#tmttf

[separatist-apologist]

honestly the newest chapter of tmttf almost made me cry. fuck papa archeron, all my homies hate papa archeron. put me in a room with a baseball bat and everyone who has ever wronged lucien and i'll ask for a new bat twenty minutes in because these skulls are hard asf and i won't be able to crack those piñatas with my bare hands.

also the elain and arina murder mission? wonderful. amazing. show-stopping (in beron's case also heart-stopping i guess). my best girls, they deserve the world and their inlaws to get their shit together.

and everyone except lucien kind of knowing, helion knowing but still being unable to do anything? heartbreaking. the depth you give your characters has actually literally kept me up at night. i would like to thank anyone who has ever encouraged you to write ever anything that ever inspired you, i will lay my heart at your feet and go to battle for you.

if you celebrated i hope you and the kids had a wonderful christmas, lots of love and optional kissws mwah mwah

STOP IT this was so nice that I've been hoarding it in my askbox to read it over and over. It has been a weird week, and your words mean so much to me.

[spectraspecs-writes]

Original writing and LOVE SPAM

That’s right, chapter TWO!!! Chapter 1 here.

Tag list - @skelelexiunderlord , @procrastinatorpresents , @auruncushd , and @the-peculiar-bi-tch It’s a labor of love, brittz, because I LOVE YOU!!

Chapter 2: Poncho

Monday, January 16, 2012, 11:38:12 AM, New York City, New York:

The man with no name stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind himself. The apartment was dimly lit, but warm, and felt nice compared to the cold outside. The butterfly flew off of his shoulder and onto an empty shelf on the wall. It was clear that no one lived here, or at least not for very long. A layer of dust covered everything in the room. He coughed a little, trying not to breathe too much of it in. There was a scattering of newspapers, New York Times issues, on a cabinet near the door. He looked down and read the dates. The first was from June 5, 1963. The second was only a few months later, September 8. The third was a gap of five years, August 3, 1968. The next was January 5, 2012. And on top, the only newspaper that wasn’t the Times – it was the San Francisco Chronicle – was dated May 6, 1987. 

Then the room spoke, with the same voice that the door had used. “One message waiting.”

“Play it,” he said, and then he coughed again. In the middle of the room, the television flickered on. He sat down on the folding chair in front of it. There was a man on the screen. He was looking at himself, something he only knew because when the man on the screen started to speak, he spoke with the same voice as the man watching him. But there was something different – the tone in the message was not the same as the voice that played in his head. The voice in his head was calm, maybe a little suspicious or paranoid, but generally calm. The voice in the recording was anxious and almost terrified.

“Hey,” he said, his face reflecting the terror and urgency in his voice, “I don’t have a whole lot of time to explain. But I’m you, I’m the only who put the note in your pocket, I’m the one who put the wood plank in the alley. That was all me, all you.”

He flicked some switches on the console in front of him and a little of the urgency left his voice as the background lighting changed from red to periwinkle. “There, that’s a bit better.” And then the lighting changed back and the panic returned. “Wait, no, no, no! Ah, damn it! I’m running out of time. Ha, that’s ironic, you’ll get why in a bit. But never mind that right now. Your memory was wiped, yeah? If everything went according to plan. But you don’t know why, because guess what? Your memory was wiped. Quite a tidy little package. So you don’t know who wiped it, you have no idea where you are, where you were, you don’t even know your name.

“Well, I can at least answer one of those questions. My name is Allen Carpenter, which means yours is, too.” He chuckled, almost sadly, and said, “Annie always used to call me a tongue-tied square. I think I’m going to miss that.” He sighed, even more sadly. “I hope to whatever God there may be that she is safe, or at the very least, alive. But right now, you have one concern. You need to find Joshua Kingpin, all right? He’s someone you can trust. He’ll help you. But he’s not in New York, don’t even waste your time looking for him there. Joshua Kingpin lives in San Francisco, 1987. That’s why that newspaper’s there. But don’t go in May like the newspaper says, they’ll be looking for you there, that’s exactly where they expect you to go.”

The lights in the message changed color again, and Allen Carpenter again became even more panicked. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn! They found me. Find Joshua Kingpin, 1987. He’ll give you Poncho. Poncho will know what to do from there. I’m out of time. Good luck, Allen.” And the message fizzled out.

“Wait, wait, I have questions!” the man, apparently Allen Carpenter, shouted at the television, “How do I get to 1987? Where in San Francisco is Joshua Kingpin? Who’s Poncho?” But the questions went unanswered. He leaned back into the folding chair. A bit too far, because it fell over, and he hit his head on the floor. This day just keeps getting better, he thought sarcastically. He rolled over and sat on the floor, rubbing the back of his head. He closed his eyes lightly, starting to get a little frustrated.

Then he heard a quiet mewling. He opened his eyes and looked all over the room. “What’s… it’s too dark in here, where are the lights?”

The room spoke again. “Lights on,” and the lights turned on.

Now that he could see, he could see that there wasn’t much to see. The room he was in was the entire apartment, which had next to nothing in it. Just the television, the folding chair, the lone shelf with the butterfly on it, and the cabinet with newspapers on it. And three doors – the one he came in, and two others. So whatever it was that was mewling had to be behind one of the other two, because it certainly wasn’t outside, he knew that for sure. He stood up and checked the first door, the one to the left of the exterior door. He opened it and peeked outside. Nothing much there – a lit hallway, with one door on either side, and a staircase at the end of the hallway. Nobody out there. So he closed the door. Time to check the other one. He put his hand on the knob and tried to turn it, but it was locked. 

Okay, maybe the talking room knows. Allen raised his eyebrow curiously. “Talking room,” he said aloud, feeling a little ridiculous, “what’s on the other side of this door?”

“The Chrono-traverser and two life signs, identified as Harris and Cyprus,” the room responded.

The idea that he was not alone was a little… it made his uneasy. After all, there were still people after him, weren’t there? Had they gotten here before him? “Who are Harris and Cyprus?” Allen asked.

“Species information is code-locked. Please state code.”

“Well, I don’t know the code,” he said, frustration growing still, “Can you at least tell me, generally, are they people or what?”

“The physical structure of the life forms Harris and Cyprus is feline.”

Okay, good, they weren’t whoever it was that was after him. He breathed a sigh of relief. But then… the room had mentioned something else. The… “What about… what was it… the ‘Chrono-traverser?’”

“Data concerning the Chrono-traverser is code-locked. Please state code.”

“And again with the code,” he sighed in irritation, “What are you, anyway?”

“I am the computer system, the Vocally Activated Mechanized Industrial-Grade Computer Apparatus. I was dubbed as V.A.M.I.C.A., or ‘Vamica’, by Mr. Allen Delaney Carpenter. Date of manufacture, March 16, 3056. Date of installation, April 17, 2004,” the voice said.

“So… what?” he said, not entirely understanding, “Are you built into the room?”

“My range of interface extends from the Chrono-traverser into the immediate area surrounding it.”

And again with the Chrono-traverser. This thing had to be important, whatever it was. “Can you unlock the door to the room with the Chrono-traverser in it?”

“The Chrono-traverser locks are not accessible through the computer interface. The Chrono-traverser can be entered with the correct key.”

Key. He had all these pockets, in his coat, in his pants, there had to be a key in one of them. He stuck his hand in each pocket – first his front pants pockets, then the back. Then the inside pockets of his coat. In the lower right hand inner pocket, there was… something. Cold and metal, with a jagged edge. Well, that sure felt like a key to him. He pulled it out and held it up. “Is this it?”

Vamica scanned the key with a bluish-green light. “That is the correct key.” Great! Allen walked over to the door and put the key in the lock, turning it right, then left, then right again without even thinking. It just happened, like instinct or habit. He just knew. What a weird way to unlock a door, he thought to himself, realizing that was what he’d done, why did I do that? How did I know that? He opened the door, and then stopped dead in his tracks. There was a tiger. A tiger! Coming towards him.

