#transcribe glass market

[nmsc-market-pulse]

How Is Google LLC Transforming the Transcribe Glass Market? Strategies, Innovations, and Developments

Introduction:

In recent years, Google LLC has emerged as a transformative force in the technology landscape, particularly within the Transcribe Glass Market. Transcribe glass, which combines optical technologies with advanced electronic systems to deliver real-time information and augmented reality experiences, is becoming increasingly prominent. Google’s involvement in this sector is not just about keeping up with trends but actively shaping the future.

This article explores how Google is driving the evolution of the transcribe glass market through strategic initiatives, emerging innovations, and recent developments.

Download FREE Sample: https://www.nextmsc.com/transcribe-glass-market/request-sample

1. What Is Google’s Strategic Approach to the Transcribe Glass Market?

Google LLC’s strategy in the transcribe glass market is characterized by a focus on integrating cutting-edge technologies, fostering partnerships, and addressing diverse consumer needs.

Integration of Core Technologies: Google leverages its expertise in artificial intelligence (AI), machine learning, and augmented reality (AR) to enhance transcribe glass technology. By incorporating these advanced technologies, Google aims to deliver superior performance in areas such as real-time data display, contextual information, and interactive experiences. The company’s strategy includes the development of high-resolution displays and intuitive user interfaces that seamlessly integrate with other digital platforms.

Collaborations and Ecosystem Development: Google is actively pursuing collaborations with technology partners, hardware manufacturers, and software developers to expand the capabilities and applications of transcribe glass. These partnerships enable Google to create a comprehensive ecosystem around its transcribe glass solutions, ensuring compatibility with a wide range of applications and services.

Consumer-Centric Design: Google’s strategy also focuses on designing transcribe glass that meets diverse consumer needs. The company aims to create products that are not only technologically advanced but also user-friendly and accessible. This approach includes considerations for comfort, usability, and style, ensuring that transcribe glass appeals to a broad audience.

Inquire before buying: https://www.nextmsc.com/transcribe-glass-market/inquire-before-buying

2. How Is Google Innovating with Augmented Reality (AR) in Transcribe Glass?

Augmented reality is a cornerstone of Google’s innovation strategy in the transcribe glass market. The company is making significant strides in integrating AR technology to enhance the functionality and user experience of transcribe glass.

Enhanced AR Experiences: Google is developing transcribe glass that delivers immersive AR experiences by overlaying digital information onto the physical world. This includes real-time navigation, contextual information, and interactive elements that enhance user engagement. Innovations in AR technology are aimed at improving the clarity, accuracy, and responsiveness of the information displayed through transcribe glass.

Advanced AR Platforms: Google’s ARCore platform, which provides tools for building AR experiences on Android devices, is being adapted for use with transcribe glass. This platform enables developers to create sophisticated AR applications that can be experienced through Google’s transcribe glass solutions. By providing robust development tools and support, Google is fostering a thriving ecosystem of AR applications.

3. What Are the Recent Innovations by Google in Transcribe Glass Technology?

Google has introduced several innovations in transcribe glass technology that reflect its commitment to pushing the boundaries of what’s possible.

High-Resolution Displays: Google has made significant advancements in display technology, resulting in transcribe glass with high-resolution, clear, and vibrant displays. These advancements ensure that users receive crisp and detailed information, whether for navigation, notifications, or interactive applications.

Voice and Gesture Controls: To enhance the user experience, Google has integrated voice and gesture controls into its transcribe glass solutions. This allows users to interact with their devices hands-free, making it easier to access information, control applications, and navigate through various features without physical input.

Real-Time Language Translation: One of the notable innovations is the incorporation of real-time language translation capabilities. Google’s transcribe glass can translate spoken or written text into different languages, providing users with immediate and accurate translations. This feature is particularly valuable for travelers and multilingual users, facilitating seamless communication and interaction.

4. How Is Google Addressing the Challenges of Usability and Comfort in Transcribe Glass?

Ensuring usability and comfort is a key focus for Google as it develops transcribe glass technology. The company is addressing these challenges through several strategic initiatives.

Ergonomic Design: Google is investing in ergonomic design to ensure that transcribe glass is comfortable for extended use. This includes lightweight materials, adjustable fittings, and designs that accommodate various face shapes and sizes. The goal is to create a device that users can wear comfortably throughout the day without discomfort.

Intuitive User Interfaces: Google is developing intuitive user interfaces that make it easy for users to navigate and interact with transcribe glass. This includes simplified controls, user-friendly menus, and responsive touch and voice interactions. By prioritizing ease of use, Google aims to enhance the overall user experience and ensure that transcribe glass is accessible to a wide range of users.

5. What Are Google’s Recent Developments and Future Plans in Transcribe Glass?

Google is continuously evolving it transcribe glass technology and has several recent developments and future plans that highlight its commitment to innovation.

Acquisition of Related Technologies: Google has recently acquired companies and technologies that complement it transcribe glass initiatives. These acquisitions provide access to new technologies, expertise, and intellectual property, further enhancing Google’s capabilities in the transcribe glass market.

Expansion into New Markets: Google is exploring opportunities to expand its transcribe glass technology into new markets and applications. This includes potential uses in healthcare, education, and industrial settings. By diversifying its applications, Google aims to reach new customer segments and unlock additional growth opportunities.

Ongoing R&D Investment: Google is committed to investing in research and development to drive further advancements in transcribe glass technology. This includes exploring new materials, improving display technologies, and developing innovative features that address emerging user needs and market trends.

Conclusion

Google LLC is playing a transformative role in the transcribe glass market through its strategic focus on advanced technologies, innovative solutions, and user-centric design. By leveraging its expertise in AI, AR, and cutting-edge display technologies, Google is enhancing the functionality and appeal of transcribe glass. The company’s commitment to addressing usability challenges, expanding market applications, and investing in ongoing R&D positions it as a leader in the transcribe glass industry.

As Google continues to push the boundaries of what’s possible with transcribe glass, its innovations are set to shape the future of this technology, offering users new and exciting ways to interact with the digital world.

[wonkawinka]

we’ll meet again

“we’ll meet again… don’t know where, don’t know when…”

alastor x angel!daughter!reader

CHAPTER TWO: smile like you mean it!

— — CHAPTER THREE: weak ankles!

warnings/notes: EPISODE 6 SPOILERS! not proof read, no use of y/n, used she/her pronouns, reader is on the fem side, maybe vaggie x reader and maybe emily x reader if you squint but its all platonic

chère- french for dear

remercier dieu- french for thank god

court reporter- someone who transcribes everything said during a court meeting

wc: 2336

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

ROLLER skates. flashy lights. bursting colors. street jazz at every corner. twists and turns.

NEW ORLEANS had it all. all you could need in your heart. soft, live jazz rung through the tiny diner that everyone got their morning coffee from. skating through the diner, you tipped your hat from one couple to another. there was the occasional (and by occasional you mean somewhat often) jerk who flirts with you, a teenager, but you brush it off.

ever since the stock market crash of 1929, people have been living off the hook ‘round these parts. you were lucky enough to snag a job, let alone have a father that's able to put food on the table for you.

the bell of the door rings exactly at 9:01 am, you don’t even need to turn around to check who it is.

“good mornin’ ladies! fine morning today, isn’t it?” alastor’s voice rang through the diner, sound waves bouncing the walls and into your ears. his presence was certainly not something anyone would miss. your coworkers nodded in agreement, saying their tiny welcomes, the occasional giggle for one of them.

pouring out straight black coffee into a medium sized cup, you skated towards the counter and slipped your dad a napkin and his cup.

“mornin’ papa.” you said with a smile, taking his coins and filing it into the register.

“good morning, my dear!” he said with his chipper smile, one that made the men grumble and ladies swoon, but it just made you happy to see your father happy. “day treating you well, i hope.”

he took the coffee and took a sip. a sound of satisfaction left his lips “perfection! you know me so well, chère.”

“pa, you drink the blackest coffee on earth. it’s not hard to mess up, dontcha think?”

“ah, don’t sass me now, little miss. i’ll have you know this is the best coffee i’ve had since yesterday mornin’!”

“i made that coffee yesterday morning.”

“hmmm, did you now? seems i dont remember…” he grinned teasingly, pushing up his glasses in ‘thought’.

“yeah, course ya’ dont, ya old man.” teasing back, slipping him a slice of pie “i know you didnt eat, pops, cant have ya flopping dead during your morning show. who knows, maybe the cannibal will getcha. then i’ll have to take over the show.”

he smirked at her words, ha, if only she knew.

“well, aren’t you the sweetest little thing?” he said, taking the to-go box from her hands.

“well, you raised me, so you tell me.” you smiled brightly

his laughter rang through the diner, and soon yours as their vocals mixed together in a medley of sounds. they nearly mixed together perfectly. nearly.

some people looked at you weirdly, but you both never really minded. everyone in town knew you were his daughter and everyone in town knew he was your father. the talk of the town, especially when people found out your father of all people adopted you all those years ago.

he smiled at you wholeheartedly, something you only get to receive from him. “thats my girl.” his hand cupped your face, thumb brushing against the skin.

you placed your hand on top of his and smiled. “love ya’, pa.”

“love you more, my dear.”

you patted his hand, signing him to let go. “now shoo, before you’re actually late. you got an audience waiting for you all ‘round the area. can’t have them sitting for too long, hm?”

with a tip of his head, he bidded you and the ladies of the diner farewell, grabbing his coffee and pie, slipping out the door.

one of your coworkers called out your name “hunny, you better help a girl out! is your fatha’ up for grabs?” she giggled, winking at you.

“oh hush, lonnie! that's my dad..!”

——————— PRESENT.

“OH, don’t worry, it’s really not that hard! you just flip the book and let them in! see? simple.” st. peter directed you to the golden podium of the pearly white gates.

