#this shit sets me off like nothing else

[morphogenetic]

i am no longer asking please tag positivity/recovery posts (as either one of those things) if you are a mutual or you WILL get blocked

[ozonecologne]

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[iknowwhereyousleepatnight]

i can feel...... the mental illness...... clawing its way into the forefront of my mind........

[bitegore]

ngl i think i kind of was a genius for being like 'yeah this character is a scary killyou cannibal scary killer who scary kills you' and then realizing that the way my worldbuilding works out is that there's a nonzero chance that if you leave literally any body parts over they can just come back, depending on what they believe in their heart of hearts can kill them. Of course she'd start eating her kills. She probably tried normal stuff first and then realized it didn't work and she had to try harder if she wanted to actually keep them dead.

[ducktollers]

ai starbucks on doordash its so fucking over. if any company can afford to hire a photographer to take a picture of some cups sitting in water it is fucking starbucks ARE YOU KIDDING like are you joking. bye

[moodr1ng]

one weird and annoying effect of me spending so much time on mainly american social media and watching all these american shows and movies and reading books by american authors and having all these online friends from america etc etc is that like.. when i write i no longer feel like i can set my stories in france? like, bc i write in english it feels like i need to set my stories in an english-speaking country, and the us is the easiest one to set up (i think in a way it kinda feels like the "default setting" of western media?). i feel like if i wrote a book set in france itd be weird or confusing to people, and also im always bugged bc like.. the stuff i write in english cannot be directly translated into french, like it doesnt correspond 1:1 to french sentences, and so if i set a story in france im always bugged bc i think "but that cant be what the characters are actually saying, because theres no equivalent to this in french". so i end up setting a lot of my stuff in the us, except ive only been to the us once and not long enough to get a good impression of what living there is like (not to mention ive only been to nyc), so i also feel like when americans read my stuff theyre gonna immediately go "huh? thats not how things are here. this author is a hack who cant do research." .. so then sometimes i set my stuff in fictional countries or in an ambiguous impossible setting which mixes stuff from various english-speaking countries + france, but then that makes my story immediately less grounded. this is such a big issue that it blocks me from writing entire stories i wanna write bc i just cant even begin to put them somewhere 😔

[quietwingsinthesky]

ohhhh u know what i wanna write. need to, even. very important to do it at some point. but i think i really do need to make the doctor have a meltdown. i think that would be very cathartic to put them through.

[thethingything]

had to lay down. woke up at nearly 7am. got overwhelmed by our sleep schedule once again being fucked because yesterday we actually went to bed at roughly the right time and thought "oh this is great we've fixed it". decided that we're just gonna deal with it and it'll be fine. and then our brain decided that no actually we're gonna have a combination of emotions that's maybe gonna give me another breakdown if I can't figure out how to deal with them but I have no fucking clue what to do with them

[jedi-bird]

So because I'm on antidepressants now I'm apparently not allowed to have any bad days. Like, not sure how to explain that that's not how it works and that ignoring me and refusing to speak to me isn't going to help.

[asterdeer]

my hypothetical ao3 collection of midnights-based songfic, no other unifying factor - 40% serious, 50% if-i-was-good-enough-maybe, 10% shitpost.

“lavender haze” this one is a jonmichael fic purely off the “talk your talk and go viral / I just want the love spiral / get it off your chest / get it off my desk” bridge. that’s a mostly canon compliant jonmichael bridge if i ever heard it. they are holding hands at jon’s desk

“maroon” I'm going to ask you to hang with me for a second: richard maxwell/greg kelly. look it's canon that they knew each other (i can't remember if they knew they both worked for blackgaard? don't make me reread any of the blackgaard chronicles again ffs.) and if there's anything i love doing in fic it's turning a single line or two of throwaway canon into melodramatic soap opera nonsense. they lived together in chicago and did sketchy jobs together and fell in love and it was messy when richard left. and then waylaid in the windy city happened. yeah the blood is definitely just talking about a blush

“anti-hero” THEE richard maxwell character study of all time. i can hear i have this thing where i get older but just never wiser in his voice fr.