Allen’s muscles tensed and he stood completely still, practically nailed to the floor, hands frozen at his sides. But the tiger didn’t attack him. Didn’t bite, didn’t claw, didn’t growl, snarl, roar. Didn’t bare its terrible teeth or even sniff him. Instead, it nuzzled its head under Allen’s left hand and made an effort to pet itself. Allen loosened up a little, hearing the purring sound coming from the tiger, feeling its fur under his hand. He started to rub the big cat’s ears gently, trying not to do anything to upset the creature. The tiger purred a little more intensely. Allen smiled a little. He hadn’t just… he hadn’t just tamed this tiger, had he? No, he couldn’t have, not right now. Maybe before, before his memory was wiped, he had made this tiger his own, domesticated it just like a house cat. Well, a house cat that could claw someone’s eyes out. He bent down to the tiger’s eye level, rubbing its face and head more. Then he saw the tag at its neck. “Cyprus.”

“Oh, so you’re Cyprus,” Allen said, realizing now, “Are you my pet, big guy?” The tiger simply continued to purr and closed its eyes contentedly. With one final rub, Allen stood up. He saw the butterfly fly into the room and settle down in a hole in the wall.

Was this really a room, though, or was the whole thing the Chrono-traverser? Or was the whole apartment? He looked over the entire room. The floor, the first thing to catch his eye, held every color imaginable, constantly in motion, each color ever merging with the others, creating something completely new. Then the wall, which was an almost reflective blue green, with little silver diamond shapes scattered over its surface. There was an archway, the next thing to catch his eye, on the wall, he couldn’t see into it. And finally, what he could only assume was the power source for this whole thing. It looked like fire contained in a column of glass, with the floor beneath it akin to a sunset orange sky-scape. And what he guessed was the control console for the whole thing. There were so many switches and buttons and levers and things he couldn’t even figure out what they were, much less what they did. This was his? Did he know how to work all of this, how to manipulate this console to do… whatever it was the Chrono-traverser did? What did it do, anyway? Perhaps it was in the name. First, “chrono-”, which meant “time.” Okay. Then “traverse”, which meant “to travel.”

What the hell, he was in a time machine! At this point, he was really hoping that bump on his head when he hit the floor wasn’t making him hallucinate. Just to make sure, though, he pinched the skin inside his elbow. Ow. Yeah, he wasn’t hallucinating. 

He walked closer to the archway, and a small black and white cat trotted out from the dark room. It stopped at Allen’s feet and meowed, then it rubbed against his leg, purring a little. Allen bent down and pet the cat back, looking also at the tag at its neck: “Harris.” “Hello, Harris,” he said softly, as the cat continued to rub itself against his leg and hand. Allen stood back up and went into the archway.

“Lights,” he said aloud to the room, assuming that the lights would come on as they did before, and they did. Inside the room under the archway, there were three beds, one human, two pet. Well, one human, one cat, one tiger. The tiger bed was probably just a dog bed for a really big dog. Because you can’t exactly go to the pet store to get supplies for a tiger. 

This was his room. This was his space. To any normal person, their room invokes a sense of calm and relaxation. That’s their space, of course, it’s where they can be themselves. But he didn’t know who “himself” was. Every little clue in this room was vital to his own identity. Who was he? He didn’t know the answer, but it was clear that this room did. 

The walls of the room curved, it was almost like standing in a cylinder, or a sphere with the top and bottom chopped off to make a flat floor and ceiling. The floor was orange. Didn’t match the rest of the room at all. The human bed came out of the wall on his left, with a two-tiered table on the left side of that. On the upper shelf of the table there was a computer console, with sort of a keyboard at the base that helped it to stay upright. Idle as the computer was, the display simply mirrored the floor outside the archway, colors swirling around each other. There was a book on the lower level – “The Star Rover” by Jack London. But there wasn’t a bookmark in it. It was almost like it had been placed there but not read. Not read recently, anyway, because the spine was cracked and the pages had clearly been thumbed many times before. Just not very recently. 

On the far back wall there was a book shelf, with three shelves. The bottom shelf was the tallest and the sturdiest – it held textbooks, history, science, and some others he couldn’t work out. The second shelf had some thumbed science fiction books, like “The War of the Worlds,” “A Princess of Mars”, “A Journey to the Interior of the Earth,” “1984”, plus dozens of others, by dozens of other authors. The top shelf, however, seemed to be the most favored. The spines had been cracked in several places, and the covers were so worn that they felt the same as the pages they bound. Looking at them, all the books on this shelf had one thing in common: they were all written by Jack London. “The Call of the Wild,” “White Fang”, “The Sea-Wolf”, “The Iron Heel,” “Martin Eden,” a hole, probably where “The Star Rover” had been, plus at least 20 other books. Fiction, non-fiction, poetry, plays. The shelf was crammed with Jack London. 

The wall on the right had a television screen on it, with several controls on either side. It could probably be controlled remotely with the console on the table next to the bed. Also on the right was a closet. But not exactly a closet, because it looked like a wall had just been knocked out and there was a room on the other side of that wall. The room that was now a closet was significantly smaller than the room under the archway. On the right hand side of the closet there was clothes. His own on the left side, with a big tote under that, and shoes on the floor. And a pair of fuzzy novelty slippers – yellow ducks. What kind of man was he, that he owned fuzzy duck slippers? More importantly, did they quack with every footfall?

On the right side of the closet with clothes was women’s clothing. Or, at the very least, all of the clothing on the right was too small to be his own. And a number of red shirts. Red really wasn’t his color, so they definitely weren’t his shirts. There were shirts of other colors, too, but again, they were too small to be his. 

Opposite the wall with clothing space was what looked like refrigeration units, or some sort of food preservation units, of various sizes. One, the largest, held a massive side of beef. Like someone had managed to cook the entire torso of a cow. Since no normal person could conceivably eat that in one sitting, that had to be for the tiger. In another unit there were two loaves of bread. In another, there was a sizable bunch of bananas, perfectly yellow. In another there was nothing at first glance, but when he looked closer, there was a fly in there. Suspended in midair. Not flapping its wings or moving in any way. Just hanging there. Beneath each of the units, the full and the empty, there was a little screen that read, “Temporal stasis engaged.” So all of this perishable food, and the fly, were locked in time, preserving their freshness because they were time locked. Given that he was currently in a time machine, this made sense to him, so as cool as the concept was his reaction to it was disappointingly less than amazed. And then there was just a pantry-like space with cans of cat food and a massive jar of peanut butter and some unlabeled cans. 

This time machine wasn’t just his vehicle, it was home. No wonder the apartment outside wasn’t lived in, he lived here. This was home. This was where he lived. And it was all a part of who he was, who he hadn’t known himself to be. A time traveler who likes books, especially Jack London, owns and cares for a tiger and a cat, likes peanut butter and bananas, and live with a woman. Where was she? Who was she? Was she okay, wherever she was?

Well, now that he knew who he was and had settled that feeling of unease in his mind, it was probably best that he got back to the task at hand, which was working out how to get to 1987 to find Joshua Kingpin, to find Poncho. So he walked out of the archway and closer to the console, the cat Harris sticking to his heels. There was a piece of paper sticking to the engine (what he figured was the engine), and he pulled it off and read it. At the top was a header, like this was a business piece of paper. There was a logo, like two Es back to back, and beside it, the letters “PKI.” And scribbled in pen underneath that, in the same characters that were on the wood plank outside, there was a note: “Something’s not right here…”

Well, that was certainly suspicious. What had he meant by “something’s not right?” And he assumed, rightly so, that he had written the note because he’d written the same characters on the wood plank and the message in his pocket. What hadn’t been right about it? And who were they, anyway? What was PKI? Was it even a “they?” Was it an “it?” He had no clue, not even an inkling of an idea. “Vamica,” he asked the computer, “what does ‘PKI’ mean?”