“are you sure i’m even allowed to do this? look.. i’m happy to help. i just don’t wantcha to get in trouble with the Seraphims.” you floated down onto the podium, scanning the big book of entries.

“it wouldn’t be for long! thank you so much, by the way. you really are heaven’s little helper, huh?” he elbowed you and gave that big smile he had. it was almost blinding. literally.

“haha, yeahhh… if you say so.” you turned and flipped through the pages for what seemed to endlessly go on.

“who names their kid breakfast?”

“now, now, we dont go and judge what those humans name their offspring!” he placed his two hands on your shoulders in reassurance. you cock an eyebrow at his word choice, but next thing you know hes already flying off to do who knows what. ‘saintly duties.’

“huh.” you continued to flip through the pages to examine the very odd name choices, nodding at some and… skipping through others.

minutes, maybe even hours went by until sudden echoes from down the golden pathway filled your ears. they shoot up in reaction to the newfound sound.

“uhhh, heelloooo? helloooo!” the blonde hair girl called out

“hiya!,” you call out , “how may i help ya’? well, getting into heaven i guess, huh?” you laughed at yourself, watching the girl’s nerves calm down a bit. behind her was a recognizable individual. you know, it nearly looked like vagg—

“OH— uh, uh, uh— hello! my name is charlie morningstar. heh.”

“alright, lets see…” you flipped through the alphabetized record only to find every name known to man BUT a charlie morningstar.

panic fills your core when you cant find it, scanning the page over and over and over again to no avail.

“uhhhh, you see, slight problem, hun...” you start, throwing in a name to ease her name. “i, uhm, can’t find your name… but you know! the trek all the way to the uh, other place, is a long way. maybe i can like… sneak ya’ in—”

“OH, no, no, THAT won’t be necessary. uh— see, my dad got me this meeting, so maybe try lucifer… morningstar..”

THAT CERTAINLY RANG A BELL.

“OH, uh.. uhuh.” you nod “i see.” you nod quicker. your eyes darted to the gray haired girl who looked at you with the same tense expression.

“i think there may have been a, um..” you put your hands together “mishap… but i am SURE it is a just BIG misunderstanding, haha!”

a mighty voice called out to you, one that could shake all of heaven’s foundation.

“remercier dieu…” you say, quite literally.

“don’t worry, we can take it from here.” sera’s voice reassured, the normal call smile present on her face. you bowed your head in respect which she kindly returns.

behind her was an excited emily which shot you an ecstatic wave. her smile was about to explode with happiness which only grew more as she approached charlie, the princess of hell.

st. peter pops out of nowhere and of course, starts singing his welcome song.

see, you didnt think it was bad, it was quite good, but hearing it over and over again for the past century really takes a toll on your ears.

after his musical number, em is basically ready to explode into a pile of rainbows and sparkles. “oh, oh! i gotta show you! the zoo, the petting zoo, the aquarium, the- the EVERYTHING!”

her and charlie jump for joy as they start running off.

“oh come on, do we need to ru— yEUP okay.” you’re dragged along the crossfire, em tugging on your wrist.

you catch a glimpse of adam and lute. they did not seem… very ecstatic.

hm.

“em. emily. emmy. e.” you bring her to the stop. her happiness was contagious, a sickness, her happiness basically flooding into your veins.

“i know you’re excited, sugar,” you start, “but maybe, i show them their room first. how's that sound?”

with some reluctance, emily allows you to guide the two girls to their temporary room.

“here, let me get that—” with an easy spell you learned, you pick up their bags weightlessly.

“follow me, i’ll show ya your room.”

— — — — — — — — — — — —

on the way there, you’re bombarded with questions from the princess. not that you were complaining of course, you found it quite endearing.

“wow, your sprinkles have RAINBOWS in them?!”

“yup, those are just rainbow sprinkles,” you chuckle lightly at her innocent excitement, “so.. about this hazbin hotel you were talkin’ about, mrs. morningstar…”

“oh, please, call me charlie!”

“charlie,” you smiled ,”i really do love the idea. quite innovative! you have my support. do you already have people staying?”

“oh, we only have.. two residents. but we do have lovelt staff! we have a maid.. nifty, she’s harmless, most of the time.. and a bar-tender, husker, he’s great, grumpy, but great! vaggie, my lovely girlfriend keeps the hotel safe,” she smiles brightly at her partner, “oh, and our host, alastor! he’s uh.. the radio demon, BUT HE MEANS WELL! i think.”

the name rung in your mind, bouncing off the walls and causing them to shoot jolts through your head. it was like a migraine, but worse. radio demon. it was strikingly familiar resemblance to your father (father?), but who knows! there are probably many alastors that loved radio.

“i see,” you nod, “well i wish you luck on the growth of your hotel.” you opened the entrance of there room and landed their bags perfectly in the corner.

“wow, okay, i LOVE heaven! everythings so clean and nice! AHH, and emilys going to bring me to a zoo where everythings fluffy and soft!” you zone out the rest of their conversation before charlie bids her goodbye.

“safe travels, charlie.” you bow your head in respect, earning a giggle from the princess.

“thank you sososososo much for your help! heh, alright SEE YOU LATER!”

silence filled the room.

“vaggie.” you started, not bothering to around and fully face her. “knew that was you, cant hide from me under all that hair. looks good, though.”

“uhhhhhhhhhhh—” she says your name in a frantic manner, causing you to cock your eyebrow “ah, fuck, i can’t think of an excuse.”

“look, vaggie, i dont know.” you sigh “you disappear for your ‘yearly outing’ to god knows where then you go missing for years, now you come back to be dating lucifer’s daughter.”

“i know, i’m so—“

“no no, don’t apologize. i get it. im happy for ya, vags, but damn, years. i dont know what you do on that one day, but adam and lute didnt seem very happy when they saw ya today.” pinching the bridge of your nose, you turned to her.

“look, adam tried recruiting me to god knows what when you went missing. said i got good aim or something. im just telling ya to be smart. i got no idea what he was trying to do with me, so im telling ya’ to not give in to that prick. i’ll be at todays meeting; i work as the court reporter.”

she pondered your statement for a bit, snapping out of her thoughts once you handed her the room key. you offered her a smile, which she hesitantly returned.

“ah, come on, smile like you mean it! though a smile may not mean everything, you’re never fully dressed without one.” that phrase rang in vaggie’s ears. that was oddly familiar.

a little too familiar.

it was your time to bid farewell, but before you did, she called out to you.

“thank you.”

“ah, don’t mention it. we’re friends, arent we?”

and with that you shut the door.

— — — — — — — — — — —

SCRIBBLING. writing. swirls of ink as you titled the paper in preparation. COURT ISSUE 36789127. it made you think, whos counting all these issues?

“WHAT’S UUUP, BA-BY!” the annoying ring of adam’s voice filled the court room. he was like a toddler, ironic as he is the oldest human soul known to mankind. he was mankind. a sick joke for it too.

every little thing he said you were required to write down, even if it was a dumb, immature response.

“we are gathered here today to determine whether or not a soul in Hell, can be redeemed into heavenly realm by the means of this Hazbin Hotel… Princess Morningstar?”

the blonde takes a stand and clears her throat,

“Webster’s Dictionary defined redemption as—”

you scribbled that down.

“..incredible progress..”

scribble.

“… the porn demon …!”

scribble.

“well, if you know so much, what do you think it takes to get into Heaven?”

that puts a halt in the discussion, causing you to lift your head and wait for an answer. she had a point. how did you get here in the first place?

a copy of adam’s terms were presented to your table: act selfless, don’t steal, stick it to the man.

well damn, if those were the terms, even your father (father?) would be in heaven, right now.

evidence was presented, words have been thrown, objections were made. the endless back and forth of right and wrong being thrown around the courtroom. not even the written word could convey the thick tension lathering the walls of the heavenly court.

all the evidence weights to charlie’s side, and yet, the judges say otherwise.

“wait, none of you know what gets someone into Heaven?”

this sparks a musical entrance from emily which you would say was surprising, but you would be lying to yourself.

good thing i took band and choir you thought. perfect pitch came in handy as you noted every chord and pitch in your work.

at this point, you were ready to combust. it was clear who won but the rulers of heaven seemed adamant to keep it from happening. it was suspicious, ironic even.

“..don’t you care, sera…”

scribble.

“..just because someone was dead..”

scribble.

“he blew the shot like the cocks in his…”

scribble.

“..come down and exterminate you..”

your quill snaps in half as you look up from your paper. extermination.

murder.

genocide.

from heaven itself.

[theblackestnight-ffxiv]

[ffxivwrite2024] prompt 8: free day

Prompt 8: free day

When she was concentrating, Airraim got a particular furrow in her brow. D’zinhla found it desperately endearing. She also found it endearing that Airraim would scowl if attention was drawn to it, a scowl which only deepened the furrow. 

Right now, she stayed silent, merely watching her beloved over the rim of her glasses. D’zinhla had been working on more transcriptions, work that was very pleasant to do with Airraim also present in the room. Airraim’s own work was at her botany workbench, where she was examining the growth of the plants she tended. It was while she was doing this that D’zinhla had taken note of that furrow of concentration, and paused her own work to admire her.

Airraim hadn’t noticed her regard, putting all her focus into the seedling she was examining. She tilted her head, delicately brushed the newly formed leaves aside, then frowned in consideration, and all the while D’zinhla watched, her heart swelling with warmth for the person who had stolen it.

Whatever it was that had so captured Airraim’s attention seemed to have instilled a low-level frustration in her, because she set the seedling back down and sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Zinhla, next time we go to the market, I’ll-” She broke off as she looked at her, and found her already watching. A wry smile twisted her lips. “How long have you been staring?”

D’zinhla couldn’t help but grin. “Long enough.” She pushed her chair back from her desk, crossing over to slide her arm across Airraim’s shoulders. “I adore you.”