“snow on the beach” this is a steveloki song and specifically in my ideal stoki fic where it's loki who saves steve instead of the other way around. this pairing IS peak ‘weird but fuckin beautiful’

“you’re on your own, kid” i want to make this about morgana so bad. idk how but this should be a morgana fic.

“midnight rain” tbh i hate this song, no fic

“question…?” ditto

“vigilante shit” this is sheer richard maxwell revenge bait. idk how the fic would actually go but suddenly i’m picturing nb!richard and connie screwing blackgaard over and driving away in his car and making out at a fancy beach house, and it’s making me really happy

“bejeweled” this one gave me the most trouble but listen: IRONIC VILLAIN SONG FOR MORGANA. morgana wins au, she glows up and reclaims the throne and she does, in fact, polish up real nice!! she has been too good of a girl!!! it is time to teach some lessons!!!!!!

“labyrinth” look this song bores me to death, go queen give me nothing, but like. obviously it’s a steveloki song, the bit about the plane? the bit about everyone expecting him to bounce back? this one isn’t clever but it would make a cute enough long fic concept. probably in my loki-saves-steve idea as well, definitely the ‘oh’(tm) chapter for steve’s pov.

“karma” sorry that i think this would make for the funniest steve-centric anti-tony fic in the whole entire world. sorry that i'm objectively right. sorry that i will never write it but like, imagine. IMAGINE

“sweet nothing” this would be the epilogue fic to my jonmichael misophonia fic series. after a certain point, jon being the archivist means everyone wants something from him, usually something destructive or hurtful or just plain something he doesn't want to do, but now jon and michael are free somehow and jon gets to be loved by someone who wants nothing from him except himself.

“mastermind” this is richason to a TEE. a cute little “i am secretly Courting You, haha you’ll never find out until it’s TOO LATE” fic, richard thinks he’s so smart. jason does too but def not about this.

“the great war” i read the lyrics for this one time and decided it would make the most steveloki fic of all time and i was and still am correct

“bigger than the whole sky” this is the fic where jason and richard have a whirlwind romance during DBD but richard dies when he gets caught (either murdered or dies when he jumps out of the car). this song also bores me to tears but the sentiment of jason not getting to know richard the way they should have been, after richard has finally been able to clear his name and have a more peaceful life sans regis, is a pretty compelling one to me.

“paris” nah this is my least favorite song on the album

“high infidelity” i love this song but i can’t imagine a character/pairing/situation that i’d want to write about with actual infidelity?

“glitch” EUGENE/RICHARD FANS COME GET YALL JUICE. i know i know, it's tacky and gimmicky, but, come on, it's adorable! geek love! this is a "falling in love while deep-diving into the imagination station's code" fic. literally the cutest. i haven't quite figured out how i would actually write eugene/richard but y'all have convinced me that it would be adorbs.

“would’ve, should’ve, could’ve” the spiritual sequel to the "you're on your own, kid" morgana fic. i mean the line about spitting out poison??? there's a lot here that could make a good uther angst fic but tbh i want to zero in on a morgana vs merlin dynamic where morgana knows about his magic and that he still chose to turn his back on her. not in an anti-merlin way but still in that "how dare you betray me like that" vein. god "give me back my girlhood, it was mine first" in a morgana context absolutely KILLS me.

“dear reader” oh man you could write the most crushing jon jarchivist study off this song. and by you I mean someone else who isn’t me. but i can pretend i have the competency to make this work

[curiouschaosstarlight]

I'm afraid tumblr will eat my tags again, so I'll just type it out here (anyone who doesn't want my added commentary is free to reblog from the previous reblogs);

I have a friend who is male, who has reported having MULTIPLE women grab his ass without consent in his life.