“‘PKI’ stands for ‘Patton-Kirth Industries’, a New York-based company that began in April of 2000.”

“A company? Okay, what do they do? What do they make?”

“Patton-Kirth Industries computers are unavailable for interface. No information is available.”

“Big help you are,” Allen scoffed sarcastically. 

Maybe he should just focus on one thing at a time right now. He told himself in that message that he needed to get to Joshua Kingpin in 1987, that he had Poncho and that Poncho would know what to do. He had already managed to answer the question of how he would get to 1987 from 2012, given that he was in a time machine. But that still left a bunch of questions unanswered. Who was Joshua Kingpin? How would he know him when he saw him? Who, or maybe what, was Poncho? Certainly a strange name for a person. But given that today he had woken up without his memory, followed a strange scent to a wood plank in an alleyway that told him in an alien language to find an invisible staircase, and at the top of an invisible staircase was a talking computer system, a time machine, and a domesticated tiger, he hadn’t ruled out the possibility that Poncho could be anything. This had been a pretty crazy day so far, and it was far from over. 

So now he had to address the issue of getting to 1987. Yes, the fact that he was in a time machine did simplify matters quite a bit, but there was still the problem of not knowing how to make the time machine get him to 1987 San Francisco. “One more question,” he said to the computer, “does this thing have, like, an autopilot or something? I don’t know how to control it.”

“The Chrono-traverser is able to pilot itself if the coordinates of the intended destination are entered into the control console,” Vamica responded.

Excellent. Allen walked over to the control console and held his hand over one of the levers. Well, the fact that it had an autopilot would have been great if he knew how to enter in the coordinates. So he sighed and set his hands down on empty parts of the console. He looked up at the engine, and saw his reflection there. I guess now is as good a time as any to remind myself what I look like. So he looked at his reflection. His eyes were a pale blue shade. His hair, which ended just below his ears, was dark brown and messy, standing on end a little. He opened his mouth and looked at his teeth: Standard, they looked to be in good health. He wasn’t exactly sure why that of all things concerned him, but whatever. The fact of the matter was that his teeth were healthy and that he wouldn’t have to go looking for a dentist any time soon. And for that he was thankful. He closed his mouth and caught a glimpse of his neck. There was a silver chain hanging from it. Curious, he pulled it up and examined it closely. Attached to it was a set of dog tags. One of which, of course, had his name on it. He would have liked to know that before, but whatever. The other had an engraving on it -- “To the end of eternity, Annie”. There was also a ring, with a bright red stone on it. Who did that belong to? It certainly wasn’t his – red wasn’t his color. And who was Annie? She must have meant something to him, but he had absolutely no idea what. He tucked the chain back into his shirt and sighed. All of this was nuts. This was too much to deal with all at once. And it was starting to give him a headache. 

Then the cat hopped up on the console, seemed to deliberately step on a button, and sat down on the console. It meowed at Allen again. “Hey, there, Harris,” he said to the cat, rubbing its ears. With a little bit of a scoff, he asked the cat rhetorically, “You wouldn’t happen to have any idea how to pilot this thing, would you?”

Even though the question had been rhetorical and the cat certainly couldn’t have understood him, Harris stepped on the same button as before and walked over to a rainbow spiral on the console. Harris looked down at the spiral, then back at Allen, then at the spiral, then back at Allen. So Allen ran his fingers over the spiral. Just to see what would happen. On the engine, a screen appeared that said, “Use the lever to select your destination,” with a date below it. Harris walked again to a lever on Allen’s left, being careful not to step on any of the other controls. He flicked his tail, apparently deliberately, towards the lever, then he leapt off the console and sat down at Allen’s feet, looking up at him with eyes that seemed to say, “Go on, you do it now. If a cat can pilot this thing, you can.”

Allen took the lever in his hand and nudged it to the right. The year was selected. He moved the lever upward until it came to 1987. Then he nudged it to the right again and the month was selected. He’d told himself not to go in May, because they’d be looking for him there. For some reason June didn’t feel right. What about July? That sounded okay. So he moved the lever until it came to July. To the right again. The date was selected. It was already at the sixteenth. Nothing wrong with that. So he left that the way it was. He nudged it to the right again, and the computer voice spoke again. “Please state your desired spatial location.”

“San Francisco, California.”

“Spatial location data incomplete. Please state coordinates.”

Those coordinates weren’t latitude and longitude, were they? It couldn’t possibly be that simple. Even if it were, that wouldn’t be simple because he didn’t know the latitude and longitude of San Francisco as a whole, much less a specific location there. “Well, where did I go the last time?” he asked rhetorically, knowing that those coordinates would probably still be in computer memory, “Use those coordinates.”

“Affirmative. At what time would you like to arrive on July 16, 1987?”

He couldn’t very well think his way out of that one. Well, he figured, if I don’t find him right away at whatever time I pick I guess I’ll just have to stick around until I do. “I don’t know, how about… oh, 8 PM?” Allen said uncertainly. 

“Confirm, July 16, 1987, 8:00:00 PM Pacific Standard Time, San Francisco, California.”

That all sounded right. “That’s it.”

“Commencing travel.” The fire in the engine began to cycle faster and faster, and the colors on the floor, too, all coming together to form a circle of energy, going around and around faster and faster and faster. It felt like an earthquake under his feet. And that earthquake, too, started to rumble more and more, faster and faster, as the colors swirled around and around and the engine fire blazed faster and faster. And by this point Allen had had enough. I can’t take too much more of this today!! He watched Harris and Cyprus both step onto the orange floor around the console, and Allen followed their lead. After all, they remembered more than he did and probably knew what to do when time traveling. Once he stepped onto the orange floor, the feeling of the earthquake was gone.

“Stabilizers?” Allen asked rhetorically, “The floor has stabilizers in it?” Harris and Cyprus both looked at him with an expression that said, “Of course, person.”

After about 40 seconds, the room began to return to its previous state of stillness and Allen stepped off of the orange floor. He did a quick check to make sure that everything was okay, to make sure that nothing had fallen or anything. Harris and Cyprus were fine. Nothing in his room had fallen down, the food preservation units still said that the time seal was intact, the books were still neat on the shelf. Then the butterfly he’d found on the street. It was still sitting in the little hole in the wall that it had flown into when he came in. The hole wasn’t orange, so there probably weren’t any stabilizers in it. If butterflies felt like people did, then it was probably pretty shaken up. “Hey,” Allen said gently to the butterfly, “are you okay?” The butterfly just flapped its wings slowly, the antenna on its head wiggling about anxiously. “You need a name, don’t you? If you’re going to hang around here.” A butterfly wouldn’t be his weirdest pet, after all, as further evidenced by Cyprus nudging at his leg with a roll of tape in his mouth. “You read my mind, Cyprus, thank you,” Allen said to the tiger, taking the tape and pulling off a piece. He put it on the wall under the hole. Cyprus exhaled loudly through his nose, almost like he was exasperated, although by what was anyone’s guess. “What’s a good name for a butterfly?” he said quietly to himself, “What about Howard?” Sounded about right. He reached into his pocket and found a marker, and wrote “HOWARD” on the tape. How would he even go about taking care of a butterfly? 

That was probably best left as a problem for another time.

The problem for now, now that he was in 1987 San Francisco, was to find Joshua Kingpin and Poncho. And how would he go about doing that? Searching through a phone book, hoping to find a number or an address? Ask people if they knew him? Just stand in one place until chance brought them together? There really was no way for him to do this and still appear to be sane. Everything just brought up a whole new set of problems. He couldn’t even ask the local police for help, because besides the fact that Joshua Kingpin probably wasn’t a missing person, he’d have to explain to the police why he was looking for him and the whole story about owning a time machine probably wouldn’t go over well. 