Airraim chuckled, her tail swishing as she leaned into the half-embrace. “You make this quite obvious, my heart. Not that I’ll ever tire of hearing it.” She lifted her hand to where D’zinhla’s rested on her shoulder, brushing her fingertips over her knuckles.

“Mm.” She leaned down to rest her head against Airraim’s, inhaling her scent, mixed as it was with the loam of potting soil, the green of her plants, and the soft floral fragrance that clung to her. She could easily get distracted by this. “But you were saying?”

“I was saying, the next time we go to the market, I think I’ll need to try something different for these new seedlings.” Airraim gestured with her free hand at the dozen or so, in small cups of soil. “I think they need soil that drains better. Or containers that do. They’re showing signs of retaining too much water.”

“I see. Easily accomplished, I’ll make sure we spend time there.” The climate of Ishgard made gardens a very difficult matter, but the proliferation of greenhouses and conservatories proved that its people were still quite willing to try. Clever things could be done with arrangements of crystals, for instance. Airraim had no few contacts among Ishgard’s green thumbs, and was starting to gain a name for herself, mostly for the exotic plants from far-off places that she provided to them in exchange for their support and advice with her own plants. It was a nice arrangement, and one that made D’zinhla delighted, for it meant that Airraim had her own connections at a remove from herself. Certainly the reason she went to those far-off places was because of D’zinhla, but the work with the plants was all Airraim, and her botanical colleagues here in the city were her connections first and foremost. It gave her joy and relief to see Airraim at work within those connections.

“Thank you,” Airraim murmured, looking up at her with a soft smile. “I do apologize for distracting you from your own work.”

“Oh,” and she waved her own free hand dismissively at her desk. “Nothing terribly interesting. Just transcribing a few more copies of that Pelupelu alpaca-herd song. It’s astonishingly similar in structure to a La Noscean shepherd song, so I have some inquiries of my own to make. But nothing I regret setting aside for some moments of admiration.”

“Careful, or one might think you’re utterly besotted.” Behind the teasing words there was a softness, the softness that told her that Airraim still quietly marveled that she was the focus of D’zinhla’s affections. She could recognize it, because she had the mirror of it herself. 

So she smiled. “Of course I am. How could I not be?” And she pressed a kiss to Airraim’s cheek, rewarded with the soft flush of her skin.

Airraim was silent for a few more moments, then sighed softly, the hint of a purr in her exhalation. “My heart,” she murmured, and D’zinhla knew that this time, at least, she had won, with Airraim having no further comeback but her favorite term of endearment.

With her heart full to bursting, she said, “I love you too.”

[overgrownmoon]

i watched shunk's 3 hour mlp:fim review of every episode and im going so pony mode

while i never completed the show and am not active in the fandom, i have a soft spot for ponies. i watched it until season 5 and loved it during my late elementary - middle school years. i eventually outgrew it, but it was a solid show that i remember fondly.

so heres my ponysona, updated for 2023; officially and not just a random sketch this time!

oc lore dumb below:

luminary is a unicorn/batpony hybrid. they can't fly, but is able to do magic just as well as any other unicorn. their talent is somewhere between making art and studying astronomy; theyre able to bend starlight to project accurate 3d maps of the celestial sphere, which they then transcribe into artful star guides. i imagine them beaming light out of their horn like a projector to create a beautiful, hyper-accurate hologram of the sky.

how is this ability useful outside of making astronomy textbooks? well, they can bend the light of other light-emitting objects to make projections; for example, a city, or the sun. the art part is all them, though; when you can make super accurate maps on demand, making them look pretty becomes the fun part.

unfortunately, without a map constantly at their side, they can't navigate at all and are notorious for getting lost. they have eye-bags from staying up all night, painstakingly transcribing the stars every night and creating their art pieces, so they're functionally nocturnal if it weren't for the fact that other ponies are usually awake at night. finding them asleep on a park bench surrounded by groceries is not an uncommon sight.

overall, lumi is a friendly face when theyre not shut away focusing on their work. they genuinely love company and being with others, they just really like working on one project for 3-4 days in a row in order to get it done. then they crash. rinse and repeat.

their wings are fully functional, but small, and they don't possess any flight magic in order to get in the air. they use their wings like extra limbs to carry stuff, or to emote and be expressive. their fangs are from the bat-pony side; they also eat fish, as well as fruits and veggies. sushi pony.

unfortunately, they also have buck teeth, so that buck-fang combo gives them a terrible speech impediment. they also tend to speak very fast, so understanding them can be an issue. remind them to slow down and breathe, and they'll gladly make sure you can understand them fine.

terrible vision. cannot see anything without their glasses. they can't see in the dark as well as a regular bat pony, either. this can get in the way of their passion, but thats why they keep a huge stock of candles and lanterns on-hoof at all times. theyre a bit obsessed with light sources, actually; like a moth to flame. their house is covered in candles, string lights, various designs of lanterns, and novelty lamps.

yea, theyre a bit of a hoarder. not just lights, but also books, blankets, houseplants, and just tons of memorabilia and trinkets that they saw and liked. being in their house feels like being in a swap meet or flea market.

ok thats the pony bye

[wintersandthebeast]

22. 1919

RE8 | Wintersberg | Romance, Slow Burn | Action, Sci-Fi

Link to Master List

“Told ya Sage was a good idea,” Karl said smugly from the wall.  Rosemary was squealing as she toddled around, almost-walking and following the creature.  

“What?”

“The goat.  Named her Sage.”

“Uh--”

“You know, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme?”  A pause.  “Guess we need to get two more goats.”

“Definitely not.”

Ethan rifled through the years of property deeds, bonds, and other items that Karl had brought from the vault and deposited on the desk.  They were in a large, open room that sat above the ballroom.  This room had tall windows and vaulted ceilings as well.  After a thorough cleaning, it was Rosemary (and goat) proofed.  Karl offered it to Ethan as an office, and then dumped the entire contents of the vault so that Ethan could do whatever needed to be done.  

Ethan’s face was a consistent expression of awe, and he pored over the documents as Karl worked at the wall panel.  Heisenberg didn't know shit about paperwork, but was restoring electricity to this room, as well as giving Ethan more outlets, while they waited to talk to Eva.  “What about a bed and breakfast?” Ethan said in a hopeful voice.  “Rich tourists, I--”

“I would rather have that boulder punching asshole come over here every day for lunch, than that.”  Karl had an old Edison fuse in his mouth, but the spite in his tone was clear even with his lips around the metal.  

“What if we built something down in the area where the village was, though?  We could do that easy, with all these resources.”

“You’re killin’ me, Winters,” Karl sighed, screwing the fuse in place and pulling out a length of wire, inspecting the ends.  “Come to the Village Bed N Breakfast, there’s a local witch who will potentially kill you and try to turn you into a vessel for a hundred-year-old dead kid, maybe.  Maybe not!”

Eva’s voice crackled through the speaker.  “I am not a kid!”

Ethan scratched his fluffy hair, not tearing his eyes away from the papers.  “Farmer’s market then.  Something.  I know we’ll have to make sure it’s safe first, but all this land…it’s, just so many possibilities, Karl."

Karl was stripping wire, and he shook his head.  “Shoulda never pulled your moldy ass back into the world.”

Ethan now stared at Heisenberg, slapping a palm onto the desk as his eyes again widened in excitement.  “Karl! A wedding venue!”

Now finally the engineer turned, peering at Ethan over his dark glasses.  His eyes held thinly veiled contempt.  Ethan prepared for another snide remark, but Heisenberg batted his thick lashes and said instead, "I haven’t even said yes, Winters.”

Even in the chilly room, Ethan’s cheeks blazed.  When he looked back at the desk full of paperwork, his lips twisted into a smile.

-----------

“What I have to show you, I’m afraid only Ethan can see,” Eva said as the trio sat on the floor of the carpeted office.  They were in the liminal space, Ethan’s hand draped over Karl’s knee, and everyone save Rosemary lounged in the afternoon sunlight.  The toddler could appear and disappear at will, it seemed, and she roved in and out of sight.  Ethan was getting better at sensing her no matter where she was, which eased his anxiety more than anything ever had.  

Karl was petting the goat, and nodded.  Eva said directly to the brunette, “If I can find a way to record whatever Miranda is planning, is there a way for me to have that transcribed to your world?  The way that you made the radio work.  I do not want to be forced to remember it all, I want you both to know whatever it is that I know.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Karl said with a shrug.  “I’ve got a few ideas.  We can experiment.” 

“Good…then…Ethan? Shall we?”

He waited for the other man to raise a magnetic field; when he did, Ethan pulled his hand away.  It no longer hurt Ethan to move back and forth between spaces, but it always hurt Karl.  The field seemed to absorb some of the shock.  Now with a snapping sound, Heisenberg sat in the room without the reddish-blue glow of liminal space.  Ethan, surprisingly tender, stroked a piece of Heisenberg’s hair that was near his cheek scar.  Well, one of them. 

“Watch Rosemary for me?”

“She an’ I have way too much fun to tell you about, Papa,” Heisenberg said with a smirk.  This earned him another kiss on the cheek before Ethan went back to Eva.  

--------------------

Eva’s powers were far more developed than Ethan’s.  When she took his hands, they disappeared from the manor altogether (which confused Heisenberg greatly, to see Ethan just…vanish) and when they reappeared near the crater, Ethan groaned. 

“This being, this world…is like, ehm,” Eva searched for words.  “An onion.  Layers and layers deep.  As the years go by the layers get embedded deeper and deeper.  However, there is always more to learn and more to grow.  It is like a city, always growing with every soul added to it.  And it takes time to navigate places with purpose.”

“Yeah, setting foot into Miranda’s layer last week showed that pretty clearly,” Ethan said ruefully, and Eva smiled widely. 

“That’s actually where we’re going!”