I myself (a cisgirl) have had a lot of women, particularly one of my relatives, feel WAY TOO COMFORTABLE talking about my breasts, my private parts, and my sex life. I've never been sexually harassed by men beyond "heehee my friend wants to date you!! hahahahaha", but I've had women get into my space and say sexually explicit things at me, for the purpose of humiliating me.

And that's when me and my friend are both white. I can't fathom how much worse it gets when racism is factored in.

Some men behave inappropriately and need to keep their hands to themselves, but some women ALSO behave grossly inappropriately and need to keep their hands to themselves. Being a fucking creep is not a inherent-to-gender problem. It's an inherent-to-being-an-entitled-asshole problem, and ANYONE can be a fucking entitled asshole.

Which I've found runs especially hard for the "men are inherently a threat" crowd, to be honest...

personally, as a transfeminist, i wouldn't particularly feel inclined to die on the hill of "all perception of men as a threat is value-neutral, and comes from the privilege men experience within the patriarchy." i just simply don't think "it is men's jobs to ensure they do not make women feel uncomfortable or distressed with their presence" is the world's most unassailable feminist hill, especially as someone with black men in my family whose experiences with racism color my day to day life. but that's just my opinion and all.

[medicinemane]

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[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[awesomestarfighter]

#it's an incredible disservice to the characters because the Fandom Popular Pairings typically are not canon! at all! #so of course there's more to the characters than this hypothetical relationship

It’s not that I don’t LIKE the Fandom Popular Pairings, it’s that I find the assumption that everyone ships them and the general all-consuming nature of said pairings to be kinda exhausting,

[gay-dorito-dust]

How’d they react to you calling them bro or dude whilst in a pre-established relationship…(platonic/romantic)

Dick: he’s insulted.

Gutted.

He will try to give you the silent treatment for such a shameful thing but ultimately fails as he ends up being the one pawing at you for attention.

‘Do you still like me? Or did you just run out of cute nicknames to call me?’ He’d say one night as your both cuddling in bed together. ‘If it’s the later then I can help you find something, just please spare me and don’t call me dude or bro anymore.’

He’d rather you call him Richard-wait, no he hates that even more because to him you’re not meant to use his fully name, only cutesy nicknames that’d make a grown man sick to his stomach. Nothing else would suffice other than Dickie bird, handsome, babe, hunk, honeybun or anything that wasn’t his name.

He’s go mad or would act delusional and say that everything was fine when everyone could tell that it wasn’t. People who know him have personally came to you and begged you to stop calling him dude/bro because he kept talking their ears off about how his beloved partner is torturing him, which ends up torturing them even more upon hearing about his relationship issues.

Dick would even consult Hayley on what he did wrong, only for Hayley to look at him with those big, big eyes of hers. This was not her level of expertise unfortunately. (Head empty, no thoughts. She can’t do her abc’s guys it’s a real tragedy.)

Jason: ‘I just had my tongue down your throat just now and you had to go and ruin the mood by calling me bro. What the fuck.’ - Jason at some point.

It’s a whole mood killer for him to be honest.

He’s calling you things like chipmunk or sweetheart but here you were calling him dude and bro. He knows for a fact that he’s well and truly out of the friend zone because the shit you’ve done together isn’t platonic in any sort of way.

Thinks Roy had set you up to call him dude or bro behind his back. (He hasn’t)

Jason is petty and will get his own back by referring you as ‘just a really good friend’, ‘buddy o’ mine’ or even worse than both of those; ‘chum.’ 💀

When you go low, Jason was more then willing to go to the depths of fucking hell to the point it had become a game to see who’d call out just how stupid this all was, and at the both of you for ever thinking that this was an excellent idea in the first place.

You’ll probs get punished…I’m just going to leave it there and let your minds guess what that ‘punishment’ was exactly.

Damian:

As much as Damian hates it when you call him Dami, he hates it when you call him dude or bro even more, if that’s even possible.