Was there any possible way that he could find Joshua Kingpin and Poncho without interacting with anyone else? Because there would be way too many questions that he wouldn’t be able to answer. He had no idea when time machines were invented, but it probably wasn’t in 1987 San Francisco, so he’d have to talk about the concept as though it were a real thing, because it clearly was to him, but it wasn’t real to anyone else. So there’d be a lot of miscommunication about his situation. And of course people would ask him questions about himself, which would be even harder to answer because he didn’t know any of the answers. Just his name, probably not the answers to any other questions he could conceivably be asked. 

Perhaps he should just throw himself into the situation and see what happened. Act like he knew what was going on and maybe people would think he actually did know what was going on. Until he came up with a better idea, that one would have to be the one he went with. “Turn all the lights off,” he said to the computer, and all the lights went out. The room was only illuminated with the now-dimmer lights in the floor and the fire in the engine. So he stepped out of the Chrono-traverser and locked the door behind him for good measure. 

“Hey!” he heard someone shout some ways away from him. He looked down the alley – because he had apparently landed in an alley – to see who it was. Nobody that felt familiar. But the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he felt his toes start to feel warm. What the hell did that mean? Just his toes, not the rest of his foot. “I think you took a wrong turn somewhere, gringo.”

He hadn’t turned anywhere, he materialized in this alley. He was about to say as much, but then he stopped. Saying that he materialized would open up way too many problems for him. So then he decided to ask these guys, because there were three of them, if they could help him. But then he stopped before he said that, too. Because he was supposed to act like he knew what he was doing, and maybe they’d believe them. So he finally decided on saying, “I did no such thing.” 

Then his toes felt warm again. Warmer than before. And it was more than a little distracting.

One of the men muttered something to the guy in the middle, the one who had spoken before. Allen couldn’t tell what he said, but he did hear the name “Carlos.” And then the one who was most likely Carlos said something back, but Allen couldn’t understand what he said, either. Then he spoke to Allen again. “I think you’re lost, man,” he said. Almost sounding like a warning. 

Act like you know what’s going on, act like you know… “I’m right where I want to be.” And in a way, he was – he was in San Francisco, 1987, like he wanted to be – even if he didn’t know where exactly he was. 

Carlos stood toe to to with Allen. In sheer height, Allen was about half a head taller than Carlos, but he stood a little slouched, while Carlos stood tall and straight. Suddenly Carlos pulled a knife out of his pocket and held the point under Allen’s chin. “You sure about that, cabrón?”

Okay, not safe, not safe! “On second thought,” Allen said hastily, “I think you’re right. I’ll get out of your way then.” Allen turned around and ran in the other direction, out of the alley.

“Get the car!” Carlos shouted. Not good, not good, not good!

Josh Kingpin sat at the bar, scribbling in a small notebook, a glass of Coke fizzing next to him. He turned on his stool to face the room, taking a drink from the glass as he turned, then after a few moments he turned back to his notebook and scribbled some more. His scribblings were very nearly illegible, but enough that he could read them, and that truly was the point. 

He glanced at his watch — 8:18. He was starting to feel like the guy was never going to come back. Josh had been coming to Roni’s place every night for the past two months, since that guy in the fedora, Allen, told him he’d be back. He would come in at around six, more or less, and stay until 8:30. If Allen came by before he got there or after he left, then Roni would let Josh know. But it had been two months, and he hadn’t been back yet.

He took another drink from the glass and emptied it. A few moments later, Roni walked by and picked up the glass, putting it in the dish bin. “You want another one, Josh?” she asked him, brushing her short brown hair before her ear.

“No, thanks, Roni, I was gonna head out in a bit,” Josh told her with a sigh. He set his pencil down and scratched the back of his neck. “I really thought I’d be back today, I was so sure. I’m starting to feel like he’s never coming back.”

“Come on, Josh, it’s July sixteenth — it hasn’t even been two whole months,” she told him, “If he said he’d be back, he will be.”

“How can you be so certain about that?” Josh asked her, “How can you know for sure he didn’t just dump Poncho on me with no intention of ever coming back?”

“I know things,” she said with a smirk, “When he came in, I could read him like a book. He’s the kind of guy who, if he says he’s gonna do something, he’ll do it.”

Josh released another sigh and picked his pencil back up, scribbling something on the page. “Hey,” Roni said to him, and looked back up at her. “You look terrible. Are you okay?”

“Just a long day, is all,” he said, shaking his head, “Ready for Friday.”

“Look, you know I’ll tell you if he shows up. Go home. Should have told you that when you came in,” she said, “Pay your tab and go.”

Josh smiled at her. “I honestly don’t know where I’d be if you didn’t look out for me.”

“Probably dead in a gutter somewhere in San Diego,” she said with a shrug.

“I’ll head out in a little bit, there’s still a little I want to write down,” he said, reaching until his pocket and pulling out a crumpled five-dollar bill. 

“Yeah, well, write it and go. You’re no good to Scott or anyone else if you’re exhausted,” she said, talking the bill and walking away.

Josh set his pencil down again and looked at his watch — 8:20. Certainly nothing of note could happen in the next ten minutes. He closed his notebook and put it in the pocket of his jacket.

From outside the bar he heard squealing tires and several goading shouts in Spanish. Evidently, someone had made a wrong turn into MS-13 territory, and they had decided to chase him out. That had been happening more and more in the past several months. Probably the last time the police had arrested a bunch on MS-13 gang members there was a shift in leadership and the new guy had a different way of doing things. Then someone ran into Roni’s bar and slammed the door closed behind himself. The MS-13 guys wouldn’t follow him in, that would have been too much work just to get him out of their territory. “Yeah, and don’t come back, culero!” Josh heard one of the MS-13 guys shout after the guy who ran in. The man sheltered himself on the floor, covering his head with his arms, until he heard the MS-13 car squeal away. Then he sighed and sat up.

Josh stood and started walking towards the door, passing by the guy on the floor. “Hey,” he asked him as he passed, “you good?” 

“Yeah, just…” he panted, trying to catch his breath,” … give me a minute. Let me…” He started to gently massage his feet. “These shoes are really not good for running.”

Josh looked at them. Yeah, they were really torn up. Like, maybe they’d been okay to run in at one time, but at least now the soles were shot. When looking at the shoes, Josh felt like he recognized them somehow. Then he saw the socks under them — one red, one green. And the whole situation felt even more familiar. 

“I really did not expect to be running this much today!” the man said. And now Josh knew how he recognized him. He knew that voice.

 “Hey, are you Allen Carpenter?” Josh asked him, just to make sure he was right. 

“So I’ve been told,” the man on the floor said, “How did you know?” 

Josh smiled and sighed with relief. “Hey, Roni!” he called back to her, “He came back! He just showed up!”

Roni poked her head out from back behind the bar. “About damn time! I told you he would. Now go home before I make you go home.”

Josh extended his hand to Allen to help him stand up. “Josh Kingpin,” he said to him, “You stopped by two months ago, left Poncho with me and told me you’d be back.”

Allen took his hand and stood up, then the full value of what he’d just heard sunk in. “Poncho? You’re Joshua Kingpin? You have Poncho?”

“Just Josh, please, and yeah, he’s back at my apartment, do you want to go see him?” Josh said.

“Yes, yeah, please!” Allen said excitedly. He honestly hadn’t expected that horrible experience with a Mexican gang would end with him finding the guy he’d come here looking for in the first place.

“Alright, my car is just outside, come on,” Josh said to him, “See you later, Roni!”

“See you, Josh, Allen!” she called back, not looking at them.

Well, that was weird. How did she know his name? Yeah, sure, it had already been established how he knew Josh’s name - it was clear that they knew each other from the way she spoke to him and him to her. But how did she know Allen’s name? “Who is she?” Allen asked Josh once they were outside.

