was about one, and that lasted for a bit, but by the time she's two, he's pretty much considered legally blind. By the time she's four, he does most things on his own and his other issues are managed as well, which is why they decided to have a second kid, and they had Carole when Sigewinne was 5. But Neuvillette struggled a bit with that second pregnancy. I mean, his first wasn't exactly rose and rainbows, but he his mental health nose-dived with the second one for a while. It's because he's been so focused on keeping it together while Wriothesley recovers that he hasn't fully dealt with his own trauma until his second pregnancy. Because yeah, thinking your husband died while you're carrying your first baby was traumatic. They've both got PTSD. By the time Sedene comes about though, they're all good. Sedene's pregnancy was a breeze, there was just Covid lockdowns HAHAHAHA. And then, if I go through with another pregnancy at the end of INGITAL, well... That's for me to know and for you to ponder.

[By the way, Clorinde mentioned going over to their house for Wrio's birthday 8 years ago in Chapter 9, which is when Sigewinne was 3 and he was 28. His previous birthday (his 27th) was a disaster. Had a big fight with his husband. So that's another morsel of lore from the 10-years-of-plot document.]

There's a scene planned somewhere in all this, where Neuvillette shows him some of their photos on one of the days when his vision is better. Photos of eeeeveryone their kids and their friends and all. He printed them out and edited them to raise the contrast so Wriothesley can see it more easily. Wriothesley voice: Ajax is fucking ginger? [This is lore relevant. No spoilers though.]

[nelyastudies]

**Hi everyone,** 🌟

I hope you’re doing well. I’m reaching out for your support as my family is struggling due to the situation in Gaza. 💔

I’ve posted about their story and included photos . 🎗️ Please consider sharing this post to help us reach more people who can offer support. 🗣️📢

Can you reblog my pinned post from my account?❤️

Your help means a lot.

Thank you for your time and kindness. 🙏❤️

from the gfm:

I am Aahed Alanqar. I am 33 years old. I am married to Maisoon Alanqar . We have three children: Fatima (9 years old), Iman (6 years old), and Nour (1 year old). We faced all the challenges imposed by the war regime in Gaza, but now we need your help to escape from... This tragedy

Since the beginning of the last war in Gaza, my home has been partially destroyed, forcing us to move. We had to move more than ten times to find safety. During this harrowing journey, we faced extreme hunger and malnutrition that almost claimed the lives of me and my children. In addition, we have been exposed to many serious infectious diseases and epidemics.

I have to travel long distances just to get water, and stand in line for hours to get food. My mental health and the health of my children deteriorated due to the war. My children’s education was interrupted and they suffered from catastrophic hunger that almost claimed their lives.

After: This is our house, built with our sweat and effort, and it was partially destroyed.

My children deserve to live a peaceful life free of fear and anxiety. My dream is for your help to support my family and escape this genocide. Your help means the world to me and my children.

The cost of arranging travel for an adult outside Gaza currently ranges between $5,000 and $7,000, and $2,500 per child.

Fatima (center) : the closest to my heart, and my little one.

Iman (right) : The friendly, kind, and loving child who is loved by everyone

Nour (left) : Who did not live her life like other children, as she was born two months before the war

€655 raised of €40,000 goal as of 25 august 2024

[utane-uta-town]

**Hi everyone,** 🌟

I hope you’re doing well. I’m reaching out for your support as my family is struggling due to the situation in Gaza. 💔

I’ve posted about their story and included photos . 🎗️ Please consider sharing this post to help us reach more people who can offer support. 🗣️📢

Can you reblog my pinned post from my account?❤️

Your help means a lot.

Thank you for your time and kindness. 🙏❤️

vetted, copied text bellow: "I am Ahed Al-Ankara. I am 33 years old. I am married to Maysoon Al-Ankara. We have three children: Fatima (9 years old), Iman (6 years old), and Nour (1 year old). We faced all the challenges imposed by the war regime in Gaza, but now we need your help to escape from... This tragedy. Fatima Iman and Nour are the pulse of my heart and the light of my life.

The horrific story of the recent war in Gaza. Since the beginning of the last war in Gaza, my home has been partially destroyed, forcing us to move. We had to move more than ten times to find safety. During this harrowing journey, we faced extreme hunger and malnutrition that almost claimed the lives of me and my children. In addition, we have been exposed to many serious infectious diseases and epidemics. Unbearable hardships

I have to travel long distances just to get water, and stand in line for hours to get food. My mental health and the health of my children deteriorated due to the war. My children’s education was interrupted and they suffered from catastrophic hunger that almost claimed their lives.

After: This is our house, built with our sweat and effort, and it was partially destroyed.

The right to a peaceful life

My children deserve to live a peaceful life free of fear and anxiety. My dream is for your help to support my family and escape this genocide. Your help means the world to me and my children.

The cost of arranging travel for an adult outside Gaza currently ranges between $5,000 and $7,000, and $2,500 per child.

How can you help

Your donations can be a beacon of hope for us. Every dollar can help save my children's lives and give them a chance to live in peace. Your prayers for us to overcome this ordeal and lift the siege are greatly needed

Fatima: the closest to my heart, and my little one.

Iman: The friendly, kind, and loving child who is loved by everyone

Nour: Who did not live her life like other children, as she was born two months before the war

Donate now and help us get to safety

May God reward you greatly for your generosity.

Background on the Gaza war

The war in Gaza has left hundreds of thousands of victims, destroyed infrastructure, and left many homeless. The humanitarian situation in the region has reached critical levels, with severe shortages of basic necessities such as food, water and health care. Children are the most affected, as they have lost their sense of security, education and normal life.

Your support is our hope

Your donation is the light that can guide us towards a better future. Don't miss the chance to be part of a story that saves a family suffering from unimaginable hardships.

Donate now and make hope possible

Thank you for your support and kindness.

My gratitude

Ahed and family"

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering… you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.”

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. “Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad…?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

“–I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but my god, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was–”

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

[sadselfhelp]

Who I Am, And Why I Created This Blog.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Child Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Violence, Drug Overdose, Suicide, Psychotic Breaks. 

Take a walk with me, let me show you around the mind of The Sad Hatter.

There's a lot going on in my head right now, and I feel like I'm on the precipice of something. I'm standing on a cliff's edge and I'm either going to plummet or I'm going to fly. It's been building inside me for a long time, and I can't contain it anymore. So here it is, here's me laid bare, because I need to say this, I need to put it into words. I need to purge it all. To try and make sense of all of this shit in my brain, I think it's time I organize it. I don't know where to begin, but I guess I start at the beginning and make use of the ability to edit.

Before you read this, please be aware of the trigger warnings. And please understand that this is the most honest and open I have been, I really am stripped bare in this piece of writing. It’s not at all pretty, and am I not guiltless in parts. This may well alter whatever opinion you have of me. 

I guess the beginning is birth, right? But I don't want to rehash all that trauma, so let me speed through it. Twenty-Eight years ago I was born, violently. I'm serious, I ripped my way out of the womb, and tore that thing apart. I guess I can sort of understand why my mother couldn't love me after that was my first act, collapsing her womb. So let me speedrun this part of the story. Mum didn't want me, gave me to my dad who raised me as a single parent with the help of his parents, until he met my stepmother. Shockingly, she didn't want me either, but because she couldn't get rid of me she decided to physical and psychological torture was the next best thing. 

When I was eleven years old I snapped and didn't want to put up with it anymore, so I wrote a goodbye note and then snuck into the medicine cabinet and took a bunch of pills. Spoiler alert, I didn't die. I did however end up in a children's home, cue more abuse, little bit of bullying and sexual assault etc.... I snapped again, but instead of turning my anger inwards, I became an absolute bastard. Ok, I still turned it inwards a bit, I had a lot of anger, and now I have a few hundred scars to prove it. But, it turns out that violence can beget violence, and I acted out in every possible way. Racked up a horrifying rap sheet, assault, vandalism, arson, and finally... GBH. I was supposed to get put in a secure unit (child prison – Scottish Edition) but I was always able to talk myself out of trouble. 

See, I was this tiny little white girl with big sad eyes and a hell of a sob story, even at the bottom of the food chain I still had privilege. So instead of getting locked up, I just got sent to a different home. And here's the really messed up part, this home was better. The staff were nicer, and nobody hurt me. My behavior literally changed overnight. I went from being charged by the police on a weekly basis, to never getting so much as a pocket money sanction. I will never excuse my actions, nor condone them, but after years of guilt I finally realized that the bad things I did were in retaliation to a bad situation, and though I wasn’t acting like a good person, I’m not a bad person, just a messed up one. 

I still refused to go to school though, because though I didn't yet know it at the time, I had severe social anxiety. I was smart, a little too smart to be honest, and I found myself thriving with a private tutor. When the time came to sit my exams, someone fucked up, and despite having record breaking test scores on the pre-exams, I never actually got to sit my standard grades (think SAT's – Scottish Edition). I'm still bitter about that. So by this point in the story, I'm 16, and legally an adult, too old for a children's home. I got turfed to a hostel, and the next few parts of the story are pretty fuzzy to me. 

This is where my mental health really started to deteriorate. I bounced between homeless hostels and B&B's for a year or so, until I got a my first flat/apartment. By that point, I was utterly fucked in the head. I was blacking out frequently, for anywhere between a couple of minutes to three days. I would come back to myself in sometimes compromising positions, and once there was blood. A lot of blood, splashed all over the walls. Then there was the time I suddenly found myself standing in the kitchen, about to plunge a knife into my own chest.

Nobody ever did tell me what the hell that was about. Or maybe they did and I just... forgot? But because I was extremely suicidal, a doctor finally decided to do something, and the police and the paramedics came to my door to take me to the psychiatric hospital. I spent ten months there while I cycled through various anti-psychotics and anti-depressants, and was 'rehabilitated into society'. The second I was out, I made the worst decision I have ever made in my life. If I can give you one piece of advice, one lesson to take from my shitshow of a life, it's this: Don't move hundreds of miles away to be with the guy you met online while you were having a psychotic break.

I've never really thought of myself as a victim, but I guess I'm the only one who saw it that way. Ben, that was his name, Ben was a monster, and I didn't know it until it was too late. He never hit me, never lifted a hand to me, he never had to. He could put a knife in my hand and make me hurt myself for his entertainment. I had told him everything, so he knew exactly how to break me down, how to make me want to bleed. He locked me in a house and used me up. And when I had enough, and tried to break free of him, he would just tell the police I was mentally ill and they would smile sympathetically and give me back to him.

But then my dad had a breakdown. My dad, who when he found out what my stepmother was doing to me, buried his head in the sand and packed my little suitcase for me. I hadn't spoken to him in a while until he reached out from the same psychiatric ward I had not long vacated. He had cracked under the realization that I had never lied about her, and the guilt broke him apart. I could have hated him, if it had happened a few years earlier then I would have. But I had experienced enough of the world to learn a few things, like how easily it is to fuck up, and that no matter how strong you are, you aren't immune to monsters. The truth was he was as much a victim of her evil as I was. She had manipulated him, played with his head, used his insecurities against him. So I helped him through his issues, the way I wished someone had helped me. That doesn't really make me a good person, it just makes me human.