“Uh,” Ethan said with raised eyebrows.  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?  Last time, she wasn’t happy--”

“There aren’t a lot of protections, or borders, around any of the worlds here.  It is easy to get from one to the other,” Eva admitted, “With one exception.  Your world.  The real world.  As long as a being is a stored copy of a person, it can never leave.  Miranda would have to go through the trouble of doing what Heisenberg did for himself and you.  Finding the crystallized body, regenerating it.”

“Where is Miranda’s crystallized body, then?” Ethan asked with a sigh.  Eva shrugged.  

“Nowhere, that I’ve seen.  But we are about to go into a place that has existed as long as she has.  It is her layer, so to speak.  No one else’s.  Did you ever have dreams, after awakening, where there are people in the background, perhaps faceless or with strange faces?”

“Every night,” Ethan said with a nod.  “Are those…visitors? Travelers from other layers?”

“They can be,” she said with a nod of her own, “They can also be just imprints of your own memory.  Going between layers is how Karl visited you while you slept.  For lack of a better word.  Most people who simply die are not aware they are in any sort of moveable, malleable world that they have eternity to travel.  It is like dreaming, and maybe what people think heaven is like.  An ongoing stream of consciousness that is affected by the person’s mind.  Multiply that by the thousands and that is what the Mold is.  Just a very big library of information with individual books that are their own world.  Every mind is a book.”

“Does Eveline ever…visit Miranda?” Ethan asked, realizing how strange the question sounded.  But his dreams were plagued by both of them, and yet they didn’t seem to communicate.  Eva shook her head.  “Only I have the skill to maneuver into these specific layers, and it took millions of attempts, over decades that felt like thousands of years.”

He had nothing to say to this, but felt a bit of admiration for the girl's persistence, and Eva continued.  “I can disguise myself now, Miranda does not know who I am at all.  I can do that for you, as well.  Change your appearance.” 

“Okay,” Ethan said in what he hoped sounded like a brave and not halting voice.  “As long as she can’t see us.  As much as I want her dead--”

“She cannot die here,” Eva confirmed.  “It would just be a very exhausting fight.”

She took his hands again, and they suddenly appeared in the village.  As Ethan had seen it that night.  The grass was green, the buildings were new; it was almost unrecognizable.  He wondered what month it was since even though there were flowers in bloom, the air was biting cold.  Eva walked confidently past a tavern, and rounded the main cobblestone street toward a procession.  He followed, feeling unease growing as he was in the once-beautiful village.  

A band played, and a huge party was participating in a parade.  Flower petals were strewn by young women carrying baskets, after the band played.  Eva pointed meekly to one of them; Ethan noticed the resemblance.  A young girl with a long braid under her headscarf tripped along tossing the petals.  He stared with no expression as the flower-petal-throwers advanced. 

“That’s you?”

“From Mother’s memory,” she confirmed.  Next in the procession came a swathe of people dressed in black, some carrying flowers, others carrying flags.  Most of this group were women, but some elderly couples walked as well.  She nodded toward one in particular, and Ethan froze.  It was Miranda, walking stonily, dressed in black from head to toe.  

“These are the widowers and parents of soldiers who did not return,” Eva explained, and both of them kept their eyes trained on Miranda as she walked by, not seeming to notice them or the others watching from the side of the tavern at all.  

“The soldiers will be next,” Eva said, peering past the group.  

“Celebrating…” Ethan tried to remember the date on the gravestone.  “The end of World War One, right?”

“Yes,” Eva said, and then she shifted suddenly.  “Next.”

They appeared in front of the meadow by Moreau’s property gate.  It was impossibly beautiful, Ethan realized…the whole place was, when it was properly cared for.  It looked almost like an enchanted forest.  Miranda was having a picnic on the tall grass with her daughter, who wore a flower crown and danced a very dramatic dance across the moss.  The woman was laughing.  Ethan was frightened at first, but when it became clear that Miranda could neither see nor hear them, he said in a low voice to Eva, “It’s hard to believe what she…became.”

“She was very broken even in this part of my life,” Eva acknowledged.  “I tried very hard to make her happy.  After losing Father, she turned to medicine and science…some of that likely had to do with the outbreak.  But…” the light voice trailed off into sadness, and they stepped into another scene.  

Miranda wailed from a building nearby; it was night in this new scene.  Ethan recognized one of the larger buildings, now turned into a makeshift infirmary where many beds were laid out next to each other.  Blankets covered bodies, and with a sickening twist of his stomach he realized most of the people on the beds were children.  He also noticed as Eva daintily walked between them, that many of them were dead or near death. 

“This is awful,” he said, his throat closing up. 

She didn’t answer him, but stood aside as he approached Miranda.  Several other villagers had paused to watch her as well.  Nurses, dressed in white and wearing masks, pried her from the ground and stood her up.  They were all speaking Romanian and seemed to want to move the woman, but she wouldn’t tear herself from the lifeless corpse in her arms.  

The girl was wrapped in a blanket, but as Miranda wrenched for her, a pale arm fell out of the material, bobbing strangely.  The nurses thrust the child back into Miranda’s arms and used that strategy to move her.  As they succeeded in dragging the pair of them out of the main treatment area, the last thing Ethan saw was the shock of pale blond hair cascading from the death blanket. 

“Almost at the end,” Eva said in a hollow voice, and the scene moved.  They were in darkness.  She put a finger to her lips to Ethan, and they both watched the red light coming from an arm of the mold, to Miranda’s outstretched fingers.  Lightly she brushed along the vine-looking substance.  

A chorus of voices swelled in Ethan’s ears.  He saw Miranda’s eyes widen in the dark.  He was hearing what she heard.  It was the mold.  Or…the people in the mold.

Among the voices, “Mama?”

Miranda, who looked quite malnourished and miserable, perked up, running her hand along the cavern wall. “Eva?”

“Unde esti, Mama?”

“Eu sunt aici,” Miranda answered frantically.  She looked around, as if expecting to see the owner of the voice appear at any moment.  

The pair continued speaking to each other, as Eva sighed.  Suddenly they were out of the cave, standing in daylight on an overlook where the entrance to the cavern was.  Ethan could still hear Miranda’s frantic Romanian, but now he could hear no reply. 

“I called to her for a short while,” Eva admitted, “I was lost and scared.  But from this earth I was able to see…somehow, what she did to our people.  I stopped trying to come back when I realized it.”

Ethan thought for a moment.  “How were you able to…how are you able to, see into our world, when most people who die are just stuck in a dream?”

Eva shrugged.  “I have not quite figured it out.”

“But if this is Miranda’s loop, how do you think she will ever come back?”

The scene changed again, and they were in a stone-walled lab.  Ethan stared around the dungeon-looking area with distaste.  There were cages in it, cells.  Countless medical cabinets and supplies.  It looked like a Gothic Frankenstein’s lab, mixed with a little bit of gore and horror.  Jars of cadou lined one wall.  

“Sometimes, she gets…aware again.  She is so lost and trapped in the cycle of grief that mostly our life together plays, day by day.  But I have watched her break away and come here.  I can not shield myself from her here, it is very dangerous for me.  But I believe that she is slowly researching and making a plan every time she has a lucid moment.  She comes and writes.  And her entire library is here already, everything she knows she simply has to come back to.  She may be able to move fast if she continues having lucid moments.  And I believe she will."

Ethan said nothing, noticing a large ornate book with Heisenberg’s crest on it on a nearby table.  He reached out and opened it carefully, surprised to see pages filled with medical notes.  There were photos, gruesome ones, and sketches of internal organs.  Small x-ray photos were wedged between the pages as well.  It turned Ethan’s stomach to see all of this, and he put the book down with a frown.  He ran his hand over the metal horse in almost an apology.  He still didn't know exactly what Karl went through, but just last night the man had told him he hated the experiments so much that he had killed himself.  To no avail.

Fuck Miranda.

“So we…wait, more or less?” Ethan said, hands in his pockets as he surveyed the room again.  He hated it here almost as much as he hated being in the makeshift hospital full of dying people.  “Find out how she’s going to escape and use it against her?”

“I believe that would be best, along with reading whatever you can find from your wife’s research.  Although Ethan…” she stared at him with a gravity she usually didn’t carry.  “I worry that you will not be able to handle what some of those papers say.”

“You don’t know what I’ve lived through,” he said a bit redundantly, as Eva probably had access to every memory he possessed, “I can handle it.”

“I hope so,” was all she said as she took his hand and brought him back to the comfort of Heisenberg, Rosemary, and Sage the Goat. 

[diana-fortyseven]

🛠🍷🥰

Wow, that's a huge glass of wine! Thank you (for the ask, not for the drink lol)!

(But also, thank you for the drink.)

🍷 Do you drink and write?

Usually not, but sometimes it's fun. There's this very particular type of creativity only red wine can unlock. Other drinks only make me sleepy, not creative.

Always edit sober, though! :D

🥰 How do you feel about reader interaction? Are you open to receiving questions about your fics?

Y E S! My comments on AO3 are unrestricted on all fics, please go ahead and ask whatever you want to know about any of them. I'm not looking for constructive criticism, though. (But if you find a typo or a punctuation fail, please do let me know lol. It shouldn't happen with multiple layers of spell and grammar checkers, but sometimes I add something last second before hitting "publish", and sometimes my brain is not braining while I do so.)

🛠 What tools/programs/apps do you use to write?

Sit down and enjoy that glass of wine, this'll take a while... xD

For spontaneous short fics (and for plot bunnies that came out of nowhere), I use Google Docs. It's great because it auto-saves, and I can access my docs on any device.

Then I have Scrivener for fics that require a bit more planning or are more than just one scene.

I made different templates for the different kind of fics I usually write (and should I ever feel like I'm 100% happy with my ever-evolving templates, I'll happily share them!); and it's perfect to organise and keep all plot bunnies in check.