“Roni. She owns that place. She’s my friend. I keep her books, pretend to be her boyfriend when she needs me to,” Josh told him with a shrug, unlocking his car.

“‘Pretend’? Why would you have to pretend to be her boyfriend?” Allen asked, opening the passenger side door.

Josh stopped and looked at Allen over the top of his car. “Well, see… how do I put this… men aren’t exactly Roni’s type.” Allen looked at Josh with a confused eye, leaning on the roof of the car. Josh continued, “Now, I don’t know how you feel about the whole thing that’s been going on lately with gay people, but Roni’s my friend, and her girlfriend Lucy’s my friend, so I try to do whatever I can to keep people who don’t care for it from hurting them.” Josh sounded almost angry, very defensive of his two friends. But then the moment passed and he got into the driver’s side of his car. 

Allen got into the passenger side and said nothing more for the entire trip back to Josh’s apartment. “It’s just up here,” Josh said, unlocking the door and letting them into his apartment building. Allen, on the other hand, walked to the right hand outer wall. Maybe he just smelled trash or old banana peel, but he thought… it smelled like the smell he followed to the Chrono-traverser earlier. He had to see if there was an invisible staircase here, too. Maybe that was what “Poncho” was — a code name for a time machine. It seemed really unlikely that he had the only time machine in existence, after all. So he investigated into the area in between Josh’s apartment building and the adjacent building. Once he got close enough, he quickly determined that it was only trash. And while it was a bit of a relief that there wasn’t an invisible staircase or anything like it here, it was also a bit of a letdown. If there had been another time machine it might have helped him answer some more questions about himself. And besides all that he had just been intently sniffing trash. “Hey, Al,” Josh called to him with a bit of a chuckle, grinning, “you coming?”

Allen turned around, raising his eyebrow at being called “Al” - he wasn’t so sure he liked that - but didn’t think too much of it. If Poncho wasn’t a time machine, then it wasn’t here, and it was best if he followed Josh to where Poncho really was. Better to let him be in charge for the moment, as he was the only person who completely knew what was going on. “It’s a good thing my landlord doesn’t mind pets,” Josh said as Allen followed him up the stairs, “Otherwise both me and your dog would be on our butts in the street.”

“My dog?” Allen repeated, confused, as Josh unlocked his apartment door. So it wasn’t just that he had a cat and a tiger, and now a butterfly, he had a dog, too? And then he stepped into Josh’s apartment and he saw the dog. The dog leapt on Josh first as he closed the door, but quickly moved to leap on Allen even more excitedly. It was a yellow Lab, with a bright and friendly face. His eyes were a deep black, with hazel flecks int he center. His tongue was a deep pink, which Allen could see because it was hanging from the dog’s mouth, like it was too long to fit inside. His teeth were the healthy pale yellow they were supposed to be, obviously well-cared for. His yellow coat was soft and smooth, fluffy, yet falling flat on its back. To all the world, a normal dog.

But then he talked.

Words and everything.

His open mouth formed the words perfectly.

“Master is here! Master is here! I missed you so much, Master, I’m so glad to see you again! The new master you put me with smells funny! But a good funny! You smell funny, too, but it’s a good funny! Like what ham flowers would smell like if there were flowers made of ham! But I like ham! Ham is good! Master Josh feeds me ham sometimes! Where did you go? Don’t ever go there again! I missed you! I missed you!”

Allen just stared at the dog as it hopped and pranced around him giddily. Mouth hanging open in dumbstruck awe. Then, he managed to say, “The dog is talking.”

The dog stopped hopping and stood in front of Allen on all fours, his tail wagging vigorously. “Well, yes, I’m talking, Master,” the dog said, “Oh, you said you might not remember. I forgot. Do you remember who I am? You should! We’ve been the best of best friends forever! Say you remember me! Say you missed me, too! Say it! Say it, Master!”

“Uhh…” was all Allen could manage to utter.

The dog stopped wagging its tail. “You don’t remember me. Poncho. That’s me. Did you remember Harris? Or Cyprus? Where’s Annie? She’d remember me and all the good times we had. You never go anywhere without Annie. Is she still home, in the Chrono-traverser?”

“He’s mentioned the Chrono-traverser before,” Josh said, “Do you know anything about that? Whenever I ask, he just tells me it’s a time machine. And I mean, look, if your dog is under the impression that he lives in a time machine, you need to sit him down and set him straight.” He gave a little chuckle at that.

“I can sit,” Poncho said to Josh, and he sat down. “I can lay down, too, and roll over, and play dead, and shake. I am a good dog. That’s why Master likes me.” Poncho looked back at Allen now. “But Master doesn’t remember me. What happened, Master? Was it those two men, Patton and Kirth? Or was it one of their people? What did they do? Did they make you not like dogs anymore?”

“Hold on, slow down, buddy,” Allen said to the dog. He came further into Josh’s apartment and got down on the floor so that he was at eye level with Poncho. “You know who Patton and Kirth are? Who are they?”

“Patton and Kirth are Master’s friends. But then Master was upset that they didn’t like him anymore. Master was upset. Before you left me here, Master, you were pacing and angry and upset. I don’t know if that has to do with Patton and Kirth, but Master, you kept talking about them, you said they were going to hurt you. Then Master left me here, but he said he was going to take the Chrono-traverser back to New York in 2012. But he kept Harris and Cyprus, just not me. I don’t know why,” Poncho said, his face dropping a little, not quite looking at Allen’s face.

“They were my friends? Why would they want to hurt me?”

“I do not know, Master, I am sorry.” Poncho’s tail drooped and his ears dropped, but then he perked up again. “Can we go to the Chrono-traverser now, Master, please? Can we go home? I could maybe help you there! Please, oh, please, Master, please, oh, please?” Poncho pleaded, standing up and bouncing on his front paws, his tail wagging again.

“If you don’t mind, I sort of want to see this, too,” Josh said, sort of raising his hand, “I mean, I’ve listened to this dog talk for long enough about living in a time machine. I’d like to know what that’s about.”

“Yeah, sure, come along, if you want,” Allen said, standing and shrugging, “I don’t know how to get back there, anyway, and you’re the one with the car.”

So much for relaxing at home like Roni had told him. But he just had to see — if there really was a time machine there, how could he pass that up? Sure, if there wasn’t, he would just head back to his apartment, but if there was, he would never forgive himself for passing it up. After all, he’d just kept a talking dog in his apartment for two months. What else did Allen Carpenter have up his sleeve?

[scitechman]

Nagoya Physicists Resolve Long-Standing Mystery of Structure-Less Transition

Nagoya Physicists Resolve Long-Standing Mystery of Structure-Less Transition

We normally associate conduction of electricity with metals. However, some of the high measured conductivities are found in certain organic molecular crystals. Metallic, semiconducting and even superconducting properties can be achieved in these materials, which have interested scientists for decades. Changing temperature or pressure causes phase transitions in the crystal structure of molecularc…

[katsxmeow]

Lily squeezed Olivers hand tightly.

"It's so beautiful here!" Lily smiled and looked up at the young man next to her.

"I've seen better." Oliver looked down and kissed Lily on the forehead.

Lily blushed and giggled.

"It's getting late, lets get in the cabin and have some cocoa by the fireplace." Oliver tugged on Lily's arm and pulled her towards the door.

Lily nodded and followed him inside. They had been together for 4 years now, Lily suspected he had rented the cabin for the weekend as a place to propose. She could hardly contain herself. It was in the most beautiful location, Tall trees all around, the smell of pine was everywhere. It was perfect.

"Is it fine if I go take a bath and then join you by the fire?" Lily pouted up at Oliver.

Oliver smiled and kissed her nose. "Of course, beautiful."