Damian hates it when you call him dude or bro. He’s not your dude or bro, he’s your partner and he expects no less then darling, my heart or my beloved.

So you calling him dude or bro is more than enough reason for him to give you the silent treatment.

‘Until you learn that I am your partner, I won’t want to be anywhere near you if you’re going to keep calling me your bro or dude. It is a disservice to who I actually am to you.’ He says with a huff and beckons Titus to follow, only for the Great Dane to be left confused as to why his human parents were at a disagreement over something silly.

Also Titus, Ace, Jerry, Alfred the cat, Goliath and BatCow are children of divorce because I said so.

So it’s bests that you apologise while you still can because Damian can hold a grudge unlike any other. Even if you didn’t, you’d still crack first before Damian and quickly put an end to calling him dude/bro.

He just thinks being called a dude/bro when in a pre-established relationship is an insult.

He can take a joke but not when it’s aimed at his relationship. He’s well and truly devoted to his relationship -if we’re to completely ignore the whole being Robin thing- that it might as well be an insult towards him too at this point.

[criminalamnesia]

Traitor part 8

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

here it is everyone :)) took me forever but it’s finally here! now I can disappear in peace lol. I’ll proofread everything later, but I hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations. thank you all for the love you’ve given this series. I hope this gives you some closure.

let me know if you want any drabbles from the series <3

thank you again!

after kyle finally leaves you alone, you slink back against the door, shutting your eyes so tightly stars dot your vision.

it never ends, does it?

apologies. worry. sympathy. pity.

it was in each of their eyes— the one-four-one. each of them trying to mask their pity for you behind sickening sympathy. you were exhausted of that look— not just from them, but from everyone you had walked past or looked at since everything had happened.

you open your eyes, scanning the room. what once had been a haven had become a hell. shattered glass sprinkled the floor near the mirror. clothes were still strewn about. you hadn’t bothered picking up what had been disturbed.

you’d be gone too soon for it to matter.

your phone rings then, the screen lighting up in the dimly lit room. you let the ring tone play for a second longer before you’re moving, reaching for the device on your nightstand.

it’s kate, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“hello?” you say as you answer the call.

“it’s kate,” comes the woman’s familiar voice through the speaker. “im on my way to base. should be there by tomorrow.”

you startle, eyebrows raising in confusion. “you’re coming here? why?”

you hear her sigh. “we can talk about it tomorrow. I need to meet with john, anyways. two birds, one stone and all that.” she tells you.

“can you at least tell me if the paper work is all set for my transfer?” you ask.

she doesn’t answer for a moment, and then:

“we’ll talk about it tomorrow, sergeant. get some rest. you sound like you need it.”

you hear a click, and then the line goes dead. you furrow your brows as you look down at the phone in your hand.

why on earth would she come all the way here just to talk?

your mind is moving a mile a minute, and suddenly, it clicks.

laswell is coming here to do damage control.

you huff a mirthless laugh, dropping your phone as your hands come up to run through your hair.

you weren’t being reassigned. you were being discharged.

but was it at her insistence, or someone else’s?

you whip around, wrenching open the door and storming down the hall to price’s office. those you pass in the hallway give you bewildered stares, and suddenly you’re aware that you’re still in that damned robe, but you’re on a mission.

and when you start something, you see it through.

you don’t bother knocking as you reach price’s door. instead, you barge into the office, effectively interrupting an argument between price and simon. their voices die off, heads turning to appraise who had barged in.

price’s eyes widen at the sight of you, but simon’s face is as unreadable as always. the door clicks shut behind you, and you stalk towards the two men, your fists clenched as you seethe.

“you motherfuckers,” you hurl the words at them, “you fucking knew. you knew.”

“love, what are you talkin’ about?” price questions, his brows furrowed as he turns to you.

“laswell,” you say, and price’s eyes widen. he knows. and now he knows you know.