But my dad got better, and found his footing. And when he did, he realized something wasn't right with me, and I told him the truth about Ben. My dad had left me to suffer at the hands of an abuser once before, and he wasn't going to allow it to happen again. He came and got me, and he took me home. He moved me in with him, gave me his bed and slept on the couch. After a couple of months, he helped me get my own place.

And that's the happy ending, right? All the trauma was over, I was safe, that's where the story should end. Right? I bet you're not naive enough to believe that, but I sure as hell was. I thought I would recover and that everything would be ok. I thought that with safety, there would come the chance to heal. I thought my wounds would scab over, and I would have my scars but at least I would be able to move without bleeding out. But that's not how trauma works. I had two decades worth of trauma, abuse, and hell.

I just... faded. I didn't crack, I didn't crumble, I didn't break, I just stopped. For five years I sat in one room of my home, drowning inside myself. Last year I got handed a lifeline, and now I live somewhere better. I'm not really allowed to live independently so I actually live in kind of retirement village of all places. I have my own house, but it's got intercoms and emergency cords everywhere, I get checked on daily by on on-site worker. And I'm trying to get better, I really am. It's just not that easy.

There's more to the whole story that I maybe should have put in, like the fact that my mother was a drug addict when she was pregnant with me, and that may have been the reason some of my organs didn't properly form and/or formed wrong. My lung split in half when I was a baby, and parts of my stomach are missing. Or that my mother is full on batshit insane. I could have had a perfect childhood and I still would have been mentally ill. Hell, I was seeing psychologists at five years old. Take my sketchy genetics, add twenty years of severe traumas, and well... I'm a little fucked up. Because a lot of medical conditions use acronyms, my full list of diagnosis looks like I'm collecting the fucking alphabet.

I have Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and Agoraphobia. I also have a Pulmonary Sequestration, Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia, the stomach and lung issues. Immune Hemolytic Anemia, I'm basically allergic to my own blood. Plus, ya know, my liver recently decided to just fucking nope out, the pissy lil bitch is failing. I also may or may not have cancer, I don't know because I pussied out of the tests. At this point I am a walking, decaying corpse that is held together by glitter glue and bitterness.

So... why exactly am I writing this? And why am I even considering posting this? I mean, my problems aren't as bad as some other people's. We've all got shit to deal with, especially in 2020. The whole world is falling apart, so what right do I have to sit here pouting and pouring my problems out? Well, for a start, I guess this is my blog, I can post whatever, and it's up to everyone else if they read it.

So here it is, you have the backstory, so here's what it's all been leading up to.

I'm struggling. Like, really struggling. I'm stuck on this cliff, and I want off, any way I can. Whether I fall or fly, I just want free. I can't live like this anymore, because I can't breathe.

The fucking agonizing duality of being socially anxious and too easily overstimulated, and yet feeling fucking empty inside if you're not surrounded by action and noise. The world is too noisy for my brain, but my brain is too noisy for the world. I get antsy if I'm not doing at least a thousand different tasks, but I get overwhelmed if I try to do anything at all. It leads to short bursts of mania, followed by weeks of depression. But underneath all of that, under all the dramatic showboating, and the dark humor, under all the bravado... I'm really just sad.

Years ago, when I first came up with the moniker "The Sad Hatter", I said it was because I may be mad, but my madness was born of sadness. I'm just sad. I carry it with me where my heart should be. So I named myself Sad, and I put on the hat, and I wore my sadness like armor, turned it into an act, and made a spectacle of it. "I'm The Sad Hatter, and I'm mentally ill but that's alright, I'm going to be just fine!" I told you all I had my issues, and I'll come close to opening up about how bad those issues are, I'll give little chunks of information at intermittent intervals, and then two hours later I'll act like it never happened. I'll admit I was close to killing myself, and then two days later I'll post dog photo's and act like I'm all better.

I'm writing this because I'm sad. And tomorrow, I'll act like I'm not. But when I waver again, I'll come back here and I'll open up again. And along the way, maybe you're reading this and realizing you aren't alone in feeling overwhelmed. Maybe you're realizing you're not the only one who isn't healing neatly and in a timely manner. Maybe you're reading this and gaining some insight into the struggles someone you care about is facing. Maybe my opening up is can help somebody else, I really hope so, but I know it's helping one person. It's helping me.

This blog, it's about living with myself. It's about living with The Sad Hatter.

[poetryofyouth]

I did it, I finally quit psychiatry

(I wrote this for r/antipsychiatry, but I thought I might as well post it here too. don't read if you're easily triggered)

It's been a long journey through hell, but I've had enough. I'm not taking any more shit from incompetent, clueless doctors who think they know me better than I do myself. Who do not listen to me when I beg them to change the medication and instead just give me more of the stuff that is making me worse. I'll finally be free.

I doubt anyone cares, but I'll just tell you my story from the beginning. This is going to be a very long story. Basically, I became depressed at 14 or 15, I'm a 22 year old woman now. The reason was mainly that I couldn't handle the pressure from school. I am a very ambitious, perfectionist but also extremely lazy person. I was constantly beating myself up for not achieving what I wanted to achieve but also unable to fix my behavior. I did also have some slight, not even that serious trauma from a emotionally neglectful childhood and my parents telling me I was a failure every time I would get a grade that wasn't an A. At some point it all became too much and I started self-harming. Then I got worse and worse, self harming occasionally but severely, until I finally attempted suicide at 17.

I was locked into a youth psychiatry institution against my. will. I had my rights, my freedom taken away and was forced to take heavy medications. The very first evening I asked the psychiatrist at the hospital about the side effects of the medications, but he refused to tell me anything and instead just said I should trust his professional judgement. Unfortunately I was too tired and unwell to keep asking so I just accepted not knowing what would happen to me.

They gave me very high doses of Seroquel (Quetiapine), SSRIs and other stuff that I don't even know because they didn't even tell me the names of what they made me take. I just know the names of the medications I was supposed to continue to take after the hospital stay because they were in the papers they gave me. Then after a few days I begged the doctor to take me off the meds because I was so tired I could barely move. I had never felt worse in my life. she refused and instead upped my dose further.

I got worse and worse until I managed to get access to a razor blade I injured myself with on purpose. When my roommate told the nurses what I had done, I was forcefully, against my will restrained onto a bed. Yes, they actually tied me to a bed. And then pushed the bed into a small room where I was alone, and tied to the bed, unable to move. Of course I had a severe panic attack. The room had video surveillance, but it took them quite some time to notice that I was having a panic attack. they finally came and gave me something to breathe into and I calmed down more or less, but they didn't untie me. I later had to pee, and they didn't even untie me for that. I had to pee into a bedpan while tied to the bed, with a nurse watching me. it was incredibly humiliating. I was not untied the entire night. I was restrained until the next morning. When they finally untied me, I had quite seriously injured myself from fighting against the restraints. I had basically torn the skin off my ankles, the scars are faded now but they were visible for many years. It was quite painful. I do consider this incident of being restrained against my will psychiatric abuse, especially because I was restrained for so long. In total probably 10 hours, maybe even more.

Then the hospital didn't really know what to do with myself. I had of course lost any trust I had into the nurses and doctors and shut myself off from them. So they transferred me to a different institution, a more high-security one. Of course I wasn't asked if that was okay, I had to comply. I had began to form relationships with some of the girls, so being taken away from the small support system I had was very stresssful, especially considering how fragile I was at that time.

The other institution wasn't much different, but it was good for me to be taken away from the people who had abused me. I got a tiny bit better. I started to trust the nurses there a little bit. I got along with the other patients and over all liked the hospital better for maby reasons. And then they noticed I was a little better. And then they decided I was well enough to go back to the other hospital. Of course I wasn't asked this time either. But I had made more progress there in two weeks than in the other hospital in a month. I had again started building a little support system. But worst of all, I was forced to go back to the place where I had been abused, and at the time I was still very affected by the experience. I felt incredibly powerless and betrayed, but I didn't have a choice.

Then back at the first hospital I decided I would get better, for no other reason than to finally be able to leave that horrible place.

Then two things were getting severly uncomfortable. I was weighed every week and started noticing significant weight gain. At the same time, I was hungry all the time. painfully hungry, ravenous, even. I basically felt like I was starving all the time but still put on weight. Of course that was because of the high doses of Seroquel, but no one told me. I told nurses, doctors and therapists about the hunger and weight gain, but they simply didn't tell me that was a side effect, they told me an increased appetite was a sign i was getting better. I legit thought I was losing my mind.I have struggled with weight all my life and putting weight on like that made me feel horrible.

Then the doctor decided I was well enough to start taking up school work again. I begged him not to force me to, I told them the pressure of school was the reason I was sick in the first place. Of course no one listened to me. I was forced to do school work even if I knew it wasn't good for me. they didn't care.

Then, after three months of hell, I was finally released. And only because it was Christmas, and my parents refused to leave me there over Christmas. I got a therapist and medication for home.

Then after the Christmas holidays I, against my will, started going to school again. And after about two weeks, my new therapist told me that I had to choose between dropping out of school or going back to the hospital, because school was already making me severely suicidal again. And that was one of the few good things a mental health professional had said to me. I dropped out of school and actually started getting better for real. I sometimes forgot to take my medication, and every time I did, I instanty felt better. I suddenly didn't feel like a tired zombie anymore, I actually had emotions, I felt... alive. So I begged my psychiatrist to let me stop taking medications, and a few months after being released from the hospital, I was free of them.

And everything was great. I got a job, then I volunteered in New Zealand, then, when I was in a more stable place than at 17, I took up school again and graduated with flying colors. I was doing incredibly well.

And then I started university. The first semester went okay, but my mental health quickly started deteriorating. It was the academic pressure again. That's simply something I cannot handle. Soon I started self harming again, and it became more frequent than ever before. I also got into a bad, one might even say toxic, relationship. My girlfriend had issues on her own, but her behavior towards me was often extremely triggering and I very frequently self harmed because of something to do with our relationship. I do not want to blame her for my behavior, but she often made feel worthless, like I was not good enough for her. She would frequently cancel our dates at the last minute, and when she didn't, she would be half an hour late, and when we were together, she didn't make me feel very appreciated either. I was very much in love with her and always blamed myself for everything she did. She once even talked me into having sex with her, when I had said no repeatedly. She did not accept no for an answer and kept pushing until I slept with her to make her shut up. I felt like I didn't have a choice. She didn't force me to, but she simply did not accept my "no". Anyways, it was not her who took the knife to my skin, but she was a big factor in why I did it. I never told her she was a reason for my severe self harm, I didn't want her to feel bad. I didn't hide my wounds fro. her, I mean we did see each other naked and I always had at least four or five big bandages. We just kinda... ignored that.