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Physicists resolve long-standing mystery of structure-less transition

We normally associate conduction of electricity with metals. However, some of the high measured conductivities are found in certain organic molecular crystals. Metallic, semiconducting and even superconducting properties can be achieved in these materials, which have interested scientists for decades. Changing temperature or pressure causes phase transitions in the crystal structure of molecular conductors and their related conduction properties. Scientists can usually determine the crystal structure using X-ray diffraction. However, structural change accompanying phase transition in a particular organic crystal (TMTTF)2PF6 has defied examination for almost 40 years.

Now, a research team at Nagoya University has finally explained the mysterious structural changes of this phase transition and its related electronic behavior.

"Researchers have questioned that the TMTTF (tetramethyltetrathiafulvalene) salt shows a charge disproportionation transition at 67 Kelvin but no relevant changes in its crystal structure. This transition is a long-standing mystery known as a 'structure-less transition'," explains lead author Shunsuke Kitou.

Read more.

[separatist-apologist]

would you ever write a longer fic like call it what you want or i know places we won’t be found or exile, but for erina? not asking for but just curious, if like that is even you m.o. or focus for them? 🧐

I don't know. Part of me wants to say yes and the answer could be yes because I plan to drop some of the things I just can't write anymore, and let them go which is maybe unpopular but there are few fics stressing me out but the thought of giving them more time or attention makes me want to die.

I do have a TMTTFs erina spin off in which helion and eris make a deal- eris agrees to relinquish his mother IF helion will loan him Arina (for purely political reasons of course), but I dunno how many chapters that'll be. I've only just begun it

[spectraspecs-writes]

Original Writing! And part of a LOVE SPAM

Girlfriend, I got stuff for days.

Tag list @skelelexiunderlord , @procrastinatorpresents , @auruncushd (I remembered, Kevin), and @the-peculiar-bi-tch bc it’s for her LOVE SPAM

Chapter 1: The Invisible Staircase

Monday, January 16, 2012, 11:23:14 AM, New York City, New York:

Open eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. Okay, he thought to himself, I’m alive.

Wait a minute…

Who am I?

He sat up – it hurt a little, hurt his side, but it was just a twinge and it quickly passed, so he moved on – and looked around, for someone, anyone, who might know something. About anything. Who was he? What was going on? Where was he? At this point he was pretty sure that anyone would know more than he did about anything. Because every time he asked himself a question, he couldn’t remember any of the answers, or even whether or not he knew them. And that was certainly a bit scary. But there was nobody around, no one near him that he could ask. Guess I’m on my own then.

He looked down around himself. Okay, he concluded, seeing the floor below him, I’m up on something. Maybe I should get down. He swung his legs over the side of the table (apparently he was on a table. Apparently he knew what a table was. Certainly very comforting in these confusing times), setting his feet down on the floor. He stood up to his full height, then thought, no, something’s missing. Something’s off. He looked around again: On the far wall opposite himself, he saw a long tan trench coat and a matching fedora. For some reason he felt the hat was not his, but the coat – that was his, that’s what was missing. He walked over to the coat and pulled it on. I love this coat, I’m not me without my coat, he thought (and again, he didn’t know why.) He put his hands in his pants pockets and grinned a little, feeling like himself.

Then he felt something in his pockets: a folded up piece of paper. He pulled it out and gently unfolded it. There were characters all over the small piece of paper, but most of them were concentrated near the center. A note. It read (and apparently he could read), “Run. Get out. You’re not safe. Go to the city. Run!” Suspicious and confused, he turned it over, examining it further. The other side read, “You’ll know what you’re looking for when you find it. Hurry. You are being watched.”

Suddenly the room around him felt less friendly, and that was saying something because it felt pretty uncomfortable from the get-go. He pulled the hat on and over his eyes, and quickly – but calmly – left the room.

Whenever he passed by someone, they glanced at him curiously, but no one tried to stop him. One of them, when he passed, said to the person he was talking to, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” But maybe this wasn’t a reaction to him, exactly, he tried to think optimistically, and still a part of their prior conversation. I mean, he thought to himself, what do you do when someone walks by when you’re having a conversation at work? You look, to make sure they’re not the boss. Right? (He didn’t know this for sure, of course, it was just speculation. A man who doesn’t even know his own name isn’t too sure about anything, after all.)

It was obvious to him, though, that in order to exit any place, you first had to find a door to take you out. And as far as finding that, he was at a loss. How could he possibly know which one of the many doors he passed would be the one to lead him outside? He didn’t even know if he was on the inside of the building or the outside. He didn’t even know which floor he was on. There were no windows around to even tell him where he was. At the present moment he was doing his best to convince himself that he wasn’t lost. He was probably walking in circles, the hallway kept curving. He was pretty sure that he’d eventually end up back where he started. 

He passed by a stairwell. Okay, if I’m not already on the first floor, I should get there. He peeked inside the stairwell. It only went up. Well at least I know something now. I know what floor I’m on. Given that he didn’t know much of anything, having that information was really satisfying. Probably way more satisfying than it would be for anyone else. Time to keep going the way he had been, to focus back on the original problem of how to get out of here. Even though it was starting to feel like even the people who worked here weren’t supposed to get out that easily. 

But then all his problems were miraculously solved. An older man opened a door, and the man with no name happened to see through it. Outside. It led outside, into a smelly alley. Well, beggars can’t be choosers. He got the feeling that he wasn’t the sort of man who would take coincidence so easily, but at this point he wasn’t about to look this beautiful gift horse squarely in the mouth. So he quickly moved past the gentleman – who nodded at him as if in salutation to an old friend, but the man with no name didn’t pay it a great amount of attention, as he was far more focused on getting out the door before it closed – and he slunk through the door before anyone could notice him.

He may not have remembered his name, his life, his family, or literally anything else about himself, but he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the smell he smelled was the smell of New York, and he therefore knew that this was undeniably that, specifically, the city of the same name. Or maybe he knew all that because there was a watch on his right hand that told him where he was. Whatever, either one. But he couldn’t dwell on all that for long. He could not dwell on the fact that he knew this was New York, no matter how he knew it. He didn’t know anything else, but he knew that there was no time to worry about that or much of anything when there were people after him. And he definitely knew that there were people after him. Otherwise why would that note in his pocket have told him to run twice? Why would the note have told him that he wasn’t safe? Why would it have said that he was being watched? Either it was all an elaborate joke that really wasn’t funny or his life was legitimately in danger. For the time being he chose to believe the latter. Because if it were the former, then, among other things, he’d feel really stupid. But, life in danger, he didn’t have time to even consider that the note he’d found in his pocket wasn’t trustworthy, there were people after him. So he took off down the street, in the direction that he somehow knew was the right one. Or hoped, at least.

Cities can be big places, and especially this city. The buildings towered over him and all the sounds of the great metropolis bounced off of them, as well as the little bit of heat that the sun released. It was mid-January, cloudy and cold, the air biting. It was a surprised to him that there were as many people out and about as there were. He didn’t know how he knew this, but he knew that he generally tended to avoid urban New York in this time period. It was a bit too busy, too hectic. He also knew that he preferred smaller, more remote locations. But for this this circumstance, he had to commend himself for choosing this location. No one would notice just another person in New York City. It was a city full of people full of mundane thoughts that went something along the lines of, “Go forward. What am I going to do about such and such? Ah, yes, I’ll do that. Turn left. What about such and such about the money? There’s always something wrong with that. Blah, blah, blah.” So predictable. So dull and monotonous, it was a wonder that the entire populous didn’t go mad with the back and forth of it all. All the same. All day, every day. 

The man turned his head right, then left, then right again, standing at a street corner. His tan trench coat moved with the breeze, revealing his socks to the people standing next to him. One red, one green. Not that they cared to look. His white sneakers, which had been colored on with colored marker, were torn and worn from overuse. The fedora covered his face. No one could see what he looked like.