“whatever she told you—”

“she didn’t tell me shit,” you huff. “I figured it out. why the fuck else would she come here just to talk? she’s playing fucking babysitter, isn’t she?”

price doesn’t speak. your gaze flits to simon’s.

“I’m sure you were rooting for this outcome, weren’t you? couldn’t finish me off in that fucking room, but hey, this is just as good, isn’t it? sending me back to fucking nothing.”

“this job is my life,” you turn your attention back to the captain. “and you fuckers just can’t stop ruining it, can you?” your voice is raising, and tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’re becoming hysteric.

“all because of a fucking lie!” you’re yelling now, jabbing a finger into the chest of your former captain.

“calm down,” the sound of simon’s rough baritone leads your head to snap toward him. your eyes are wide, fury and terror blazing in them.

and he expects you to let loose. scream and hit and scream some more. but you don’t.

you stand there and you stare at him with those wide eyes. the rest of the room— hell, the world falls away— and it’s just him and you.

like it was on patrol during countless nights, your bare fingers dancing over his gloved hands as you prattled on about a show you liked.

on countless nights curled up in his bed, your back to him, pressed so close he could feel the beat of your heart in his own chest. his arms wrapped around you, one of your fingers lazily tracing the ink on his forearm. no words spoken, yet so much said.

in the field, when you and johnny bicker over comms and he takes your side. when you take a bullet to the shoulder and he holds pressure on it until evac arrives.

when he makes eye contact with you as you pin kyle to the training mat, finally able to overcome his strength. when price tells him you’re the rat and he doesn’t want to believe it.

it’s just him and you. a lieutenant and his sergeant. but it’s more than that.

it’s a deep understanding of this job being your life. of losing everything and everyone you hold dear. of finding family again in this team, and doing whatever it takes to keep that family safe.

and he fully realizes, then, what you have been condemned to.

what they condemned you to.

what he condemned you to.

he breaks from his thoughts as you slam your fist into his jaw.

price’s eyes widen, his feet carrying him forward to intervene, but simon waves him off as he cradles a hand to his jaw.

“let ‘em,” he grunts out, and price looks bewildered, but he nods. he takes a step back, his hands falling to his sides, and he lets you strike again.

“fuck you,” you seethe, and despite your best efforts, your voice cracks. emotion seeps in, and your eyes are wet as you swipe a leg out from under him, forcing him to his knees.

he falls with no grace, knees hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. you’d cringe if this were any other circumstance.

instead, you deliver another blow, cracking his nose with the force of it. blood sprays out and wets your robe.

“ghost—” price begins from somewhere off to the side, but simon just shakes his head.

“fuck you, simon! fuck you!” you scream at him, and your fists are flying blindly as tears cloud your eyes.

and he just takes the hits. you subconsciously register the sound of the office door squeaking as it opens and quickly closes. price didn’t want to be a bystander any longer, it seems.

but he still didn’t jump in. was it because of ghost’s insistence? or because your captain didn’t want to watch one of his soldiers finally snap?

you finally stop yourself when blood drips from your knuckles. unsurprisingly, they’ve split again. there’s no doubt in your mind that there will be little scars between each of them once they’ve healed.

more to add to the reminder of everything. god, at this point you knew you’d never forget it even if you wanted to. even if you tried to. even if you did for a brief moment, those little white lines— discolored and jagged skin in the place of what should be smooth and unmarred, would be your reminder.

blood pools on the floor, a mix of yours and simon’s. you pay it no mind as you wipe the backs of your hands on your completely ruined robe. good— now you had a great excuse to throw the damned thing away.

you would’ve thrown it away anyways.

you bring your hands to your eyes, wiping away tears that had freed themselves their cage. you see simon clearly then, his face bloodied and yet still beautiful in that way of his. his nose is obviously broken. lacerations above his eye and on his cheekbones.

his eyes are staring back you, the icy blue of them never more intense than now.

you heave in your breaths as you look at him. his split lip cracks further as he opens his mouth.