So then I was getting desperate and decided to get professional help once again. I went to a free psychiatrist from the student councellors and she prescribed me Seroquel once again. I told her I didn't want to take it because it had made me gain a lot of weight and made me very tired. She laughed in my face and told me Seroquel doesn't do that. I don't know if she was just incompetent or lied to me on purpose, because these side effects are experienced by pretty much every single person who takes Seroquel, they are listed in the information leaflet, and I know many people who have taken this medication, all of them had them. During the appointment, she did not even ask me how I was feeling. She prescribed me 200 mg of Seroquel XR. Now, the recommended starting dosage is 50 mg. She prescribed me a starting dosage of four times the recommended amount. Unfortunately, I did not know that back then, I didn't expect a doctor to be that negligent. I took the first 200 mg pill that very evening before going to listen to a debate. Seroquel XR takes a while to kick in, but oh boy did it kick in. I didn't even notice the tiredness that much because I was having severe heart palpitations. My vision was going from normal to black and to normal again all the time. I was dizzy and desoriented and felt my heart was about to jump out of my chest, and sometimes it stopped beating for several seconds. I legit thought I might die in the audience of a debate on ethical farming.

Of course I didn't take the pills the next day and started looking for another psychiatrist. I got an appointment relatively quickly at a private one, it was relatively hopeless to get an appointment with one my insurance would pay, but I thought if she could help me, money wouldn't matter. She prescribed me some stuff that didn't do much harm but also didn't do much good. basically, i was a little tired but that was it. i got a therapist.

About 9 months passed, I had several psychiatrist appointments where I told her the meds didn't do much good, but she never really changed anything. She also insisted that I would get tested for Borderline personality disorder and the psychologist she told me to go to diagnosed me with it. My therapist at the time agreed with me that there was no way in hell that I have BPD, but she also said that when psychiatrists see an adult who self harms, BPD is the only thing that can explain that for them.

Then fall came and a new uni semester started. I had been alright over summer, I had broken up with my girlfriend, but of course with the start of the semester, everything came crashing down.

I lasted a month in university until i impulsively took the whole pack of Seroquel I still had laying around and went to the hospital telling them i was suicidal and also told them what i had done.

Now, I have to say that the nurses in this hospital were absolute angels. They treated my with respect, I almost felt mothered. I was given a lot of activated charcoal and basically had a good night in the hospital. I also got stitches for my freshest self harm injuries, but I had several ones that were too old to be treated that way.

The next morning I was transferred. Can you guess where to? The mental hospital i had been to as a teen. Again, I didn't have a choice.

But overall, the experience at the emergency ward was not as horrible as the first time. I was an adult now and actually treated like a human person. it says a lot about my first experience that I was very surprised by that.

I felt better rather quickly, mostly because the stress factory university was eliminated. The doctor there again insisted that I had BPD even when I said that was ridiculous. They evalued me again and the psychologist came to the conclusion that I had a borderline accentuation, basically borderline borderline.

The emergency ward doctor talked me into treatment at the psychotherapy ward, so I did that for 8 weeks. it was okay, again I was treated way better than as a teen. I was allowed to have an opinion about the medication, I was even allowed to read the little side effect pamphlets. But overall it didn't really do it, I self harmed less but I still self harmed.

During that stay I decided to drop out of university and start an apprenticeship as a baker. I found a company to work for, I loved work, then Corona happened. The company had to shut down. They laid me off after I had only worked there for three weeks. Basically I fell into a hole again, became a depressive husk again.

Then some time passes and a new therapist asked me why I didn't want to go to university anymore, she basically thought i was too intelligent not to. I told her how I could never focus, how I struggled with procrastination, how I couldn't handle the pressure and she recommended that I get assessed for ADHD. Now, I had suspended I had ADHD for years, but I didn't want to bring it up myself. I didn't want to seem like hypochondriac, or an attention whore, and after all, I had told so many people about my struggles and they never suspended ADHD. But I was relieved she brought it up and I had an "excuse" to get assessed. I was professionally diagnosed with ADHD soon after and happily went to my psychiatrist with my brand new diagnosis, I was full of hope that I would finally be "fixed". She basically told me she couldn't help me because she didn't know a lot about adhd. She prescribed me a very low dosage of Strattera (10 mg) and recommend me a specialist. I called the specialist, but they told me they couldn't give me an appointment and I should call in a few months, maybe it would be possible then.

It was july, and over the course of summer I decided I would try university again. Maybe if I was medicated for ADHD, I would actually be able to study. In fall of 2020, I started a brand new program, something very different from what I had done before.

I realized pretty quickly that the Strattera wasn't helping so I found a private ADHD specialist. I was extremely excited for the appointment. Again I thought "I only have to get through these few weeks, then I will finally get proper treatment" I didn't get proper treatment. He prescribed me more Strattera, which didn't help. The next appointment was a month after the first and again, I was excited. I was sure thia time he would fix me. I was sure after that appointment I wouldn't have to suffer anymore. But again, despite me saying I wanted to try something different, and that Strattera was not helping at all, he prescribed more Strattera.

Then university was getting really stressful, I had exams before Christmas, I was frustrated about him not listening to me. I started having suicidal thoughts again, I even relapsed with self harm, it had been months since the last time. But I more or less got through it in a piece, I even passed the exams (surprisingly), and was again looking forward to the next psychiatrist appointment after the Christmas vacation.

Strattera wasn't doing nothing, but it was not doing anything helpful. Basically, it made me feel quite relaxed, chill, less stressed. Which sounds good at first. But in order to get anything done, I rely on negative motivation. Basically, if I'm not panicking over possibly failing an exam, I'm just simply not going to study. So Strattera took the tiny bit of self-discipline and motivation that I had away and replaced it with a "idgaf"-attitude.Of course I told the psychiatrist. But can you guess what he did? Bingo, he upped the Strattera dosage. Again.

Then I had a second appointment with a new therapist, an ADHD specialist for adults. I told her how he did not care what I told him about Strattera and she was extremely upset and said that I can't let myself be treated like that. I needed to call him immediately and yell at him until he does something actually useful. I was baffled. I am not a confrontational person at all and I had never even considered actually arguing with a doctor. Yes I know, it sounds stupid in hindsight, but even after all that I had experienced, I still naively thought the professionals know best.

Okay so I called him. unsuccessful. I texted him. he ignored me. He had ignored my texts telling him that I was actually worse even before that last appointment, even though he told me to contact him with any concerns, and said that he prefered texts best, I thought he was maybe busy or something and didn't think much of it, but then he was ignoring my calls and texts. I was basically ghosted by a s

psychiatrist.

Okay I thought, then I'll simply go to someone else. To my suprise I got an appointment really quickly. I knew this wasn't a good sign, because good psychiatrists, if there even are any, don't have appointments free that soon.

But still, I had hope. And was of course disappointed again. I went to her with a professional ADHD diagnosis, but for her, that wasn't good enough. She had the audacity to tell me I needed another diagnosis from her psychologist friend who, by the way, has his office in a town over an hour away. She refused to treat me at all until I got that second diagnosis. Now,. I went to her out of pure desperation, out of knowing I simply could not go on like this any longer. Because I needed treatment quickly. And she told me she wouldn't give me that. I couldn't keep a few tears from escaping my eyea, she noticed and said very condescendingly "you don't have to cry, that's normal procedure". I tried my best to fight the tears, but as soon as I left her office, I started bawling my eyes out in the middle of town

And then I knew I was done. I had tried and tried again to get help, and I had not gotten it, I had not been listened to. Something in me snapped right in front of that office building.

I went home and threw my medication in the trash. Sure, it's bad to quit cold turkey like that, but honestly I don't care. I'm done. I'm done with psychiatry, I'm done with doctors. I have had the patience of a saint, but enough is enough. That was yesterday. And today I flipped a coin, twice, once for the psychiatrist and once for the new therapist. It told me to quit both of them, so I did.

I'm done with the mental health industrial complex. It has not helped me in all those years. I have only been sedated. Fuck psychiatry, fuck psychiatrists. Maybe I am simply meant to be miserable. I'll probably drop out of uni again, I thought I would be able to do it with treatment, but I did not get treatment, and I simply cannot do it this way. I've already attempted suicide because of academic pressure twice. Maybe I'll just have to live a miserable life working a low-paying job until I'm sad enough to finally actually kill myself. I'll probably always be a wreck, but at least I won't be a sedated wreck any longer. I'll be free, until I will be free for real.

Thank you for reading all this. I know it was a lot, but I needed to get it off my chest. Thank you.

[xpedropascal]

To Be So Lonely [Maxwell Lord x Reader] Part Three

Summary: After being struck by a family tragedy, Maxwell Lord finds his legacy in taking over his father’s business, Black Gold Cooperative. Cold and shut-off from the world around him, he decides he does not have time for anything other than his work and cares only about pushing his company to success – but how difficult does that become for him when you enter his life as a ghost from the past?

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

WARNINGS: mention of suicide, character death, illness (cancer)

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR [coming soon!]

MASTERLIST

KO-FI

AUTHOR’S NOTE: chapter three! this is quite an intense one so please check the warnings before reading. flashbacks can be identified through use of italics. To Be So Lonely will have themes of hurt/comfort, angst, fluff etc. i plan on it being a whole exciting ride. there will be connections to the DCEU and certain characters will making an appearance… however, for story-telling purposes, this will be in an alternate universe to Wonder Woman 1984 just because the movie has yet to be released. the main bulk of the story will be set in the 80s, with the occasional childhood flashbacks. please let me know if you want to be added onto a tag list!

♡ ♡ ♡ THREE ♡ ♡ ♡

You were still frozen, your brain struggling to process what had just happened. It wasn’t until city hall’s bell chimed and you knew it had turned 6PM, you were snapped out of your thoughts. You cursed under your breath and hurriedly put the cloth and spray you were holding behind the counter before bolting into your manager’s small make-shift office. On his desk, you located an ivory envelope, sealed, with your name written on it. You knew exactly what it was and ripped it open on instinct, collecting this month’s salary. Flicking your fingers through the green dollar bills, you found yourself mentally calculating how much your work this month had earned you. You sighed, puffing out your cheeks and feeling disheartened. Only $320. Grabbing your jacket and purse, you locked up the coffee shop.

When you stepped foot on the street outside, you took in the cool evening air. It felt so refreshing. Every pay day, you knew exactly where you needed to go and what you’d be spending your salary on. Swinging your purse over your shoulder you jogged over to the pharmacy just a few blocks away, and breathed a sigh of relief when you saw that the kind owner had yet to close. You stumbled in, trying to catch your breath and offered the owner of the pharmacy a warm smile. “Hi Mrs Walters,” you greeted her.

“Hi dear, how was work?” She leaned her sweeping brush into a corner and approached you, rubbing your shoulders in a comforting manner. You had been seeing Mrs Walters consistently more or less since you moved back to Gotham, and had grown increasingly close to her. You didn’t have time for friendships anymore, but the short, white haired lady had always been there for you during the darkest of times. You considered telling her about your run-in with Bruce Wayne, but figured that wouldn’t be the best idea since you were still trying to make sense of it all.