Which was good.

Very good.

The light changed, allowing him and everyone around him to cross the street. They all walked swiftly, heads down, holding their own coats closed against the bitter January wind. Some of them talked on cell phones, or Bluetooth, or quietly to themselves. Some of them didn’t talk at all. None of them talked to each other. However, that was of little interest to him. All that concerned him was keeping his coat closed, keeping his eyes down, keeping himself secret. Hidden away from the prying eyes of the people looking for him. Blending in with the crowd. Looking no more out of place than the business man dictating to someone over his Bluetooth. Than the girl with the pink cat Laplander hat, texting her friends through fingerless gloves. Than the woman clutching her coffee between shivering hands, her only defense against the cruel wind and world. The people that saw him quickly forgot him. He was nothing special. Just a man who kept to himself, and they were a dime a dozen. And no one would ever think twice about the man with the socks that didn’t match and the tan trench coat, or his search for the object he couldn’t identify.

But he’d know it when he saw it. And he somehow knew where he was going, too, like he was being drawn to something he couldn’t consciously feel. And there was sort of a smell, a faint smell, that he couldn’t put his finger on, but it was familiar, and it made him feel secure to smell it. And he knew, an unexplainable knowledge, that the smell and the thing he was looking for were connected somehow. And just as the smell was ordinary, yet out of the ordinary, he was such that the object, too, was just that. Ordinary, yet out of the ordinary. He had left it for himself. Apparently.

He turned onto the sidewalk and stopped. A butterfly had landed in front of him. That’s not possible, came a voice from the back of his head, There are no insects in New York in January. He didn’t know why there were no insects in New York in January, but the voice was convincing, it felt right. He bent down, curiously holding out his hand for the insect. The butterfly flew and landed on his hand, flapping its brightly colored wings slowly. Somehow this was wrong. But he didn’t know how. So he stood back up and went back on his way, the butterfly in his hand. From his hand to his shoulder.

He looked down an alley, and stopped again. This was it. Somehow he was certain, this was it. He saw it. To anyone else, it would just look like a piece of trash. It was just a wood plank in an alley. An old rotting wood plank that, if closely examined, would have an engraving on it that made no sense. But it made sense to him. Though his memory was more or less gone, he remembered spending the early years of his life learning how to read and write in this language. Somehow he knew that, but when he searched his mind for anything else – his name, his life, his family, anything about himself – there was nothing. Not a glimmer of a word, not an old funny feeling. Just a blank book, upon which the words of his life should have been written. But now there was nothing. As though the pages had been torn out. 

“Find the hidden staircase,” the wood plank read. A different language than the one on the note, different characters. The characters that were on the fringes of the note, but not the center. But that didn’t really matter right now. So he turned into the alley and began to feel along the wall. Feeling a little bit ridiculous, looking for a hidden staircase. But it would be along the wall, wouldn’t it? That’s where a staircase would be, hidden or not. Then something stopped his hand. Cold metal, but there was nothing there. Nothing visible, anyway. He reached out to grasp the metal, watching his hand. Upon gripping the metal, wrapping his fingers around its frigid surface, his hand vanished. He lifted up his leg tentatively, trying to find the first step, and when he found it, he set his foot down, watching it vanish before his eyes. He smiled, and continued cautiously to walk up the invisible staircase. When he got far enough that his entire body was under the influence of the invisibility that cloaked the staircase, that was when he could finally see his hand again, his foot. He could see the entire staircase. It was as though someone had cloaked the entire fire escape. God help anyone who lived there if there was a fire. Was the fire escape invisible all the time? Probably not, that would be irresponsible.

As the man with no name stepped into the alley, read the plank, searched for the invisible staircase, a small grey cat with large eyes peered at him. Followed in his every footstep, watched his every move. From the moment he left the building he’d woken up in until this moment, right now. It tilted its head curiously and followed now to where the man with no name had found the invisible staircase. Sniffed around to where the metal had to be, and stepped with a tentative paw onto the first step. Seeing that the staircase was secure, it continued to follow him up the invisible staircase. No one would have heard it, as it was too quiet, but with each step the cat took, there was a slight whirring sound. Like machinery at its joints. No one would have noticed it, as it was too subtle, but the cat’s eyes were too perfect, unnatural. Like a computer had designed them. No one would have thought it, as it was unthinkable, but the man with no name didn’t have to worry about the people after him. He should have been worried about this cat. The cat was an enemy of the unnoticeable man with no name. But even if he had looked back and seen the cat, he would not know why. It was just a cat, after all. What harm could a little grey cat do to him? Had he noticed, he might have even welcomed the cat inside with him, and played right into the hands of his enemies. Who better than a cat to spy?

The man with no name stopped at a door at the top of the invisible staircase. He had expected a window, like was all along the rest of the outer wall. At his feet was a small flap. He poked his shoe in, but no reaction came from the other side. At eye level there was an eyehole that had been put in the wrong way. He placed his eye up to the hole curiously, and the hole scanned his eye. A pretty terrifying thing if you weren’t expecting it, which he wasn’t. And if that wasn’t enough, the door spoke: “Eye imprint recognized. Access granted.”

Still a bit stunned from having his eye scanned, he wasn’t really sure what to think of the talking door, but it opened, and so he entered. The small grey cat tried to get to the door in time, but it was closed a second before it could squeeze through. It tried to enter through the flap, but it was stuck.

[spectraspecs-writes]

Story time

Gather round, kiddies, it’s time for another story of, “Oh, no, Specs is writing again.” Reading over my notes for the sequel to “The Man That Time Forgot”, I run across the note, “I really like this line.” Nothing more, nothing less. Naturally I am intrigued. There are one or two notes like this in the first book and the third book, and they generally lead me to really adorable lines. Lines that talk about love or tenderness. Lines that make me question whether or not it was really me that wrote them, because of how absolutely emotionally involving they are. What line is it this time? What is the line that has caused me to leave such a brief note, knowing that later I would return to it? What sweet, aww-inspiring words do I have for myself today? So I click on the note, whisking me away to the line in question. Ah, but alas, nothing emotional, nothing tender, nothing sweet or aww-inspiring. The line, you ask?

“When Death knocks on the door, a wise man jumps out the window.”

[katsxmeow]

Henry Garner paced the floor while his partner leaned against the wall behind him.

"You really shouldn't be too worried." The young man stated. "If you lose your son, I'm here to pick up the slack."

Henry paused and glared at the young man before continuing his pacing. He was right, of course. But he still cared for his son and would rather not lose him.

"Ah, my boy there you are, Jack and I were just speaking about you." Henry greeted his son with a firm handshake.

"Father." Oliver glanced over at the young man now walking towards him. "Jack."

"So nice of you to grace us with your presence, Oliver. Did you have a nice trip with your pretty little toy?" Jack taunted him.

Oliver grit his teeth and took a step toward Jack but was stopped by his father's firm grip on his shoulder. "Come son. We have some business to discuss."

Jack glared at their backs as they walked away.

[katsxmeow]

Jack had heard all he needed to hear. He walked away from the study door with a smirk on his face. Henry was right, It was about to get ugly. And he would end up where he belonged, working for Carver and running this place. It would be too easy to get rid of these two bumbling idiots. Jack lit up a cigarette as he walked outside. He looked over to see little Marina, Henry's adopted daughter, playing in the yard. He would admit it'd be sad to see the poor little thing lose her Father and Brother, but she'd still have a home and a mother. More than he'd ever had. He walked over and mock bowed to the little girl, "Little princess." He greeted her.

"Jack!" The little girl exclaimed and bounced over to him. She still had trouble with his name so it came out more like 'Dak'. "Up." Her pretty eyes wide and expectant. He picked her up and swung her around. She giggled and screamed, until Mrs. Garner came up to him and put a stop to it.