“done?”

and you don’t have anything left to give, so you nod. then you slump to your knees, down onto his level, and you don’t look away from what you’ve done.

it’s no different than what you did to the doctor, or to countless enemies in the field. but, at the same time, it is different.

because it’s him, and he let you do this. he could have easily stopped you. he’d shown his strength against you numerous times on the sparring mat, picking you up and tossing you around with ease.

and yet he didn’t stop you.

“why?” you ask him, and it’s a loaded question. your voice is a watery tremble, and the word comes out as a whisper, but he doesn’t shy away.

he shrugs. “you needed it.”

he’s focusing on one aspect of the question— on why he let you hit him. you open your mouth to respond, but he surprises you by speaking again.

“least I could do,” he says.

you close your mouth, your chapped lips pressed into a thin line. why is he doing this now? saying this now? what changed?

“is it your fault, then? that I’m being discharged?” you find yourself asking, and you’re not sure if you want to know the answer.

maybe you just want a reason to hate him more.

“no,” he says, and you know he means it.

he never lied to you, regardless of any pain it may have saved. it was one of the things you had loved about him.

he sighs. “I didn’t want you to go.”

that surprises you. simon was never one to freely speak on his feelings. he had opened up to you during your relationship, but it was as if there was always an invisible line he could never cross. never did he utter the complete truth to his thoughts or feelings. and you had accepted that— because that is who he was.

and you would take him with all his walls if it just meant that you could have him.

“I don’t want you to.” he corrects himself.

the room falls silent around you. the part of you that still holds love for him yearns for his embrace at this moment. but you push that side of you down. you will not go crawling back, not after what happened.

“you’ve been an asshole,” you say, and he gives a curt nod.

“probably.” he concedes. “but I wouldn’ take anythin’ back. I told you, I meant what I said.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask. god, he has a horrible way with words.

“no,” he tells you. “nothin’ I can say can do that.”

you snort. you fall back on you haunches, your hands in your lap as you look at him.

“I am never going to forgive you,” you tell him, words full of so much hurt.

he nods again. “I know. I don’ blame you. don’ expect you to, neither.”

“but I’m…” he starts, and his lips crease in a frown. “im sorry.”

you just look at him. perhaps you had wanted an apology at one moment in time, but now? now none of it mattered.

“I hope so,” you tell him. you move to stand, and he remains still. he hasn’t moved an inch since you’d finished your assault.

“I hope you feel this way for the rest of your lonely life. I hope that you never forget what you did to me, and I hope that it keeps you up at night. because I can tell you with certainty that I will never forget. and I hope the others remember, too. I hope it tears you all apart from the inside. that it follows you around for the rest of your career.”

you breathe in, then out. “and I hope no one ever gives you the chances I did,” your voice is soft. “because I would never wish what you did to me on the next person you think you love.”

his face conveys no emotion other than the small frown still on his lips. his eyes, so cold, have softened the tiniest bit. you used to love when you could bring out that softness inside of him. when it was just the two of you, your hand in his, his eyes on you.

those memories would suffocate you if you let them. what could’ve been will suffocate you. you refuse to let it.

you turn and stalk towards the door, not bothering to spare him another glance. you open it, stepping out into the hallway, coming face-to-face with the rest of the one-four-one.

their eyes are all wide as they take you in. your bloodied hands and robe. the dried tear streaks on your cheeks. you pull the door shut behind you before you speak.