“It was okay. Same old. Do you have my mother’s prescription ready?” You quizzed Mrs Walters. The pharmacist gave you a knowing look and grabbed a rather large paper bag with Lucia Y/L/N (your mother’s name) written on it. The bag was filled with pills and potions used to make your mother’s life just that little bit easier. Upon leaving DC, your mother became sick but as you watched her health deteriorate, and knowing there was no cure for her illness, you swore to yourself you would do anything in your means to make her life as comfortable as could be. If that meant spending almost the entirety of your monthly salary on her, so be it.

“Yes, that will be $300.” Mrs Walters said, her fingers clicking away as she checked the numbers into the cash register. You pulled out your wages from your purse and handed them over to the pharmacist. Despite Mrs Walters giving you discount like she always would, it didn’t change the fact you had only just been paid and were now practically spent up for the month. You mouthed a ‘thank you’ at the kind lady, offering her a polite smile, and took the heavy paper bag filled to the brim with medication. With only twenty dollars to last the rest of the month, you decided to against getting the bus and travelled home by feet. It’s a mild night anyway- you told yourself.

♡

“Mother, with all due respect…” Maxwell Lord rolled his eyes as his mother paced around the spacious kitchen of Maxwell Lord’s DC penthouse, her high heels clicking against the pristine tiled floor. Thanks to botox from DC’s finest plastic surgeons, Naomi Lord had barely aged. She was still strutting around in that same ruby red lipstick, decked out in the most elegant pearls retrieved from the deepest part of the ocean, and her platinum blonde hair still sat in the tightest of curls.

“No Maxwell, you need to listen to me. I am not going to watch you make the same mistakes as your father did. Wasting away your shares in Black Gold like it’s nothing!”

Maxwell sighed, gently putting down his mug of espresso on the kitchen counter and closing his copy of The Financial Times. “It’s called investment.”

“Investing into what, exactly? Charity?” Naomi chuckled in disbelief. “Just like your father.” She reiterated. “Had some kind of complex, thinking he could singlehandedly fix the world by donating a few thousand to- what? The local library?” Naomi narrowed her eye’s at the cheque which had been written out in Maxwell’s name. Maxwell made a fist.

“I am nothing like my father.” Maxwell snapped, abruptly standing and pointing his ring clad finger, wincing at his mother’s painful comparison. Naomi suddenly quietened down, taking the hint that she had perhaps overstepped her boundaries. But she, like her son, was not one to give up.

“Sweetheart,” Naomi said, her voice gentle as she sat her son back down. “You know, all I’ve ever wanted is what’s best for Black Gold Cooperative. Because what is best for Black Gold Cooperative, is best for you.”

Maxwell’s mother had been telling her son this every single day after his father passed. After his father had selfishly chosen to leave him. It was no wonder he had engrained into him that his main priority was the family business. He was so sure he could never forgive his father for what he had done.

♡

When sixteen year old Maxwell Lord discovered his father’s body, the cry he let out was not one any mother wanted to hear from their child. Not even Naomi Lord. Maxwell fell to his knees and crawled over to his father’s body, grabbing on to it and swearing he’d never let go. Tears streaming down his face, he screamed for his mother. He yelled for help. Naomi came running into her husband’s office where she was met with her son, cradling Maxwell Lord III’s lifeless body on the floor.

“Oh Max, oh Max, oh Max,” she whispered repeatedly as she approached her son and gently tore him away from his father. Maxwell screamed as he let go and curled into his mother’s arms, sobbing. Naomi’s heart was shattered, and she buried her face into her son’s dark blonde hair, comforting him the best she could. She sat with Maxwell, on the floor, for only a few minutes, until she was able to compose herself and stand up. She took her son’s hand and pulled him up. “Sit here. Sit here my love, I’m going to call Lucia.” Naomi pulled her husband’s office chair out and watched her son shakily sit in it. She handed him a box of tissues and walked over to the phone, dialling the extension to the guest house. “Ah yes, Lucia it seems I could use your assistance. In my husband’s office. Quickly.” Naomi put the phone down and took a deep breath. “Okay Maxwell, brighten up. No time to mourn. Things are going to change real fast for you,” she rubbed the tears away from her son’s eyes. “Look at me. I need you to go to your room and change into your best suit, and then wait for me in the lobby.”

“But dad-“ Maxwell whimpered, and turned to look at his father one last time.

“I won’t ask you again.” Naomi said sternly. Maxwell nodded obediently and stood up before leaving the office.

Naomi watched her son leave, stiffening up and kneeling beside her husband on the floor. With great difficulty, she was able to regulate her breathing and hold back any tears. Hidden in the pocket of his suit jacket, she found a note. Unfolding it, she read her husband’s final words.

‘Naomi,

This was never meant to happen. Lord Tech was a failure- my failure. I always knew you were against the expansion of Black Gold Cooperative but with Wayne Enterprises’ taking over the states, I felt like I had no other choice. We’re losing money, and a lot of it. As of today, I will be disenfranchising Lord Technologies. It will be no more; for I have made a discovery, that our company, our family business, has been creating and selling carcinogenic products. I am filled with extreme guilt. How am I to go on, when it is our family name that will be responsible for hundreds of deaths worldwide.

On the second Monday of March, I asked our house-keeper, Lucia, to collect my belongings from our head laboratory. Naomi, darling, I have no doubt that she will be infected with the illness. Everyone who has been in proximity with our head lab developers will now have the cancer. I feel for her daughter. I found out that the cancer is a new strain. Lucia knows nothing about this and I expect for it to stay that way. The outbreak will make news eventually but it cannot be associated with my family name. The Lord family has nothing to do with this. Hide my note, and when the time comes, pass it on to my boy Maxwell, when he is old enough to understand.

Oh my dearest Maxwell… my wife, you should ensure he does not make the same mistakes as I did. Black Gold Cooperative still has a chance of success and our family legacy must go on! But not under my rule. Which is why, I will be passing on the business to him. Black Gold is our priority. It will always be our priority.

My boy, on the chance that you read this, know that I have always loved you. I’ve not been the best father, but even in death know that I have always cared so deeply about you.

Make me proud.

With love,

Maxwell Lord III’

Naomi gulped, folding away the note and slipping it into the pocket of her fur jacket.

“Mrs Lord,” Lucia appeared by the office door frame and when she caught sight of Maxwell Lord III’s dead body she gasped, stumbling backwards.

“Suicide,” Naomi explained, raising to her feet. “Lucia, are you sick?”

“I’m okay,” Lucia knotted her eyebrows in confusion, but she had no time to question it. “Mrs Lord… I am so… so sorry…”

“Lucia I need you to call an ambulance and report a suicide,” Naomi instructed.

“Did he leave a note?” Lucia asked.

Naomi hesitated before letting out a strong “No.”

“Oh…”

“Call the press too.” Naomi said.

“The press?”

“I’ll be the one to announce my husband’s demise… not some random paparazzi selling the story to the tabloids. I also have to announce the closure of Lord Technologies. From now on, our focus will be on Black Gold Cooperative… it’s what my husband would’ve wanted.” Naomi replied, the usual bitterness dripping from her tongue.

“You’re taking over Black Gold?” Lucia questioned further.

“No, my son is.”

“But Max is just a child…”

“My son will be CEO of Black Gold Cooperative. He is a Lord. He has what it takes.”

Lucia gulped. “I have no doubt but don’t you think you should give him a little time to grieve before you throw all this at him.”

“Are you telling me how to raise my son, Ms Y/L/N?” Naomi spat and Lucia looked at her feet. “I want you to call the authorities, call the press, pack your bags and leave before they get here.”

“Leave?” Lucia gasped. “But- but I have nowhere to go. And my daughter-“

“That is my final order.” Naomi said, pointing her finger towards the door.

♡

Maxwell took a sip of his now cold espresso, it left a sour taste in his mouth. He reopened his newspaper and shook off his mother’s words.

“Maxie,” Barbara Minerva’s voice made Maxwell jump. She had the same effect on him as his mother did. She called his name again before finding him still sat at the breakfast bar.

“Barbara what are you doing here?” Maxwell sighed, feeling slightly uneasy at the way her diamond engagement ring glinted in the white lights of his kitchen. “You know not to come to my penthouse uninvited.”

“Your mother faxed me. She’s called the tabloids again… anonymously, of course. The press are going to be waiting for us at the Plaza restaurant on Sunday. She wants us to officially announce the engagement.” Barbara smiled, wrapping her arms around Maxwell and pressing a kiss into his jaw.

“Don’t.” Maxwell said, shuddering away from her. “You don’t touch me. Don’t kiss me. Just. Don’t.” Maxwell was filled with the regret of getting intimate with Barbara, his secretary, in his office the night before. Now Barbara was overstepping her boundaries. She might have been engaged to Maxwell, but he did not tolerate any physical affection from her unprompted. If this is what love was, Max didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. He was still cold, and still miserable.

Naomi had set Barbara and Maxwell up and within three months they were already engaged. Barbara was truly smitten with Maxwell. He had everything she wanted; money, fame, power and fortune… and Barbara was certainly beautiful, but Maxwell had never really considered marriage. Not since he was a child and used to dream of marrying the little girl who lived in his guest house.

“Max.” Barbara had been chanting her fiancée’s name for the past couple of minutes. It seemed like Maxwell was in his own little world.

“Yeah. We can’t go to the Plaza on Sunday.” Max shook his head, standing up and fixing his tie.

“What?”

“I have a lot to do. Gotta prepare for my meeting with Bruce Wayne for a start. Do you have my schedule for Monday?”

“Max, I’m only your secretary when I’m at work…” Barbara reminded the CEO. “We haven’t been on a date in so long. I know this is your mother’s doing but please… I want the world to know I’m going to be the future Mrs Lord.”

Maxwell stared at his bride-to-be for a few moments before letting out another deep sigh. “Okay,” he agreed. “Come on. You can share a ride with me. Don’t want to be late for work.”

♡

“Mom! I’m home!” you called as you entered your Gotham apartment, throwing your keys on the counter and gently placing the brown paper bag of medication down. “You won’t believe who came into the shop and asked me out on a date.”

Your eyes caught on to your mother, Lucia, who was laying on the sofa, sleeping. Her chest was rattling as it heaved up and down. She looked even worse than she did before you left her to go to work that morning. You walked into the kitchen and took a towel, running it under the tap to dampen it. You brought it back into the living room and placed it gently on your mother’s forehead hoping to cool her down. You brought her a glass of ice, knowing it would have melted into water by the time she wakes up, and a bottle of pills, putting it near her on the coffee table. You gave her a gentle kiss, kicked off your shoes and entered your bedroom.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you looked at your reflection in your full length mirror and began fumbling with your fingers. How could you possibly prepare yourself for a date with Bruce Wayne?