"Ah, come on Julie! She was having fun!" Jack pretend pouted as he leaned over and tickled Marina.

"You're gonna make her sick. Now go on, let us be." Julie huffed and picked Marina up and carried her away.

Mrs. Garner was super overprotective. Maybe he should let the little girl go into the system, she might be better off. He shook his thoughts away as he hailed a cab.

Soon, this family would be gone. Time to talk to Carver.

[katsxmeow]

“Mr. Carver, sir, Mr. Henry Garner to see you.” Carver's butler announced and then disappeared out of the room.

"Ah, Henry, my old friend." Evan Carver greeted the aging gentleman. "Glad you could come have a chat."

Henry grunted in response, "Like I had a choice, Evan. What is it you want."

"Right to business I see, Would you like a drink?" Carver held up a glass.

Henry gave a quick nod in confirmation.

Evan turned and started to pour bourbon in the glasses. "So, I hear your son has joined the business. Ambitious young man isn't he."

"Gotta have some one to take over after I'm gone. You'd be smart to do the same." Henry took the drink from Carver.

"That wouldn't be threat, now would it?" Carver laughed. "Ah, Henry, such a joker."

Henry took a sip of his drink and winced as the alcohol went down his throat. "Please, Evan, get to the point."

"Right, right, right." Carver downed his drink in one gulp. "Tell your son to stay out of my business. He's been sniffing around. I don't appreciate it."

"He wouldn't--" Henry started.

Carver held up a hand cutting Henry short. "We've always had a mutual understanding. Just make sure your son starts to understand. Or you won't have a son." He stared down at Henry. "That's all. You may leave."

Henry scowled and set his glass down and walked out the door.

[katsxmeow]

Heading off to the bathroom Lily smiled and slipped out of her clothes. She turned the tub on, poured in some bath salt, then turned and looked in the mirror. For once in her life she didn't feel self conscious. Oliver made her feel like the most beautiful woman on earth. She turned back around and stepped into the claw-foot tub. Letting the warm water run over her toes she sighed and relaxed breathing in the steam. It smelled like the lavender bath salt she had poured in earlier.

She wasn't sure how long she had been in the tub when she heard the door creak open and Oliver call out her name. Lily sat up quickly, startled.

"Oh god, I fell asleep!" Lily admitted.

Oliver chuckled and grabbed a towel and handed it to her. "You weren't up here for too long, don't worry."

Lily stood up and stepped out of the tub, wrapping the towel around herself. "I hope that fire is lit and there's a cup of cocoa waiting for me." Shivering she started towards the unpacked suitcase in the bedroom.

"Well the fire is warm, I don't know about the cocoa now." Oliver teased her.

"hmmph." Lily pulled a long shirt on over her head and walked over to Oliver. "Thank you for planning this trip."

Oliver pulled her into his chest. "Anything for you."

[katsxmeow]

Elena hadn't even heard Gregory, the butler, come in and place her favorite flowers, breakfast, and coffee on her ottoman. He must have heard everything last night. He always did little things like this to cheer her up. This time it wasn't helping though. She couldn't stand it here anymore. She hated it, she hated her father. He was a monster. It was times like these when she wondered what her mother had been like, and how she could've been with such a horrible man. She thought back on her meeting with Oliver Garner. He was a sweet man, and the whole time they were eating lunch he talked about a girl named, Lily. And when they got down to business he charmed the info out of her. She didn't realize telling him that, yes, she had seen several girls her age passing through her house, was the wrong thing to tell him. She knew her Father was a bad man. She was surprised he hadn't sold her off. She plopped on her bed staring up at the ceiling. She had to come up with a way to get out. She was determined.

[spectraspecs-writes]

A collection of some of my favorite typos (I was a smol teen)

comnsole, [pointing contemplatively -The extra "m" and the bracket are silent, I suppose?

Saturday, June 5, 1987, 10:43:12 AM, Somewhere in Southern Illinois -This would be perfectly correct. Except they’re in Ireland. And below is how I fixed it!

Southern Island -Nothing wrong with that. Nothing to see here.

Like the first bomb of a military onslaguth, -That was supposed to be “onslaught”, but I think I like “onslaguth” better. Don’t you?

Shut up. My head’s funding enough as it is. -How nice of your head. But it should be pounding.

Josh said, patting Allen’s shoulder affectionately. -Yes, this is exactly what I wanted. But it started out as “all friendly-like”, because for the life of me, I could not think of the word “affectionately”.

However, he wasn’t entirely successful, and when I say that I mean that all of his mental sweeping didn’t do diddly-squat. -So “all friendly-like” bothers me, but not “diddly-squat”? Okay.

Akkeb cane int grin gus gudeb gaol -…what?

Why is that thing? —How philosophical.

“I expect you to be a bike to function on this planet.” -I saw this and I laughed for a solid minute and a half.

He didn’t tellus hwreehe was going -Not so much “tellus” as “hwreehe”! I love saying that. Hwreehe!

Did you never wonder why all the stories, all the creation myths had a villain? Loki, Stan, Hades, Pandora and her wicked box. -I fear the evil Stan, the worst villain in religious history. Worse even than Satan! (Oh, my God, I kept typing “Stan” every time I meant to type Satan! I just did it just then! It took me three times.)

O dpi;dliek to go -I do believe I lost consciousness for five seconds while typing this.

It was clear that Grayson was angry at Hisgm -Who is that, now?

she rmemebeard - Er-MEME-beard! I meant “remembered”.

Look at me, loading you down with my emotional baaggabe -I caught this just before autocorrect changed it forever.

Various misspellings of “Grayson”: Rgayson, Gayson, Garyson, GRsayson, Grsyson, GRyaosn, Gryaons, Groans

If you can eat my mind, -WHOA WHOA WHOA THAT IS NOT ACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOR!

This bitch is smite-ahoy -That doesn’t sound right.

Ewshtsert said smacking his arm. -No. No. Esther.

Slightly amused, Allen pressed a button on the console beside his bed and the door. -The…the door what? Turned into a goose? Erupted in flames? Turned into a goose? What did the door do? (I actually wrote this in my notebook. A common occurrence, but this was the first one I caught while typing.)

Esther sat criss-cross at the foot of Allen’s bed, looking atheism. -She looked what? Perhaps “at him”? Maybe? I don’t know. Autocorrect knows best, I guess.

The Prophet whispered something in your rear before she died. -THAT IMAGE OH MY GOD! EXPLETIVE EXPLETIVE AND LAUGHTER!!

They buzzed, quiet at first but son it was all he could hear. -Yeah, son! The lights buzz, son! Which is even funnier considering I am a White teenage girl. Not just color, but bordering on stereotypical White.

And he made up imaginary friends who would talk to him o try tomato himself less lonely. -Tomato. Tomato. No.

[ninaahelvar]

TMTTF sneak peek!

for my gorgeous @poeticandvaguelysweet

“Claire, I..I -” he stuttered. He stopped for a moment, his hand running up to the side of her face, watching her like he depended on her eyes.

“Owen?” she whispered as Owen tilted his head. He sighed, his forehead resting up against hers and for just a moment, Claire thought she saw his lip quiver. He sniffed as he brought her gaze to fix on him.

“I don’t know how to say what I want,” he told her, a sense of guilt seeping through and Claire let out a small sort of whimper. Claire’s hands cupped his face, her thumb running over the seam of his lips, memorizing the way it felt under touch. She just wanted to remember it before she had to leave.

“Just say you want me, and that’s all we need right now,” she whispered and Owen’s face rested into her palm before he bound forward. His lips took hers in hungry kisses.

“I want you. Only you. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.” he breathed and Claire felt the tears slip from her eyes.

[ninaahelvar]

Hope you're still working on TMTTF cause I can't wait to read more!

working on it. slowly. it’s a tough thing to write. hard to get a grip on at times. be patient. It’ll be worth it, I promise.