“i don’t care to speak to kate,” you say to price, your eyes meeting his. “fuck her for not giving me a chance. and fuck you for laying down like a damn dog and not fighting for your fucking team.”

you turn to johnny next. “you shove your sorries up your ass, mactavish. I don’t want your sympathy, and I don’t want your pity. I hope your regret eats you alive.”

finally, kyle. “and you,” you glare at him. “if anyone other than simon should’ve defended me, it should’ve been you. I met you first, kyle. you were my closest friend, my brother. and you turned out to be just another fucking lap dog.”

you shake your head, blinking away hot tears. “I want you to get me temporary housing and a car because that’s the least you owe me, after ruining my life. and I don’t want to hear from any of you ever again. if I do, I guarantee you I will not show you the mercy you think you showed me when you had me tied up in that chair.”

none of them spoke, and you didn’t give them a chance to as you pushed past them, heading back toward your room to change.

a yellow cab retrieves you from base the next morning before kate arrives. it’s still dark outside when you leave the shelter that had once been home. rain pours down around you, a raging storm hanging overhead as it had all night prior. perhaps it was a reflection of your mood. you liked to think that it was.

you toss your duffle bag into the trunk, shutting it before climbing into the back seat. you hadn’t bothered to pack anything other than a few pairs of clothes you’d recovered from the floor of your room. everything else could be trashed, especially anything the boys had given you.

the driver doesn’t speak— price had given him all the information he needed— and paid him— before he’d fetched you. it seems your final outburst— and beating simon to a pulp— had finally put some urgency in his movements.

none of them had seen you off, per your request. you thought it was the least they could do for you after continuously disrespecting your boundaries.

(unbeknownst to you, simon had watched you leave through a window.)

the driver turned up the music— some pop song you didn’t know the name of— and you slumped in your seat, your head turned toward the window as you watched the rain race down it.

you found yourself drifting off quickly, and you didn’t try to fight it. you’re finally free of that place and the men you thought were your family. free of the anxiety of seeing them around every corner. free of the hate that sparked in your heart every time you heard their voices.

you sleep, and for the first time since before everything, it’s peaceful.

you wake to the taxi driver talking to you.

“we’re here,” he says, knocking on the glass separating the front and back seats. “can you get out now? I gotta get home. it’s my wife’s birthday.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes, nodding before you even register what he’s saying. “sorry,” you mumble as you fumble with the seat belt.

you slip from the car, your boots splashing in a muddy puddle. you grimace as the murky water seeps in, wetting your socks.

you trudge around to the back of the car, opening the trunk and retrieving your bag. you’ve just shut the trunk and stepped back when the car is driving off, kicking up mud that further dirties your boots and jeans.

you pay it little mind as you look at the small cottage before you.

nestled between some trees, it’s beautiful. a shingled roof. light blue paneled siding. a small front porch with a rocking chair and a bench swing. a beautiful dark blue door.

your favorite flowers live in the flower beds surrounding what you can see of the house. it makes you wonder if its a simple coincidence or if simon or price planned it.

how long have they known that you would have to come here? that you would have no where else to go except for where they put you?

you vowed that this house would just be temporary. you would get away from it as soon as possible, putting the rest of the one-four-one behind you. you didn’t want any of them knowing where to find you.

the rain slows to a sad drizzle. drops prick your skin as you make no effort to avoid puddles, splashing carelessly to the front door. you can hear birds beginning to chirp, slipping out of their hiding places as the sun’s rays begin to illuminate the earth once more.

a new beginning, you think.

you reach a hand toward the door knob, twisting it open and pushing inside. it’s a cozy little place with wood floors and a brick fireplace. it’s furnished, but there’s no personality to it. it clearly hasn’t been somebody’s home.

the door clicks shut behind you as you toe off your boots and drop your duffle by the door. as you nudge your boots out of the way with a foot, you notice an envelope on the floor.

eyebrows scrunched in confusion, you lean down and scoop it up. your name is written on the front in a scrawl you don’t recognize.

who else knows you’re here?

perhaps you’ll need to leave sooner than you thought.

you push your thumb under the seam, ripping it open with little finesse. inside is a typed letter. it’s an offer, you realize. a job offer.

its got an american stamp on it, and its signed by a phillip graves.

a new beginning indeed.