♡♡♡ TAGLIST ♡♡♡

@mrschiltoncat​ @seasonschange-butpeopledont​ @thisisthe-way​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @buckysalefty​ 

[gore-maballer]

alright here goes big personal post time

i did wanna make this yesterday but i had to do a couple of things and i got kinda tired

this is definitely gonna get  heavy but i do want to end on a good note

I think i need to get this out straight away, i have Asperger’s Syndrome, i’m very high functioning but i do have it. I like to think it doesn’t affect me that much but i’ve lived with the diagnosis long enough to know it’s just not true.

Loud noises cause me no end of distress. Focusing on particular subjects can be almost impossible sometimes. Naturally this impacted me at school, which is what i think caused the bulk of my mental health issues.

Officially i only have 9th grade completed, i haven’t even finished high school. Like, i know i’m not stupid, but imagine what that does to someone’s self-esteem.

That isn’t to say i didn’t try to finish high school. I tried harder than anyone i know, i’ve taken practically every course available to me, even across multiple schools. I’ve taken science, art, multimedia, health and safety, culinary school,  you name it.

but like i said, for people like me, studying is practically impossible sometimes.

whatever information i needed, i had to get it first try during class. That’s not easy when you share a room full of people always chattering and making distractions. And that’s even if you like your schoolmates somewhat, most of the classes i was in i couldn’t stand the people around me.

Don’t get me wrong, i didn’t hate everyone i met, i even made some dear friends, which kinda hurts now because i’ve lost contact with so many of them, and the ones i can contact still, i don’t really want to because i feel like they’ve moved on and i don’t want to bother them. So that was my school life, lonely, overwhelmingly stressful and underwhelmingly rewarding.

All the while i felt like a burden to my parents. Like, here’s this fuckin deadbeat leeching off his parents way past any reasonable amount of time to finish high school. i should have finished high school by the time i was seventeen. I’m 26 now. In retrospect, it’s not exactly a bad thing, none of the courses i took felt right to me. Like that health and safety one. I HATED that course, i took it because it was the only one i could at the time. I had no interest in the subjects, my classmates were insufferable, we shared rooms with ANOTHER class that was somehow even worse than the one i was in because our courses shared subjects and it was a small school, and some of the teachers were downright bad at their job sorry not sorry. So something happened, the stress got too much and i had an outburst. And people noticed. My parents noticed.

I started going to a psychiatrist, i got diagnosed with depression. Not anxiety but i feel like those go hand in hand anyway. Fuckin three hit combo right here, autism, depression, and the anxiety that goes with it. Fuck me up fam. Still, it did get me the help i needed and i started getting medication. And things started getting better.

Back to school. Starting over, three more years.

I really enjoyed culinary school, i found i have a knack for making some mean arroz con leche and i feel like i do really well with pastries and sweets in general. So school was nice for a while, i was enjoying my studies even if i wasn’t doing well in ALL of them, (sorry to my french teacher she was cool, but fuck that entire language), my classmates were pretty okay for the most part, the fact that it was a professional course meant that when i finished, not only would i have a highschool diploma, i’d be immediately certified to start working.

But on my second year, my father got diagnosed with cancer. And it all went to shit. I felt pressured to start helping my family anyway i could, after all, i’d taken so much and given so little. I started taking driving lessons and i got my license which was a big help in general. And good thing i did, because my dad’s health deteriorated quick. It was caught too late. I was miserable because when he was sick, at one point we had a heart to heart and i realized how much he loved me and didn’t think i was a burden like i thought he did, and though sometimes he really made me upset, i felt like i never showed how much i appreciated and loved him. He didn’t make it. Not a month later my grandmother died and a little under a year later my grandfather. This might seem cold, my grandparents were riddled with dementia, they barely recognized me so i wasn’t too upset when they died. But my mom, these people have been with her in the most important moments of her life and she lost them all in the span of a year. She was devastated, and seeing her like that wrecked me.

So my depression got worse, and my grades tanked, and i failed school again, and again i felt like a burden. I start thinking about things. I should run away, live on the street, anything so i wouldn’t burden my mother anymore. What’s the worst that could happen? I die? So what? Death felt welcome, even deserved. But could i do that to my mom? I’m glad i didn’t.

Things started getting better. Pushing through it all, i started another course, auxilliary health technician, and this one is right for me, i’m certain. I’m great at it, i get to help people and i love it. It’s just the right level of responsibilty, we basically assist nurses and help take care of the patients among other things.

It’s too bad the damn pandemic hit, we got stuck with telework, suddenly every subject and every class shifts to theory, and we’re spending hours upon hours everyday on our computers doing boring research and just completing assignment after boring assignment. So i started getting headaches, cool. My brain’s finally taken all it can take.

Anyway, i start my third and final internship before i finish the course, and i make it through my first week. And one night the seizure happens. I find out i have a brain tumor and it’s been growing for a while. Thankfully it’s not cancer, i really didn’t want to put my mom through that shit again.

Most of the mass was removed, i didn’t have any complications, i’m feeling great doing RT to remove what they couldn’t take out through surgery, plus i’m almost done with it, and further on i’ll do chemo, which i’m a bit more nervous about, but i’m sure it’ll go well too. And i got plenty of time to organize my thoughts. I really start thinking about life, about everyone who helped me get where i am now and i realize. People care about me, and i care about them. And i don’t want to hurt them, and i think they don’t want to me get hurt either.

So i’m not gonna. I’m not gonna hurt anyone, least of all myself anymore.

Needless to say this whole situation kinda grinded my studies to a halt. But I found out i’ll be able to kick off where i stopped later on this year.

Hopefully the state of things will be better by then, and i’m feeling the best I’ve ever felt, all things considering. I’m gonna see this damn thing through. I’m taking control of my life.

I finally feel like a person.

I got nowhere to go but forward.

If you read through all of this, thank you. It meant a lot and i love you.

I think i’ll go have a healthy cry now.

[maicamochichan]

Hey guys, I know I haven't been keeping up with posting and I feel like I kinda owe an explanation. I'll add some trigger warnings as well

TW: depression, eating disorder

So back when I was 13 I dealt with a very toxic relationship that ended up with me developing anorexia. Fast forward through years of recovery at age 18 I finally felt like I had won the battle and I really began to love myself. At age 19 I was diagnosed with Hashimoto's Thyroiditis. Because of that I gained 45lb very quickly and it made my health, both mental and physical, deteriorate quickly. I decided to make a huge change and start eating better and working out, but my bf at the time was very skinny and I felt so self-conscious. I lost about 20 lb in Dec. 2019 after working hard for 3.5 months and breaking up with my bf. I met Shinji during that time. Because I had been insecure, I felt that I needed to push myself to lose weight before I went to Japan in January. I pushed myself too hard, however, and my anorexia came creeping back up into my life. I lost more weight in Japan, making my weight lost total 30lb. I was proud but felt I needed to go down more. I ate less and less, but luckily Shinji helped encourage me to eat and kept me healthy. I thank everything that I have him. But that doesn't mean I don't still struggle. I ended up gaining back 15lb when I came back to America and thats the biggest blow to my confidence. So since June of last year I've been fighting with my eating disorder and recently it's just gotten a lot worse. Keep in mind I'm still considered overweight and so I DO need to lose weight for my health, but I've become so obsessed with it that I feel I'm losing this battle with my eating disorder.

So because recently Ive been dealing with a lot of mental health stuff and I've been exhausted from not eating I haven't had any energy to make posts. I've been a bit afraid to share this but I feel guilty about not making posts for you guys, especially since some of you guys have expressed how much my posts help you. I'm super happy that you guys like my content and it means a lot that I get to have such nice followers.

Thank you all for understanding and I promise I'll try my hardest to get to a point to where I can start making stuff again. I hope you all can be patient with me as I struggle to take my life back. Thank you again.♡

-Mai

[tedwoodward]

Harsh Words

a Bill/Ted breakup fic

i made this post a while back that sparked a fic

Notes: this is entirely angst i’m so sorry, pre-canon, strangers to friends to lovers to exes in just 3k words!

Summary:

He wasn’t always this way. In fact, it may be hard to believe, but Ted Richards used to be known as a nice person.

In October of 2014 he started a job at CCRP Technical. Ted was a sweet man, always there with a smile and a listening ear. He asked about people’s weekends and seemed to genuinely care about their lives.

And then he met Bill Fisher. And resulting from that, in early 2016, just over a year later, Ted’s personality did a 180. Yes, you read that right. The reason for Ted’s shift in attitude came in the form of Bill. Yes, Bill, the sweet man constantly seen gushing about his daughter, the man who never has a harsh word to say about anyone. That Bill. Or, at least, that’s what Ted Richards would tell you.

Warnings: very brief mention of alcoholism; disagreements and a large argument

Read on ao3

He wasn’t always this way. In fact, it may be hard to believe, but Ted Richards used to be known as a nice person.

In October of 2014 he started a job at CCRP Technical. Ted was a sweet man, always there with a smile and a listening ear. He asked about people’s weekends and seemed to genuinely care about their lives.

And then he met Bill Fisher. And resulting from that, in early 2016, just over a year later, Ted’s personality did a 180. Yes, you read that right. The reason for Ted’s shift in attitude came in the form of Bill. Yes, Bill, the sweet man constantly seen gushing about his daughter, the man who never has a harsh word to say about anyone. That Bill. Or, at least, that’s what Ted Richards would tell you.

Ted had only heard about Bill’s divorce through the office grapevine, which he was not prone to listening to, but there’s only so much you can do to not hear the gossip in the break room. Ted felt for him. His sister had gone through a nasty divorce a few years prior, and he knew how hard the whole process had been for her, especially with the kids involved. He hadn’t planned on approaching the man, but when Bill had been having a rough day and had a minor burst of frustration in the break room due to the coffee machine acting up again, resulting in a loud bang as the side of his fist connected with the counter, Ted couldn’t stand by and not reach out.

The man had nearly collapsed into a chair at the table next to the counter, all the fight having left him in his outburst.

Ted slowly approached him, “Hey… Bill, right?”

Bill looked up from where his hand was supporting the weight of his head and nodded with a small, tired smile, “Yeah. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. Are you new?”

Ted took a seat across from the man and smiled, “Yep! Just started last week.”

Bill found himself smiling back at the man; wow, he was infectious.

“Well, welcome! And sorry about earlier,” he mumbled, waving a hand in the general direction of the counter, “I’ve been running on caffeine for way too long, and I’m starting to crash. We really need a new coffee maker. I’m so sick of this one breaking all the time.”

He sounded so exhausted, Ted couldn’t help but offer assistance.

“Hey, if that’s the case I don’t mind making a run to Starbucks or something. What can I get ya?”

Bill was taken aback. This guy was too nice! “You don’t have to get me anything!”

Ted waved him off, “I gotta get my own caffeine fix somehow, and if that’s kaputt, I don’t mind grabbing something for you as well.”

Bill was no match for Ted’s generosity, and, with a wink and a promise to return with the fuel they needed to get through the rest of the day, the man disappeared. And Bill couldn’t help but smile after him.