How was I ever able to live without the Corkboard and without being able to shuffle scenes and around like index cards? I love this fucking Corkboard, I love the binder, I love that I have a template that groups all "Save the Cat!" plot beats into the three acts of the three-act structure. And my god, do I love that I'm also able to customise the theme of my Scrivener and turn it into a pastel rainbow. Absolute eye candy! <3

I very recently treated myself to Scrivener for iOS, and I'm so happy that I did! Again, Google Docs is great for some quick note-taking, but being able to add a new index card to my WIP's Corkboard wherever I am? Priceless!

For mind maps, I use Scapple. It's from the same company that makes Scrivener, Literature & Latte. Good to organise thoughts, not necessarily a must-have. There are free mind map tools out there. I just want to support Literature & Latte.

I also use voice-to-text, because that's something that really helps me whenever I feel like I can't write. The words are there, the stories are there, but I can't fucking write them down for whatever reason.

After experimenting with different free options (let me know if you're interested in my thoughts on them and which I would recommend), I settled for Nuance Dragon Professional 16, the best dictation software on the market, but also fucking expensive. I don't regret this. It's probably overkill if you're only using it for fanfic.

I don't use the mobile version, Dragon Anywhere, because it's a subscription based service now, and fuck that. It's probably really awesome and all, but I am not paying €150 per year for this.

So, to save money, I use my €1,000 dictation software with the free dictation app ALON Dictaphone to dictate chapters or scenes on my phone. There are probably better apps out there, but I've been using this one for more than ten years and I like it. You can organise your voice notes with labels, so you always know which fic they belong to. It also synchs with all cloud services out there (I use it with my free Dropbox), and I can access the files on my laptop when I need them. Dragon 16 can transcribe these files without playing them, which is really nice, because a) I don't have to listen to my own voice and b) I can do something else on my laptop and don't have to stay quiet while it's transcribing.

For spelling and grammar, I use LanguageTool. The free plan offers all I need, and it integrates with Google Docs and my browser. The best thing about it is that you can choose which English accent to write in, and it will tell you if an expression you used belongs to a different accent and offer you an alternative.

For a quick final edit, I use ProWritingAid and Hemingway Editor. I like that you can choose the genre in PWA. I dismiss a lot of their suggestions, though. There's a reason I chose passive voice for this one sentence, dammit! xD

AutoCrit also offers interesting editing tools. I'll give it a go at one point, but for now I've only played around with the example text a little.

So, yeah. That's basically it, I think.

[uncle-jiggy]

AR Glasses Transcribe and Display Spoken Language for Hearing Impaired

To make what it claims is the lightest augmented reality (AR) eyeglasses on the market, Beijing LLVision Technology landed on Sabic’s Ultem polyetherimide during the material selection process. from plasticstoday.com - Community for Plastics Professionals https://ift.tt/msBXGyv

[insfdustrialss]

The stamper is defined as the mirror image of the contents in the DVD

Many people may not know this but there is a difference between bulk DVD replication and duplication. To start off, DVD duplication is simply the process of burning data from an original DVD onto another existing DVD recordable disc. Bulk duplication is possible with high quality industrial grade duplicators which can produce formats playable in different DVD players. On the other hand bulk DVD replication involves the generation of a clone of an original master copy. At the Replicopy Company for example, a glass master is created from the original master and from it a stamper is then created.

The stamper is defined as the mirror image of the contents in the DVD. The stamper is then mounted onto a High Tech injection mould machine and in the moulding process a replica of the mould is produced on the normal DVD disc which is then coated using a thin layer of China 4 way entry injection pallet mould reflective aluminium. Bulk DVD replication machines are normally highly automated and as such this method of DVD production is only economical for large numbers of DVDs from 1000 pieces onwards. You should also go for bulk DVD replication instead of DVD duplication in case you have time on your hand, say seven to ten days. Some companies offer different rates for bulk DVD replication on media such as music, software, audio or video. Most broadcasting companies have nowadays subscribed for closed captioning services. This service is very crucial in helping deaf people to follow the news and even enjoy television programmes. Closed captioning services are also very useful in places with a lot of noise such as gyms, airports, railway stations and so forth.

In hospitals, where a degree of quietness needs to be observed, closed captioning services can come in very handy. Closed captioning services are also used by forex bureaus to keep people in touch with the current stock markets news and the values of the different currencies around the world. This can be done simultaneously as the news or any other programme is being transmitted. Breaking news of any nature can also be passed on to television viewers effectively via closed captioning services without the need to interrupt ongoing broadcasts. It is now definite that people need to keep in touch with the ongoing events in the world and as such it seems that closed captioning services are here to stay. Companies such as Replicopy have been setting the standards for closed captioning services for some time now. Replicopy offers full captioning services ranging from transcribing to encoding at very affordable rates.

[endbuzz]

Technomancy: An Emerging Magic

The origin of all magic is shrouded in mystery, but this is most true of technomancy. Though it seems to draw from older magic, responding strongly to the delicate metalwork of Goblins and even to the barest sparks of fire magic coursing through, it is almost an unknown entity.

The secrets of its production are kept under the strictest contracts, with rumours that Unbreakable Vows are in use at some corporations. The products are therefore very difficult to replicate.

Because of its delicate age and the interest of powerful corporations, lawmaking has been slow going. There is little regulation over communications or amplifications, or even physical augmentations.

One most notable piece of legislation pertains to mandatory implantation. In the first law of its kind, it was mandated in 1980 that all who possessed the Sight must be fitted with a small chip behind their ear. It has become a widespread belief that, following strained relations with the fae, all witches have a right to prophecies. The implanted chip records any prophecies as they are foretold, much the same as the glass balls that are found in the Department of Mysteries. In due course, in a process that is said to be completely automated, it is broadcast to anyone possessing a Ticker (see below). This takes the form of an amplified audio recording of the prophecy in question.

Physical Augmentations

From the smallest implants to fully replaced limbs, witches are beginning to take advantage of technomancy in its most visceral sense. These are used both for convenience, like those pale eyes that act as a foe glass, and for brute strength, like an arm that hums and whirs with machinations that amplify channeled magic. It has revolutionised the lives of those who have lost limbs or functionality due to cursed wounds, taking root where no other magic would adhere. 

Those who are most invested in technomancy then are visible - shining in the sunlight, ticking in the quiet of night.

Many augmentations come from CHIRON, a technomancy giant that dominates the industry, but there are always other means to get one's hands on an augment. Illegal black market parts are installed by people known as Renders. These are less regulated not only in their installation, leading to rejection from the body, but in their content. This trade is a highly illegal and dangerous one, and there are many horror stories of backalley augments gone wrong. Renders, though they do not have any level of organisation or accreditation in their ranks, are a trade based on apprenticeship. They are teaching one another, and are therefore able to pass down a code that they largely adhere to - Jacky’s code, so named for the Render who was given a sentence to receive the Kiss after one of his clients died from augment rejection.

The code, many times transcribed and retold, is shaky at best. It states that no Render should cause a client undue harm intentionally, that no augment should be made to automate an Unforgivable Curse, that no calling cards are to be used that may draw attention - and finally, that any Render seen to betray the trade should be found and killed.

Conduits

A “conduit” is anything that can channel magic, similarly to a wand. Many conduits act as enhancements to physical augmentations, or objects.

The most common conduit, however, takes the form of a pocket watch - now commonly called a Ticker. Once a sentimental marking of a witch coming of age, it has become a communication device that rarely leaves a witches’ hands. They are able to write messages, to send their voice across the gulf, and there are further developments on the horizon. It is recently becoming common practice to channel magic from conduit to conduit, sending incantations along these lines of communications to another side. Only simple charms and hexes have been able to make it to the other side so far, but the implications of this more remote form of magic is a topic of hot debate among corporations and politicians.

Conduits come in all shapes and sizes, the most extreme of which being an augmentation to one’s wand. Many witches will not consider this, even beyond augmentation of their own body; the wand is a sacred symbol of human supremacy, and many struggle with the idea of corrupting it.

Viruses

The first viruses passed by witchkind with hardly a blip on the proverbial radar. Easily, it was assumed that technomancy, bolstered by its intertwining with magic, would not be susceptible to the same problems. It wasn’t until New Year’s Day of 1982 that they experienced a virus firsthand. 

PearlDust, named for the ingredient common to all love potions, swept across Tickers all over Europe. Non-malicious, experimentational, pulled off just to prove that it could be done - it was little more than a self-replicating bubble charm. At midnight, amid cautious celebrations tinged by a bloody war, heart shaped bubbles spewed forth in a multiplying numbers. 

Sweet though it was, accompanied by a message reading “KISS A LITTLE LONGER”, the PearlDust virus presented a large Statute of Secrecy breach, and marked the beginning of a contentious battle between corporate interests seeking to keep the market unregulated and an increasingly nervous government. 

The implications of, and indeed the viruses following, PearlDust have been much less innocuous. Those specialising in defensive technomancy, who have developed methods for protecting Ticker channeling, have seen tremendous increases in profits. Likewise, interest in using these viruses for gain or political momentum has seen an uptick in collectives forming. Their goal is usually attempting to outsmart defensive technomancy, even if only to point out its flaws.

[nmsc-market-pulse]

𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗚𝘂𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗧𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗯𝗲 𝗚𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗸𝗲𝘁: 𝗜𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗔𝗰𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆!

𝗗𝗼𝘄𝗻𝗹𝗼𝗮𝗱 𝗙𝗥𝗘𝗘 𝗦𝗮𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲: https://www.nextmsc.com/transcribe-glass-market/request-sample

The 𝗧𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗯𝗲 𝗚𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗸𝗲𝘁 is transforming how we interact with the world, making communication more seamless and accessible. By integrating real-time transcription capabilities into wearable glass, this technology is opening new doors for individuals in various fields, from education to business and beyond.

𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗸𝗲𝘁 𝗛𝗶𝗴𝗵𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀:

𝗘𝗻𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗔𝗰𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆: Transcribe glass is empowering individuals with hearing impairments by providing instant, clear text transcriptions of spoken language, enhancing inclusivity in real-time conversations.

𝗕𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 & 𝗘𝗱𝘂𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗔𝗽𝗽𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀: Professionals and educators are adopting transcribe glass to improve note-taking, presentations, and meetings, ensuring that no detail is missed.

𝗧𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗻𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘆 𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻: With advancements in AI and voice recognition, transcribe glass is becoming more accurate and user-friendly, driving increased adoption across multiple sectors.

As the demand for more inclusive and efficient communication tools grows, the transcribe glass market is poised for significant expansion. Companies that invest in this technology will be at the forefront of innovation in communication and accessibility.

𝗔𝗰𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗙𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗥𝗲𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁: https://www.nextmsc.com/report/transcribe-glass-market

Let's connect to explore the latest developments in the transcribe glass market and how this technology can enhance your business operations and accessibility initiatives!

[unstoppableforcce]

dark side

—CHAPTER FOUR: trust

pairing: Javier Peña x reader (narcos)

previous part | next part | masterlist

a/n: welcome my friends, to the softest yet most intense smut [18+] I’ve written. this whole part tops off at 6.3k words and I think 3k of that is smut, the rest is soft and angsty. yes, I think I managed both here. ENJOY!!

It had been a long day to say the least, and he just couldn’t get it out of his head.

One phrase, repeating over and over again ever since Stoddard played the tape for him. He swore after he played it for him the fourth time that it was going to drive him insane.

“Dasha masha danki” he muttered to himself.

The calls had been exchanged between the cartel’s money man and his wife, and all of the details, lovey dovey and potentially business related, were transcribed in the file in front of him, open faced on the coffee table. But it didn’t matter how long he stared at it, it was the missing puzzle piece and he didn’t even know how it fit yet.

He could do that stare at the condensation rolling off his bottle of beer and making a threatening move to soak the corner of the transcripts and he scanned them over for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

He had to be missing something.

Waiting for the translation from the embassy was going to be a few days and he hadn’t felt this close to something since they brought Gilberto in. It was right there in front of him and he just couldn’t get his hands on it. And every second he had to wait, he could feel his shoulders being pulled further and further down with the weight, like that bloodied hand, was going to come back and—

“What was that?”

Reclining into the cool leather of the couch, his eyes landed on you. Coming out of the kitchen with a plate of warmed leftovers in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other, you looked oddly comfortable navigating your way around his cabinets and furniture.

So, maybe this wasn’t the first time he had you stay over for more than just the night. Maybe it wasn’t even the second... but for the past two weeks, things had become strangely comfortable between the two of you. And, even against his better judgement and the persistent voice in the back of his head screaming that this had bad idea written all over it, he didn’t mind having you around, he maybe, maybe, even liked it.

Like an addiction or maybe something more than that.

He knew you were CIA, a pawn of Stechner’s planted in his bullpen to spy and probably doused in ulterior motives, and yet, he couldn’t stop.

You started to come over on your own after the second night he called you after work, two glasses of whiskey deep and desperate for you. If he was told the day he met you in the office that he would be bringing you over every night, he would have called it insane. Now he felt he might be going crazy without you.

He could say you were a good distraction as the Cali cartel became increasingly tolling on his mind, he could say you were convenient, he could say about a hundred things to explain why. But in the end, he just couldn’t stop himself and he didn’t know why.

No wonder drugs had such a large market, if he could bottle up what he felt around you, he would have to switch sides.

His stare followed you carefully as you rounded the back of the couch and settled in next to him. With your plate of food sitting in your lap, you judged him out of his trance, gesturing to the face down CIA file on the table next to his work. He grabbed it, passing it to you, a silent exchange that worked too well. You didn’t look at his work, he didn’t look at yours. It was a perfectly domestic set up...

He was playing house with a CIA agent, he really must have lost his goddamn mind.

“Dasha masha danki,” he repeated after your nudge brought him back to reality.

Stealing the glass of whiskey from your loose grip, he also stole a quick sip of it with a sly smirk before putting it on the table next to his own beer, trying not to lose himself in your reciprocated smirk. Especially when you opened your lips to respond.

“For what?”

Every muscle in his body tensed as he took an extra second to process what you said but by the time he turned back to you, he found you fully immersed in your own file, taking bites of your reheated meal mindlessly while your eyes scanned the pages. Not an ounce of your attention was directed his way, or at least, not for the first few seconds of silence as you figured he was just thinking.

After a few more silent seconds passed by, he finally began to worry you enough to get you to look up from your work with a mouthful of rice.

“Javier?”

“What do you mean, ‘for what,’?” He shut his file on the table, long ignored since you entered the room. Now every bit of attention he had to offer was directed to you, catching you entirely off guard.

Manifesting in your brow, your confusion was clear on your face and you quickly closed your file as well.

“You just said ‘thank you very much’” you explained.

“I did?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you reached for your drink. His hand grabbed yours before you got there though, stopping you halfway there so you could continue, “you said ‘thank you very much’ and I said, ‘what for—“

“In what language?”

Glancing to the file as he shifted his grip on your hand from a ‘stop’ to an actual grip, you tried to make sense of it all in your head but came up with nothing. He never asked you work related questions and you didn’t ask him, not outside the office. That just wasn’t the way the two of you worked.

Yet here he was, his eyes pleading with a sense of disparity you hadn’t even seen when you were down on your knees for him.

“Papiamento.” You quickly answered, though the confusion never left your brow, which was fine, because his curiosity never ceased either.

“Which they speak in?”

You scoffed, pulling your hand back from him, brow never coming unfurled, “What is this, Javier? Jeopardy?”

“Just humor me...” he shook his head, leaning even further towards you with the same desperate stare that you simply couldn’t pull your eyes away from.

“Uh, a couple of places, Aruba, Curaçao...”

He didn’t linger on trying to figure out how you knew that, he stopped being surprised by your range of knowledge when you woke up in the middle of the night to take a phone call in another language besides English or Spanish, one he didn’t even recognize. Besides, he figured if he asked you how you knew, all he’d get back would be some smart retort and smirk anyways and he didn’t have time for that.

This was the missing piece, this could be what brought him face to face with the money man.

Giving your thigh a gentle squeeze was the most grateful move he could manage before he hopped to his feet and moved to the phone on the wall with a electricity surging through him you hadn’t seen in a while if you were being honest. But you couldn’t help your lingering confusion either.

“Do I win money or something?” You asked, a brief chuckle falling from your lips as he dialed, pressing the phone to his ear like he hadn’t even heard you, “Javi?”

He checked his watch, the chances of catching anyone at the embassy at this hour were slim, he was the only one who ever stayed this late, but he shook with an undying anticipation as the tone rang out in his ear. But he was too focused, he didn’t head your plead for his attention and he definitely didn’t hear you set the plate down and move towards him until your hand landed on his shoulder and he turned to find your eyes almost as desperate for an answer as he was.

“Javi, what did I—“

“Just give me a second, querida.” He all but snapped your way, forcing your hand to recoil in an instant.

His eyes fell shut with the realization of what he did but before he could correct himself, someone on the other end picked up and he had no choice but to turn his back to you and begin explaining. “Stoddard, I need you to run...”

It wasn’t for you to listen to, you knew that, so you walked back to the couch and found your whiskey glass instead of your plate of food, downing a hefty sip as you turned back to watch him, your mind flooded with thought after thought.

You weren’t mad that he had snapped at you, far from it.

He had been stressed with work, it would’ve taken an idiot to miss that and you were certainly no fool. The bottle of whiskey you poured from was practically empty when you grabbed it from the cabinet that night and you had been around him long enough by now to pick up on the little things. The way he held onto you in bed had grown less controlled, much less like he was holding himself back and more like he wanted to lose himself in you. Tension grew in his shoulders as he hunched over his desk and you watched it, through the fishbowl like windows of his office. And more than anything else, he was going through about a pack a day despite your best attempts to get him to stop.

And if you were weighed down by the same pressures he was to deliver now that he had ruined the deal with Cali, you would’ve been just as stressed, so it wasn’t that he snapped at you that sent you quietly back to the couch.

He had just never called you anything other than your name...

Maybe he let a ‘baby’ slip out in bed every so often but never with the two of you fully clothed and doing work in his living room.

And well, ‘querida’ felt strangely intimate. It wasn’t just a pet name, it wasn’t a condescending ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’ like you got from some of the guys in the office, from Stechner or even the Ambassador, it was very, very different. The way he said it too, like it rolled off his tongue, like he had called you it a thousand times, like you were his ‘querida’ and that was an immutable fact.

It didn’t just feel intimate, it was intimate. And it didn’t matter how many times he had been inside of you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the most intimate thing that had ever transpired between the two of you, even after having settled into the strangely domestic dynamic beside one another.

“I didn’t mean to...” your eyes shot up from the floor between your bare feet as you heard his tone shift back from his work voice to the voice he used at home. But his eyes didn’t meet you there, his equally pinned to the wood beneath his feet. His lips moved for more words but his brain couldn’t fill the silence, all he could do was bring his hands to his hips and mutter a weak, “fuck.”

Ruining this was the last thing he wanted. It was easy and it took his mind off of work and well, he didn’t know how to quantify what he felt about you but he knew he felt it.

He didn’t want to ruin this.

“You don’t have to tell me what that was about, I know it’s work, I’m sorry I pressed it—“ the words tumbled from your lips as he finally lifted his stare to meet yours.

But he took a step forward and easily interrupted you, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you—“

“I don’t care about that—“

The two of you both stopped your dance of interrupting each other, letting a breath of silence flow for a second before either of you moved to say anything else. And then, it surprised you that it was Javier who spoke first.