The two became fast friends. It was nice to have someone around who was so caring, and that went both ways. Ted supported Bill through the tough days, and he shared stories about his sister and her kids whenever Bill worried about Alice being caught up in the divorce. Bill helped Ted settle into his new environment and worked as hard as he could to make him feel included around the office, knowing how a new workplace could be ostracizing. They fit really well together.

Naturally, it just kind of evolved into something more. Without realizing it, Bill and Ted started spending much more time together than expected. They stumbled into a relationship one evening after accidentally falling asleep while watching a movie together after work one Friday. The two men woke up with Bill’s head on Ted’s shoulder. After a brief moment of semi-awkwardly staring, trying to read each other’s thoughts, Bill kissed Ted.

Ted let Bill set the pace for their relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to rush right into things, and Bill’s mental health was much more important than anything else to Ted.

Things Bill learned about Ted:

(1) He cares so much.

(2) He can read Bill so well and immediately knows when the other is having a rough day.

(3) Ted was kicked out of the house as soon as he turned 18 and was no longer considered his parents’ responsibility. The only family he keeps in touch with is his sister.

(4) Ted secretly loves musicals, but it wasn’t until a few weeks in as Ted was dropping Bill off at home after date night that the latter recognized Jekyll & Hyde playing through the car stereo, and Ted confessed to his deep, dark secret.

(5) Ted can be a cynic at times.

(6) He gets protective over things that mean a lot to him (for future reference: do NOT poke fun at his favorite movies because he will refuse to speak to you for at least a day and only accept your apology after making you listen to his explanation about why you are Wrong).

Things Ted learned about Bill:

(1) He has so much love.

(2) When he gets excited he is the most adorable sight Ted has ever seen.

(3) He’s not the biggest fan of alcohol due to witnessing the effects of alcoholism on a family member when he was younger.

(4) If you mention something you enjoy, Bill will become an expert on it just so you can bond and have someone to talk to who understands what you’re saying.

(5) His ex-wife had Alice while they were in college, and they had stopped loving each other a while before the divorce. Bill had only wanted to stay together for Alice’s sake.

(6) His love for Alice far outweighs any other power on earth.

And that’s where things got a bit rocky.

Not to say that Ted didn’t like Alice, he was just really protective of Bill. The amount of love that man put out into the world was incredible, but it also made him vulnerable. Ted didn’t want to see him hurt, and he was scared to see what was happening with Alice.

Bill only had Alice with him for a week every month, but his world revolved around her when she was with him. It was adorable to see how excited he was to spend time with his daughter. What wasn’t adorable to Ted was hearing about how much she obviously didn’t even care and how little she paid attention to her dad the entire week.

The first day after Alice left to go back to Clivesdale Bill was always sobered, no longer his usual, happy self. Ted would be there for him, and Bill would recount his time with his daughter. What stuck out as wrong to Ted was how much love Bill poured into his child and how little he got back.

Bill defended her. She’s a teenager trying to navigate life with the addition of a divorced family, it’s hard for her. No teenager wants to spend all week hanging out with their lame dad! (“You’re not lame, Bill.” “Try telling that to a 14 year old.”) He understands. He’s not going to stop loving his daughter because she acts her age.

But Ted doesn’t get it. How could she not see the incredible father in front of her? She treats him like crap and ignores him half the time. She doesn’t deserve Bill.

A few months in, Ted told him this much, and that was the beginning of the end. Their relationship began to deteriorate. Bill couldn’t understand how Ted could say those things about a kid, about someone he loved with his whole heart, his source of joy since college. And Ted’s opinion on Alice persisted in the back of Bill’s mind.

The two started getting into arguments much more often. Bill started to see how Ted took “caring” and “protective” too far. Mixed with Ted’s cynicism, Bill was starting to see how stubborn the other man was. And they found that Alice was a topic Bill would never back down on, regardless of his usual demur response to conflict.

The pair noticed this change, of course they did. And they tried to work through it. Bill began inviting Ted along to the activities he planned with his daughter, hoping he would begin to understand and start to love Alice as much as he did. And Ted agreed to give it a go. He really loved Bill and would do anything to mend their issues, and he truly did want to see the good in Alice. Ted tried to bite his tongue and not judge the girl too harshly. He didn’t dare lash out at her when she gave her father attitude (he wasn’t a monster, he's not about to make a 15 year old cry), but it stuck with him all night and ate away at his mind and his heart so much that he couldn’t hold it in. After Alice had gone to her room for the night Bill walked Ted out to his car to say goodbye.

“I had a really nice time tonight. Thank you for being so great with Alice. You are an incredible partner, and this really shows how much you care. I really appreciate you trying.”

“Bill,” Ted sighed. They both knew what was coming. “How do you do it? You are so loving. How can you just accept the way she treats you?” His tone was soft, his eyebrows scrunched in concern. “She was so dismissive the entire time. It’s not fair that you had to carry every conversation with her and only got attitude back. It’s been eating at me all night. I don’t know if I can listen to her treat someone I love like that.”

The pair stood there with tears in their eyes, holding hands as they silently gazed at each other.

“She’s a teenager, Ted. Every kid is like this at some point, and I’m sure the divorce has just made it even worse for her. But she’s here, isn’t she? She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t care about me. She could easily just stay in Clivesdale, but she comes and visits me. I have to give my daughter love and support, Ted, especially during this time of her life, otherwise what kind of father would I be? A few moments of sass and attitude aren’t going to spoil my love for her.”

Ted seemed to take in what Bill had said. It was clear where Bill stood, and it was up to Ted if he could accept it or not. The couple embraced, and Ted made his way home.

The split didn’t come till another month or so later. The two were once again at Bill’s for movie night, somewhat of a Friday night tradition since they first got together. The movie had finished, and the pair were discussing what they had just watched. Once again, Ted absolutely refused to hear Bill out on the reason he enjoyed the protagonist as a character.

“He has such an annoying arc! Who gives a shit about the fucking love triangle? They spent half the movie focusing on who was going to end up together than they did on the actual plot line!”

“But would you rather he have no personal life outside his job? It gives him humanity to have to juggle both situations. Yeah, it’s a bit cheesy that all the issues climax at the same time—”

“I just think it’s stupid.”

“Okay then, how would you have written it differently and still given the characters believability? If you take out the romantic subplot, you lose the chance to see his soft side in addition to his brooding, professional—”

“Well, they just took it too far—”

“Are you gonna let me talk?” Bill asked.

A beat landed silently between the pair.

“What?”

Another beat as the two looked at each other.

“Are you gonna let me talk?” Bill repeated. “This entire conversation you’ve steamrolled over all of my points and refused to let me even finish my thoughts before telling me why I’m wrong.”

“I never said you’re wrong. I just have a strong opinion on this movie.”

“On this movie? What about all the other times we’ve been in this exact situation? Every time we have differing opinions on something you don’t seem to care about my thoughts.”

“Of course I care!” Ted exclaimed defensively. “I’m sorry if I monopolize the conversation, you know I talk too much. Just stop me if you have something to say.”

“But it’s not monopolizing, you just refuse to listen to me. You never give any counter-arguments other than the fact that it was ‘stupid’ or ‘annoying’ or whatever. You’re so stubborn about everything that you refuse to even listen to my opinion when it’s different from yours.”

“I’m not stubborn!”

“Yes, you are! You are relentless when you have an opinion, and you always have an opinion.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Fuck, I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to have my own opinions. I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to be fucking passionate about something.”

The tension in the room was ramping up as the two men started getting angrier.

“You can be as passionate as you want, but—”

“But only about certain things, right? I can’t be passionate about a movie, I can’t be passionate about the way dishes are washed,” Ted began to list, memories from past arguments resurfacing. “I can’t be passionate about my partner’s toxic relationship with his daughter—”

“Don’t you dare bring my daughter into this,” Bill warned.

“Oh, that’s rich. Sorry for caring about you. Sorry for not wanting you to be taken advantage of by an asshole teenager who wouldn’t give two shits if you solved all life’s problems for her. I didn’t realize there was a limit on how much I’m allowed to care about you!”

Their voices were raising. They hadn’t gotten into an argument this explosive before, and they both felt it. But neither of them could back down.

“Don’t you say those things about her. You don’t even know her! You never even tried to care for her. Once you got the idea in your head that she wasn’t worthy of my love, I knew you wouldn’t be persuaded. I hoped and dreamed and tried to get you to see what I see, but you’re too stubborn. You’d never change! You can love more than one person, Ted. Didn’t you know that? My love for Alice does not detract from my love for you, but you know what does? Your jealousy and your manipulation and your bullying of my teenage kid!”

Ted scoffed, “Ha! Jealou— manipulation?” Harsh laughs accompanied his words. “Bill! All I ever wanted was for you to see that there are some people who will take and take your love and use it for their own fucking advantage and will never return it no matter how much care you show them.” His tone turned much darker. “Those people do not deserve your love, but you’re too blinded to see that no matter how much you try, you’re never going to get that perfect father-daughter relationship you want with Alice. Okay? She doesn’t. Fucking. Care.”

The two men stood there, breathing heavy and minds racing as they fiercely stared at each other.

Bill tried to compose himself and spoke with an uneven voice, “You’re an asshole, Ted. We’re done, now get out of my house. I should have ended this forever ago.” He strode past the other, cleaning up the dishes from the table next to them.

“Excuse me?” Ted followed the other man into the kitchen, trying to catch up after being taken aback by his words.

“I said, ‘we’re done’. Grab your crap and get out of here.” Bill refused to look at Ted as he washed the dishes from their dinner. “You can’t talk about my daughter like that. I don’t know why I allowed it for so long.”

Ted stared at Bill for a few moments, and when he got no other response or acknowledgement from the man he let out a deep, angry sigh. “Okay, yeah, whatever,” he clipped.

Ted stormed from the kitchen, shoved his feet into his shoes, grabbed his jacket and bag from the living room, and slammed the door on his way out.

Work was tough. It’s hard to be employed at the same office as your recent ex, if only due to the gossip. Anger was still stewing in both of them at the sight or mere mention of the other, so naturally the entire office knew what had happened by the end of the work day the following Monday.

Bill found solace in Paul who immediately supported his reasoning for the breakup.

Of course Paul would take his side, Ted thought, why wouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t the whole office? They all knew Bill much longer than they had known Ted. He’d only worked there for a year, so how much did they really know about his true character? Bill, on the other hand, was a sweetheart. After dealing with a difficult divorce and now a fresh breakup? ‘That poor man,’ they’d all think. Ted fumed.

Everyone was going to take Bill’s side. They’re going to hear all about how Ted was a heartless asshole who hates children, is desperate for attention, and doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings.

You know what? Fine.

Fine. If that’s what everyone expects him to be, then that’s what Ted is going to be. There’s no use trying to get on his coworkers’ good sides when it’s his word against Bill Fisher’s. No. If Bill thinks he’s an asshole, well, all the more reason to become one. There’s no way Ted was going to go through that again. No more wearing his heart on his fucking sleeve. Obviously he’s too passionate when he cares about things, so it looks like he’ll just no longer care about anything. So no matter what fucking bullshit Bill decides to spread around about the breakup, there’s no more reputation to destroy. No, Ted gets to do that himself. That’s one thing he knows he has control over.

[ivyandink]

“Wow,” Justin said, a wide-eyed look on his face and his head perfectly in the crook of his hands, “It sounds like you had a life changing experience out there, Pen. All the history, the food, the culture, and falling in love on top of it all!”

“Oh no, I don’t think I was in love- but in a way, that was kind of… refreshing? I was just… present. I enjoyed Val for who she was, and for the time she was in my life, and leaving was hard, but it also felt right. For once in my life, I didn’t feel heartbroken over the ending of a relationship.”

At that he frowned, and I quickly realized the awkwardness of my statement, considering Justin and I had only broken up just before I left for Selva after his mental health had quickly deteriorated.

“Justin, I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s okay. Honestly- it is. Earlier you asked how I was doing? Well, I’ve been doing good… really good. And not in a manic way,” he added with a soft smile, “And part of the whole ‘doing good’ is not beating myself up for past mistakes- trying to, anyways.”

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear that.”

“You know, I had started seeing that new therapist around the time you left?” he started, and I nodded, “She helped me work through a lot. She also got me on the ideal cocktail of drugs- after some trial and error. And you know, I don’t even mind taking them anymore- they don’t make me feel.. weak, anymore. You wouldn’t think someone with cancer getting their chemotherapy was weak, so why should mental health be treated any differently? She helped me realize that.”

“I’m so glad you found her, Justin,” I whispered as my eyes started to sting.

“Don’t cry, Pen,” he smiled sadly, “even if they are happy tears,” he chuckled.

“You know I’m a sap,” I laughed, and blotted at my eyes with the back of my hand.

“I do,” he confirmed, and I started to wonder if the constant smile on his face was tiring his cheeks out, “It’s not perfect all the time, though. But it’s good more often than not. I mean, clearly- I’m back at Waterstone. The administration let me pick up where I left off. Last semester was my first one back…”

He trailed off his sentence, and a smile played on his lips, keeping its secret sealed shut. I cocked my head, confused at his sudden tight-lipped look, until it dawned on me. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “You… you finish this semester!! Your JD!! Oh my god, Justin!! You’re finishing law school!”

His mischievous look fell into laughter, “Bingo, Pen. Yup, I finish my JD this semester… hence the haircut,” he grinned and motioned to his head, “I can hardly believe it. I plan to sit the bar over the summer- fingers crossed I pass it first try,” he half smiled.

“Oh don’t even bother trying to be humble around me, Justin. I know how smart you are,” I teased.

“We’ll see about that. Anyways, I was headed to the library to study with some friends. They’re probably wondering what happened to me,” he laughed, “So I should probably get going. But hey, we should hang out again soon. You, me, Rem, Emery- the old gang. Plus, I’d love for you to meet my girlfriend.”

As he stood up, I nodded my head excitedly, “Yeah definitely! I’m actually just about to meet Emery, she should be here any minute- I got here early to people watch- wait… did you say girlfriend?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve been seeing someone for a few months. I just know you’ll love her, Pen,” he smiled, and shoved his hands in his pockets, “I’ll see you around. Tell Emery hi for me.”

“Y-yeah, sure… see you around…”

And with that, he was gone, headed off in the direction of the library. I didn’t know what to make of the sinking feeling in my stomach- I was absolutely elated that he was doing so well, and was even about to finish his degree. I had been gone for so long, and we had been broken up, why was I surprised he had a girlfriend? It was yet another reminder of how quickly life was passing by for everyone else while I was in Selva. A very heavy, stomach-sinking reminder.

[the-missing-chapter]

How do I tell my parents that their well-intentioned fatphobia makes me hate myself?

I’m going to preface this by saying that I love my parents and that they are some of the most wonderful people I know. They’re supportive and loving and funny and reliable, and I’m truly lucky to have them. That said, they are also the reasons that I’ve never felt okay with being overweight until very recently, and it’s come up yet again.

One of our family friends had some sort of weight-reduction therapy years ago, before it was a common thing in Canada, and since then has lost a lot of weight, to the point that I didn’t recognize her a few months ago when I ran into her at the grocery store.

Apparently this past weekend, she and my parents were visiting and catching up and talking about the kids, like parents do. Part of the conversation came around to how she’s part of a program at the local hospital that informs and helps people to prep for surgeries like gastric bypass procedures. She said that she thought it could be something I might be interested in, and that my mom should pass the info along to me in case I wanted to learn more about it.

As soon as I heard the word ‘surgery’, I started to cry. Now, I’ve gotten really good at not letting on that I’m crying over the phone. I keep my responses short so I can keep the sob-wobble out of my voice, and I hold the receiver away from my face as much as possible so sniffles and ragged breathing aren’t as audible. Unfortunately, it’s not really healthy to do that at all, because it meant I had to sit through five minutes of my mom telling me about how many young people our friend has seen going from “I’m okay” to “being smiling and happy with themselves”, and that it would be good for me to think about it because it’s covered by health care now because “doctors know that there are a whole bunch of reasons for people being overweight”.

A part of me wanted to die. And I still do. I sat there listening quietly with tears streaming down my face because it bought back all these memories of things my parents have said and done to make me feel like I was doing something wrong because I’m fat. For a quick list of everything I can remember happening because of my weight:

I was put on a shake diet when I was in middle school (when I really wasn’t that overweight, comparatively; I consistently weighed in at 180lbs, and in old photos of myself, I wish I could be that thin again; I’m currently about 300lbs)

After the shake diet, I was tried out on Weight Watchers

Someone thought that I try hypnosis as a way to lose weight by the power of suggestion

My mom went with me to the local gym for a couple months for a weight-loss challenge -- the people who lost the most weight in whatever amount of time won prizes

After said gym challenge, during which I’d been fitted for and bought a grad dress, I gained my weight back and could no longer fit into my grad dress and had to have desperate last-minute alterations done

After I’d moved out to Vancouver for school, I came home to visit for some holiday and was surprised with a blood pressure cuff and a blood-sugar test to make sure I wasn’t diabetic (my grandparents, who were a nurse and doctor, were complicit in this one)

Numerous times my mom suggested that I look into breast-reduction surgeries before ‘they start affecting my posture’ and make me too uncomfortable

I went to a walk-in clinic because of menstrual issues and was told that I could solve it by losing ten pounds (this brought on a panic thinking that I had become diabetic, but I wasn’t)

I had to have my gall-bladder removed and after the surgery, my doctor told me that my weight made the procedure ‘very difficult’ for him and that I should consider having some sort of weight-loss procedure done

A family member was diagnosed with Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome and Mom thought that that might be ‘what I have’ and would explain away all my weight

Finally, weight-reduction surgery, again, by my parents

Typing all of this out and reliving it has made me feel so worthless and like an absolute failure of a human, even though all that it means is that I’m too heavy for my parents to think I could possibly be healthy. The year before last, I went and had blood work done because I was feeling dizzy at work, and before I got the results back, I was so, so sure that I had finally become diabetic, and that my life was over and I was disgusting. I cried for hours one night because it brought everything back that my parents had ever said or done in an effort to fix my weight problem. When I got the results back, it turned out I just had really low levels of B12. I was essentially fine and just needed to eat more red meats.

I’m extremely fortunate that my boyfriend has been in my life the last couple of years for these last couple of experiences, because having never been present for any of these interactions with my family, he has nothing but love for my body and support for me when I’m feeling less than perfect. Having that love and respect, and none of the “should you be eating that?” conversations has made me feel so much more secure in myself, like I’m worthy of love and affection and desire and friendship.

I’m also physically stronger now than I have probably been for most of my life. I work a job that requires me to lift heavy boxes all day, work quickly, sweat constantly, get things done. Though I’m not as fast, I’m definitely stronger than most of the women that I work with, and even some of the men. I have a good sense of how my actions and words affect other people, so I do my best to rein myself in when I’m frustrated or angry or sad, though admittedly this is still something that I’m working on. I’m smart and hardworking, I know my strengths and my weaknesses, and I know what I want to do with my life. My job isn’t a good one and my financial situation isn’t the best, but I’ve got structure that I’ve built and that will help me get through until I find something better. While I wish I was in a better place and that I’d made better decisions earlier in my life, I’m proud of what I’ve done to make sure I’m not sinking.

But one goddamn phone call ruined all of the work I’ve been putting into loving myself. It brought it all down to the ground and I’ve had to start over again, with the tears, the panic, the insecurities, the self-hatred that I’ve been carrying around for twenty years. It makes me wonder why can’t they just let me be the way I am? Why can’t they accept me the way I’ve been trying so hard to accept myself? Why can’t they see that all of these things have probably contributed to me being the weight I currently am? Why don’t they understand that my mental health deteriorates every time this happens, when they’re so worried and preoccupied about my physical health? Why does my boyfriend of two years can show more support for my body than my own family?

How do I tell them that having a discussion with a family friend about how fat I am and how I could fix that hurts me more than I have words to express?

Last night after I hung up the phone, my boyfriend came in and held me while I cried because he knew how much I was hurting. He told me I was perfect and that he loves me.

I love my family. I always will. But I need to tell them that enough is enough and that I never want to hear another word about my weight or my body ever, ever again.

[escapetocanada]

Week One on the Job

I’ve finished my first week at the new job! I’m working on a hospitalist geriatric unit at Vancouver General Hospital. Its a locked unit and most of the patients have some degree of dementia. I’m a causal worker, which means I only work on an as-needed basis but I’ve got this job for the whole month of March. I share an office with two other women and the three of us all work together on discharge planning. The other two women both have nursing backgrounds and they handle setting up all the outpatient care, home care and facility placements (of which there are much fewer, I’ll get into that in a minute), my role is mostly assessing patients and families to see how they’re coping both in and out of the hospital and identifying resource needs. Its a lot less time on the phone than at Hopkins and I haven’t had to talk to any insurance reps, which I don’t miss at all, but its different working primarily with dementia patients. A lot of the patients (not all) have had long, happy, relatively healthy lives and are now just at the end of their life. Its different than working with patients who have been sick for much of their life, or have had very difficult lives, or all of the above. Of course there are still some patients like that as well, but much fewer than what I’m used to.