“It just slipped out...” he swallowed nothing but air as he took another step back to the couch.

You swallowed down the rest of your whiskey, mirroring him as he approached nervously.

“Yeah,” you hummed, setting the glass down, “just slipped out...”

He didn’t know how to read you in this moment. Typically, he didn’t have to look to closely to know what was going on with you. While you certainly weren’t one to wear your emotions right on the surface, he felt from the second he met you that he just understood you. But he didn’t know what was happening here, this was the first step into uncharted territory for him and the last thing he wanted was to ruin this.

He didn’t want to step too far and he was afraid he already had, now all he could do was step back and hope that he wasn’t overstepping things with you, moving too fast in a direction you didn’t want to go. A direction that, in all honesty, he had no real experience heading in anyways.

“Why don’t we forget I said it?” He offered, moving back to the couch with two slow steps, only hesitating once he was back in front of you.

“Do you really want me to?”

No. No, he really didn’t.

But he didn’t have the breath to say it, not with you stood there in front of him, actively taking each and every breath away from him.

The air between the two of you was as warm as it had ever been, and as you moved your hands to his waist, pulling his shirt out of his belt enough to slip your fingers against his skin, he felt a near volcanic heat erupt from deep in his chest. Each inch of him that your fingers scaled burned at the heat of the sun, he felt his cheeks flush and his mouth go dry as he watched you lean in closer and closer.

“Querido...” you released in a low moan and that was it for him.

You were it for him.

His hands grappled for the sides of your face, drawing you impossibly closer, chest pressed to his, every inch of you as close to him as possible and still not close enough. He needed more of you, he needed all of you.

And your hands moved with the same ferocity, gripping him tight around the waist, your nails digging in to gain some purchase, some sort of traction to keep hold of as he dragged you into him, some semblance of control as he slipped his hot tongue into your mouth and erupted a similar heat in your chest.

Nudging his leg between yours, he tried to gently guide you back into the couch but your headstrong stubbornness kept you stood tall in front of him, not relinquishing an inch backwards and forcing him to practically grind against you in his attempt. It drew a groan from his lips, but pulling back and finding his face tousled in confusion, you figured it was more of a ‘dammit, let me fuck you’ groan and not a ‘your stubbornness turns me on’ groan.

Then again, he moved his lips to your neck and groan again along your jugular when your hand reached down from his shirt to find a slowly hardening length in his pants, making that latter an equally possible option.

“You want me, querido?” You taunted as his hands trailed down your back, both palming over the curve of your ass before beginning a gentle massage, bringing your hips closer to his with every stroke. Your hands made a teasingly slow trip up his chest, grabbing ahold of his loosened tie and tugging gently as you repeated, “do you want me...”

For someone as smart as you, it was a pretty dumb question to ask.

“Yes,” he hummed out breathlessly against the increasing beat of your heart, blood pumping through your veins just under the skin where he lay his sloppy kisses, trying to taste every inch of you.

“Then come.” You pulled away, leaving his lips chasing after you, his hands refusing to let go. “Get.” You continued to taunt, completely disconnecting yourself from him and taking a full step away. “Me.” Another step back, the smirk on your lips only growing as he huffed out a breath, watching you slink away.

“Baby...” he reached out, taking a step to follow with a breath of amusement briefly slipping from his lips as he watched you move. But you only took another two steps back, undoing the buttons of your top as you moved across the living room, sucking all the amusement from his face, shifting his distortion to a desperately hungry stare.

“Come.” You repeated, slowly rolling your shoulders back and leaving the fabric of your shirt on the floor halfway to his bedroom. “Get.” Your hands moved to your hips now, only after taking a languid swipe over your breasts and stomach, his eyes trailing the whole way. “Me.” Then came the last button on your clothing, your pants coming open enough to continue to tempt him forward at his slow pace, watching you each step of the way.

He’d mind you to be careful what you wished for, but you knew exactly what you were doing.

Pulling the knot out of his tie, he left it discarded next to your shirt, beginning to undo the buttons of his own shirt with a practiced hand as he trailed after you. But once he made it to the bedroom, he found you already stripped of your pants, waiting patiently at the foot of his bed, and even his skilled fingers fumbled on the last button before shucking it off his shoulders.

He had no clue what happened to the confidence he had walking through brothels or bringing a different woman back to his room every night. The last time he had been in Colombia, it had been all that was keeping him going between the raids and the killings on the streets, the bureaucracy and the bullshit of the embassy. Having someone to take it all out on was all that kept him going, even if he wrote it off as keeping informants.

This was different. He felt like a know-nothing college kid again, not knowing whether he should leave the lights on or off because she was a big city girl and he grew up in the middle of what felt like the world’s smallest town. He didn’t want to mess up because what if she was different than being on and off with Lorraine. He was more nervous that night than he was when he applied to the academy, more nervous than when he first got to Colombia...

But just as nervous as he tended to get around you. And he didn’t know why.

Well, his heart was threatening to beat out of his chest and the smirk only grew on your face as he made his way closer and closer, so maybe he did know why, he just couldn’t find the balls to admit it to himself.

He wondered if you could see through him, but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t let his mind wonder if you were going to be afraid of what you found when you looked too closely.

He came toe to toe with where you had situated yourself at the foot of the bed and gently carded his fingers back through your hair.

You wouldn’t be afraid, just as he wasn’t afraid of you. You understood what he was, because you were something similar. The two of you together, your hand reached up to meet his as your other pulled him closer with two fingers looped in his belt, it was all too familiar.

And it was all he wanted.

He didn’t have the vocabulary to say it, nor the breath to utter it as he lowered himself on his knees slowly in front of you, but he could make damn sure that you knew.

Each and every kiss along your thighs was a whisper of it, and as they grew more desperate and your breathing grew more rugged, your hands gravitated to his hair and gave a tug which told him that you knew. You knew...

“Javi...”

He worked your underwear down your legs, sensible for work and, in that moment, the hottest thing he’d ever touched. At least, until his fingers were back on you, dipping into your warmth as his mouth latched on. His nose pushed further into you as his tongue glided down and your legs gave an involuntary tremor, forcing him to hoist one of them up and over his shoulder for a proper hold on you while he devoured you.

You gave another tug at his hair before pulling your hands away entirely, throwing your body back onto the bed with a whistling breath escaping your lips, followed by another moan of his name, “Javi...”

“I got you,” he spoke into your slick folds, two fingers pumping in and out of you while his mouth moved everywhere you needed it as if on instinct, in tune to your body as you shook against him again. “Come for me, querida.”

Your hand made it back to his hair and tugged again, his moan seeming to reverberate within you as he kept going, repeated the sentiment as his fingers moved faster and faster, “come for me.”

If you thought his touch earlier was a volcano, than this had to be something even more explosive, like a firework igniting within you as your eyes clenched shut and your head buried itself back into the messy sheets of his unmade bed. And even as the whimper rolled off your tongue, he didn’t stop, even if his knees were no longer that of a young man, there were more important things to worry about. And that right now, was riding out your pleasure for as long as he could.

Seeing you as such a mess on his bed was worth the soreness in his knees in the morning, hell, there wasn’t much he could be threatened with that would make him stop. For as igniting as your smart mouth and teasing nature could be, there was a lot to enjoy about this version of you too.

Hair tossed back away from your face, legs still trembling slightly, lips open but not enough strength left for sarcasm, your thoughts thoroughly displaced in your head...

But still enough energy left to pull yourself together enough to pull him closer by the belt again, then to do away with the belt and push his pants down his thighs all together.

He stilled again as he reached to push you back onto the bed fully when you stuck your hand down between your thighs and returned with a hand wet enough to stroke over his length. Instead of throwing his head back as the pressure in his gut grew, he threw it forward, leaning down to you on the bed and moving you further into it, attaching his slick mouth to your throat.

Not that your hand was bad, it was just that he wanted all of you.

He wanted to tear you apart and be able to hold you as he put you back together. But it seemed like you had the same train of thoughts racing through your mind as you flipped him over and maneuvered yourself on top of him.

For the first few rolls of your hips, he wasn’t even inside of you and he was grunting into your ear, his dick propped up between your stomach and his as you pulled yourself into him, your hands finding their way back to his neck for leverage and your cheek pressing into his so every sweet sound that fell from his lips echoed in your ear. And when you finally lowered yourself onto him, he made such sweet sounds you nearly came again right away.

He wasn’t a talkative man in general, but in bed, he had his choice phrases in between his grunts and groans. As you began rolling your hips again, his hands fell to your ass and helped you move, pulling a string of curses and even whines from his lips.

“Fuck...” he cooed into your ear as you began to bounce yourself up and down, rolling your hips further into him every time you came back down.

Now his hands trailed up your back, not having the nails you did to leave marks all the way down, but with the pressure from his calloused finger tips, he wouldn’t be surprised if you woke up covered in bruises. As his strong hands finally reached your shoulders, he shifted control of the game back into his favor, holding you around the shoulders and thrusting his hips up to meet you. Each of his breaths coming out in staccato as his mouth moved to your chest, sucking similar bruises into the sides of your breasts, his tongue moving to swirl around the nipple.

He could feel you beginning to clench around him, your thighs beginning to tremble again as he continued to fuck up into you with a newly sparked pace once your hand began pulling on his ear, dragging his mouth further into you. But he wasn’t as close as you were, not until you titled his chin up and met your mouth to his, your tongue pressing into his mouth.

The taste of you was better than anything else in the world, and he wasn’t kidding when he said that if he could bottle it, it would be a drug with a better market than cocaine.

People get high on drugs that could kill them, this would be a much safer drug. It would just be this explosive feeling in his stomach, the heat beading droplets of sweat down his forehead and back, the loss of all thoughts and responsibilities, the feeling of being in complete, unadulterated, love with someone as they made you feel better than anything else in the world...