Ok, now for the nitty gritty social work stuff. Social work friends, this is for you! First of all, APS and guardianship cases are a whole different ballgame up here. I still don’t totally understand everything but basically there’s something called the Adult Guardianship Act that allows a person to be brought to and held in the hospital if they are being abused, neglected or self neglecting and are deemed to be unable to seek support and assistance on their own. There’s a similar act called the Mental Health Act that allows for someone with a mental illness to be brought and held in the hospital in order to prevent “substantial mental or physical deterioration”; they don’t have to be considered a danger to themselves or others. Basically its easier to hold people against their will in the hospital if they aren’t taking care of themselves. Also there are no APS workers like in the US, the social workers at the hospital do the investigation and determine if there is abuse, neglect, or self neglect and arrange for follow-up community care. So there’s no sitting on the phone for an hour and a half describing the extend of an 80lb patient’s wounds to try to get someone to fucking show up and start an investigation. They still have capacity assessments, which are pretty much the same as in the US, and if a person lacks capacity than a decision maker has to be appointed and if there is no surrogate decision maker the court will appoint a public guardian, so that’s all the same, but its interesting to see a system that allows for a lot more power on the part of the healthcare professionals to determine what is best for the patient. There was a recent case in BC where a woman was held against her will in the hospital for a year due to suspicions by the hospital staff that the woman, who was intellectually disabled, was being sexually abused. In that case the hospital also didn’t disclose to the patients family that she was being held in the hospital, so they didn’t know where she was (which is legal) and the hospital denied the patient access to a lawyer (which is not legal). So that’s a pretty bad example of the system over reaching, but on the other hand you don’t have to wait for APS to get around to investigating cases and if someone is self neglecting to the point of nearly killing themselves you can more easily try to intervene. I’ll have to see it in action more before I decide if I think its a better system or not. As someone who leans pretty heavily on the side of patient autonomy I’m a bit suspicious, but I’ll see.

But its not all guardianship and neglect cases, thank god, there’s also your regular discharges. Remember when I said there aren’t a lot of facility placements? Yeah, there really aren’t! They will keep people in the hospital for a few days or even a week in order for them to get enough PT to go home, and you can get WAY more home care services. Like four times a day! And not just PT/OT and nursing, you can also get home care aids. They do pretty much everything short of 24 hour care to keep people out of facilities. Of course that means its hard to qualify for a facility and when you do qualify you often have to sit on a waitlist for several months (unless you can pay privately to go to a non-subsidized facility, its still a two tiered system) but how many times did I have someone tell me they’d literally rather die than go to a nursing home? And there’s no sending people to facilities for IV antibiotics either, they do the treatment in the hospital if they can’t go home with a line. Not surprisingly this all means that length of stay is longer, though I don’t have the actual numbers to quote. But people being in the hospital for a few weeks isn’t a big deal and on a 30 bed unit its considered a busy day when six people get discharged.

Now about those 30 beds. Capacity is a problem. My first day on the unit we had 37 people on what should be a 30 bed unit. They have two to three people in a room unless someone is on isolation precautions. That’s not every unit of course, their palliative unit for example is all private rooms, but it definitely seems like things are more crowded.

The biggest difference, though, is a shocker. Like my jaw almost dropped. Someone had briefly mentioned it in my interview but it was so unbelievable that I didn’t even process the sound. Two words: paper charts. They have paper fucking charts. There are HANDWRITTEN NOTES! Just how impractical is this? Well, only one person can read notes on a patient at a time, and if someone locks a chart in their office on accident no one can read that patients notes or add more notes to the record. Plus, again, some of the notes are hand written, which for all practical purposes means they might as well not be written at all since they are completely illegible (I type all my notes because I’ve seen my handwriting and even I can’t read it and lets not even get started on my spelling). And do you want to find the social work assessment note from three admissions ago? Have fun finding that in medical record! Its truly insane, like going back in time. I’ve been told an electronic system is coming next year, but wow. I have no words.

One more super nerdy social work thing and then I promise I’ll end this post. Folks might remember that one of my favorite things to do at Hopkins was to tell the residents what a Medicaid spenddown is and then watch the horror wash over their faces. They don’t do that here! When you go to a nursing facility you do have to pay a portion of the cost, but the portion you pay is based on your INCOME not your ASSETS. So you don’t have to burn through all your savings when you go to a facility, you just have to pay a percentage (and I think its a pretty high percentage, like 80%) of your earned income, and if that would be considered a financial hardship you can apply for a reduced rate. So people aren’t signing over their whole social security checks to assisted living facilities either. This all applies to government subsidized facilities, of course. Like I said above you can pay privately for services and I’m sure private pay services are often better, but the point is that people who can’t afford to do that aren’t left with nothing. Its pretty great.

Those paper charts though...

[noblehigh]

*  BRIAN’S DEMONOLOGY .

                   excerpt from  brian’s powers and abilities page:

❝ first off, here’s something pertaining to how i portray him as a demon and everything. he is able to track. if you tell him of a place, if you show him a picture, if you’re important enough to him that he’s tethered to you – he can concentrate and find you / the place. hence why he knows where to shimmer to in certain situations. (  he is loosely based off of the demons / magical beings set in the charmed universe. i add in my own things from here and there, and just from my personal beliefs. )

please note:  with the way i play brian, a vampire is a type of low-level demon ( which he was before ). unfortunate for him, when he died, the demon part took him over. there are still bits and pieces of him that stick with him as a sign of what he once was. he still sometimes craves blood. brian is slow to grow into his powers, to develop, and it would take decades to make his way up to something that’s generally feared. he is still considered a low level demon.  (  it’s important to know that he is not necessarily  weak, it just depends on who he is up against  ).  regarding his ‘mortality’, he is immortal.. in a way. his bodies can be destroyed, but he is an entity. it would take him a long time to get back into another body, even if it’s one he’s been in before he died, and it would be painful. along those lines, when he changes forms in his regular life, it’s also painful. it doesn’t take him long, maybe an hour, plus some time for the body to settle. don’t ask where he keeps the bodies, i have no idea. that’s something he won’t tell. so, in summary, his body can die like a human’s would, but he is still alive. still fuckin’ hurts, though.  ❞

                   the process of changing bodies / what it’s like when a body dies:

physically, he is like a human. he uses human bodies ; ones that are deceased, ones that no longer can be used.  he doesn’t kill for his vessels. his bodies age, they scar  (  he is able to heal somewhat more quickly than your average human ; when he heals, it starts out bright red, kind of like it’s illuminated by a flashlight beneath his skin, and then small flames fill the wound. once the flames start, it should only take an hour or two  max  for it to properly heal. he can speed this process up with raw flames from his hand if he wishes. usually just for emergencies ), and eventually, they die.

the process for routinely switching back and forth between living bodies isn’t necessarily pleasant. leaving his present body takes focus, and it kind of feels like someone’s removing a big thorn from his chest. a thorn that makes it really hard to breathe. the more often he’s done it, the more he’s gotten used to the pain ; most of the time it’s fairly mediocre. he’s never had anyone with him when he’s changed bodies, it’s always something he’s done on his own. he bears the cross himself on that one, but that’s not to say he wouldn’t let in someone he loves and trusts to help him through it at some point. the logical reason for switching bodies is to give the others time to rest ; too much exposure to his entity can be damaging to the health of the body ; faster deterioration. the personal reason for switching bodies is mostly found in the way his mood shifts. there are still some traits left of the person before who occupied the body before him.  in one he may be more sympathetic, in another he’s ruthless, and in another his hunger to feed his addictions may be more powerful. it’s why sometimes he just doesn’t feel like himself. those are the days that bother him the most. 

                                         brian’s demon species:

i use this loosely just because i kind of like brian to be a free-range chicken... demon.. -- in the way that i want to leave it open to interpretation, and that includes my own interpretation. in regards to the parts of him that are based off of charmed, he is a type of demon called a noxon demon.  (  read more about them by clicking here.  )

excerpt from charmed wiki:    ❝  viciously tempered, these low-level minions are often used as shock-troops or assassins by more powerful demons. use the following potion vanquish. mix the following herbs: hemlock, wolvesbane, sumac petals and Imp powder. ❞

it’s also important to know that brian can be vanquished back to the underworld ( hell ). this will send back his entity, not harm his body. he will be gone for a fairly long time ( a week or so ), but will be able to return back to his body/earth. mainly it can be used in a fight for advantage, but it must be used with the potion. so: throw potion, recite spell. there are actually two spells ( you only need to use the potion with the vanquishing one ), the first is used as a means of finding/revealing a demon. below are the two spells ( the to find a demon and to banish a noxon demon spells have been lightly edited by me ).

                                                 ❝ to find a demon ❞  spell:

                                         ancient powers, we summon thee,                                                we with the power of thee,                                               to seek your help in finding,                                               the demon who is in hiding. 

                                         ❝ to banish a noxon demon ❞  spell:

                                           demon of fire, demon of pain,                                        i banish you to whence you came!

                                        brian’s powers:

incineration ; status is active: ( active but not at maximum ). incineration is a rare and powerful ability that, like the name suggests, incinerates someone or something. brian is considered a lower-level demon. his powers have grown stronger over the past few months / year and a half, especially since being in hell ( and he’s learned to control them better ). if he thinks it, if he channels it, he can set things on fire simply with his mind. this also happens when he’s very frustrated / angry, usually involuntarily. fireballs ; status is active: the ability to create and throw balls made out of fire. beings with the power of pyrokinesis can create their version of fireballs, however, they are not as powerful. brian does have pyrokinesis ( will be the next bulletin ). his fireballs are not strong enough to take out extremely powerful beings, but they’re good enough to take out another lower-level demon such as himself. they also can be fatal to humans ( depends on the severity of the one he conjures ).  pyrokinesis ; status is active: pyrokinesis is the ability to create and manipulate fire at will. it can be channeled through the mind or hands. brian almost always uses his hands. fire often grows in his palms, it can even channel up his arms ; his entire arm isn’t on fire, it’s just channels of flames crossing over one another, kind of like veins. he can manipulate it to take on the figure of an animal, a woman in the palm of his hand, ect. thermokinesis ; status is active: ( active but not at maximum ). thermokinesis is the ability to mentally control and manipulate heat, encompassing the power and ability to boil and super heat things to scalding temperatures. this kind of goes along with the other two. he can boil water, even blood, any kind of liquid ; he can set simple things on fire with his mind, but mostly needs his hands to do anything else. an example of this is if someone was freezing, he could warm them back up to a normal temperature. sometimes he uses this for comfort, along with small flames. fire throwing ; status is active: fire throwing is the powerful and deadly ability to project jets of flame from the hands, capable of completely immolating even high-level demons. however, brian’s is not that strong. it’s important to emphasize that brian is powerful, but he is definitely not unstoppable. he’s a lower-level demon. his powers aren’t as strong as others. this one kind of goes along with fire balls. he can conjure them in his palm, throw them. with throwing, a never ending stream comes out ( it drains a lot of energy, however, and can become painful, very harmful to the human body ). shimmering ; status is active: shimmering is an energy-based method of transportation that allows the users to appear and disappear from a desired location. when teleporting, the user shimmers, distorting the space around them momentarily ( click here for an example ). this is a common power among demons. shimmering also allows demons to travel anywhere in the world, as well as different planes or timelines, such as time loops. (  brian has not yet discovered the ability to go to different dimensions, and he might not ever discover it. right now, he is just able to get from place. )