“Querido...” you moaned against his mouth as the two of you huffed for breaths and that was it. The detonator was triggered and he exploded from the inside out, clenching tight wit he very muscle in his body as his ragged breathing and moaning slurred out against you.

His hands gripped tight to your shoulders, holding your down against him as he buried his face in your chest, even his toes clenching around the sheets bunched up at the edge of the bed as you clenched equally tight around him. Another roll of your hips and he felt it all over again, every atom of his existence sensitive to one thing and one thing only, the feel of you.

You cried out as your hand rubbed your clit a few more times, sending you into a shaking mess above him, but the sentiment from before still stood. He had you as you collapsed against him, he kept you held in tight and didn’t slip out yet, he just held you as you counting to clench around him and the pressure still held in both of your chests.

“Javi...” it was a whimper, your whimper, that brought him back to reality, his back finally falling back into the pillows and dragging you down against his chest, finally slipping out of you and losing the warmth, making you both whimper against each other.

Neither one of you could catch your breath for a full minute.

You settled alongside him, your legs tangling with his and your face pressing flat along his chest, but still heaving your chest up and down in time with his, desperate to recover but refusing to really move.

He wasn’t counting how many times the two of you had sex, but he knew it had been every night you had stayed over because it wasn’t the kind of relationship where you’d stay if you didn’t. But this was different.

He didn’t know if it was because he was finally coming to terms with what he felt about you, he didn’t know if that was why he still felt like he was floating on the clouds above instead of on his relatively uncomfortable bed. All he knew was that you were equally out of touch with reality as you came down and there had to be a reason that this time was so much better than the already spectacular last few times...

And the only thing he could think of was that it was because he knew what he was feeling when he looked at you. He couldn’t say it, but he knew this time.

The feel of your skin pressed against his was distracting, but it had nothing on the fleeting feeling of your breath dancing across his bare chest or the tantalizingly slow draw of your fingers along the puckered scar resting at his hip.

He didn’t know how long the two of you had been laying there he just knew that he didn’t want to move.

He wondered if you felt equally as breathless as he drew his own fingers down from your hair to your neck and back, finding and tracing every little mark he could. He was consumed by you, absolutely lost in you.

It was your hair tickling his chest as your head laid against him, raising up and lowering down slowly with each languid inhale he took. It was your toes trailing up his calf, your legs entangled with his under his sheets, trailing up and down his skin. It was you, pressed so close to him that he couldn’t think of anything else. He didn’t want to think of anything else. He let you become all encompassing because he wanted you to be.

With hands that killed, he followed the faint scar marring your beautiful bare skin, tracing along the back of your ribs. With lips that ordered men into hellfire and a tongue made deals with los pepes, he whispered against your head of hair, “where did you get it?”

The vibrations from your hum echoed through his chest, burning a hole straight through to his heart before you moved to look up at him.

“Kuwait...”

He didn’t know much about you if he was being honest with himself, almost all of your file had been redacted and the type of relationship the two of your had been building hadn’t exactly grown from a basis of honesty and openness, from either one of you. It didn’t bother him, he knew as much as he needed to know, as he was sure you knew about him, but he was slowly realizing that he wanted to know more.

“You were a solider?” He carefully asked back, his fingers never hesitating the way his voice did in their tracing along your back.

“Yeah, before I was recruited to the CIA.”

He had never thought about what you were before you got here, you had lived a whole life as a spy, soldier... He couldn’t help but let his mind wander as to what you were like before it all.

With your chin on his chest now, you lifted your hand to his face, dancing over the furrow of his brow gently as he tried to chuckle and pull back slightly.

“What are you thinking about?” You hummed again, not letting him pull back from your stare even as he tried to push his head farther back into the pillow.

You. For the first time in a long time, just you.

Not drugs, not guns, not violence or cartels, not death and not guilt. All he could think about was you, like a breath of fresh air pulling into his smoke-worn lungs.

But if calling you querida hadn’t sent you running for the hills, he was terrified that his honesty might. Besides, if you could see through him like he knew you could, he didn’t have to answer aloud. So instead, he shook his head and gave a slight shrug to his shoulders.

“Just remembering you in fatigues.”

And thankfully, you let it slide, adjusting your head so the side of your face was back against his chest, your hand drifting back down to find another scar along his stomach, fainter than the one before, but raised just enough to catch your attention.

In the silence, he could hear the street outside, the mindless noise all blurring together into a gentle hum of the city. It was the same hum that kept him awake so long into the night without you by his side, but now, he didn’t know what had gotten into him in this post-coital cuddle. He would almost go as far as to call it relaxing.

Or maybe that was just you.

“Where’d you get this one?” You asked, snapping his attention back down to you as your fingers hesitated along his stomach.

“Car accident, back in college.”

Your fingers drummed against it lightly as his hand finally pulled away from the scar running along your ribs to find one on your shoulder, gently brushing your hair aside to lay his fingers over it.

He couldn’t help himself as the next question fell from his lips, he had never been this relaxed, he had never had words quite so literally tumble from his mouth.

“What are you in Colombia for?”

The thump of your fingers along his scar stopped as he asked and the thump of his heart must have skyrocketed reciprocally because you lifted your head to turn back to face him again. It was fear again, that was making his heart race under your touch, fear that he finally asked a question you wouldn’t answer, that he was finally going to ruin all of this before he ever really started—

“Do you know who Elio Perez is?” You asked, carefully holding his stare as you held your head above his chest and adjusted to really be turned to him.

But he just shook his head, “should I?”

“His game isn’t drugs, it’s power, and he has just enough of it to worry the guys back home, so there’s a task force looking for him.” You explained.

“Here?”

You shook your head this time, “no but he gets his money from an operation run all across the continent, I followed it here.”

“If not drugs—“

“Human and weapon trafficking.” You sighed, the topic certainly didn’t make for good pillow talk. “But now Stechner has me on Cali, so I do my work on the side.”

“Are you allowed to be telling me this?”

Your shoulders gave a shrug, knocking his hand from your scar until it fell back into your hair, gently stroking it mindlessly, trying not to distract either of you. “I trust you.”

Leaning forward, guided partially by his hand as it moved to grip the back of your neck, your lips met his again. As he drew you closer, your hand fell to his chest, resting just over his heart, each beat seeming to vibrate through you until it reached your lips against his, a fully connected loop.

He trusted you too.

He hadn’t been this open with anyone about anything in years, maybe even longer, and he was sure he did. He trusted you.

And as you fell asleep alongside him, he kept repeated the words you uttered over and over again until he was asleep beside you too. You trusted him, he trusted you...

If only his phone didn’t ring early the next morning... if only it could have been that simple...

“Are you going to get that?” You muttered into the side of his chest, as the two of you woke up in unison to the aggressive sound of the phone out in the living room.

“Yeah...” he sighed, pressing a gentle kiss to your head before slipping out from your grasp and the warm sheets to find a pair of jeans and walk out into the rest of his apartment. He moved faster for the phone, as fast as his sore knees allowed, when he heard you groan again at the noise. He picked it up more to put you out of your misery than in actual interest of who was on the other line. But that all changed as he brought it to his ear and let out a breathless, “Peña...”

“It’s Fiestl and we have a problem.”

His brain took a second longer than usual to process the words but as soon as he did, he was practically wide awake, looking to the table where he left his gun then back to the room where you were, instinctively checking that you were safe, back asleep in bed.

It was barely morning, there was light coming in through the window but clearly not much as the clock in his kitchen read that it was five in the morning.

“What problem?” He grunted back into the phone as he wiped over his eyes, trying to wake up more and more.

“We need to talk in person.”

He scoffed into the receiver, “I can’t just hop on a plane until you tell me what’s going on—“

“The phones aren’t safe, Peña. They’re listening to our calls, and I have proof. On my personal and on the office phones—“

“Who is listening—“

“The CIA.”

—

tags: open

@the-feckless-wonder @arrowswithwifi @ms-dont-care @leo-moon @tiffdawg @readsalot73 @way-too-addicted-to-anime @keeper0fthestars @adikaofmandalore @opheliaelysia @magneticbucky @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @larakasser @littlevodika @mandoren

[gretelsfifthcousin]

The Road Home: transcript

(Transcribed directly from the game, errors included.)

Fawkes received a mysterious commission that required his presence in a remote town. The task, destroy nearby evil. Catching word of this, Raine felt a distinct sense of unease at the prospect of her friend going solo, so she decided to accompany Fawkes on this job...

Transcript under cut.

Raine: Finally made it. This commission sure is out in the sticks. Where did you pick this one up?

Thank the gods Mirael didn't tag along this time, otherwise we'd have had her ribbing and moaning the whole darn way.

Fawkes: Is it really so bad? You usually seem to enjoy it.

Besides which, the scenery along the way is nice and we can actually take the time to enjoy it, plus handling the monsters en route would be enough quench Mirael's curiosities. Once you've collected the bounty, drinks are on you at the Rustport bar...

Raine: Alright, alright! Enough already, let's just go.

-

Mayor’s House: Since taking office, the county has prospered, businesses have flourished and people live contended lives.

Mayor: Welcome to Chesterton, what brings you to these parts?

Fawkes: We got word something sinister is lurking around here. Would you mind pointing us in the right direction?

Mayor: Sinister… Oh! You must be the legendary bounty hunter, Fawkes? Indeed there is something, but not here, oh no, it’s across the river.

You can’t have known, but ever since the Hypogeans resurfaced, this town hasbeen in constant danger, it’s been going on for years! But you’re here now, so please, cleanse this area of the lurking Hypogeans!

-

Bar: It's full of hustle and bustle, awash with the sounds of clinking glasses and hollering.

Bartender: Yo! You folks ain't from 'round here, are ya? You lookin' for Monique, too?

Raine: Monique? Who?

Bartender: That there pretty little thing right across the way, heard she knows a lot about a lot, so folks come from far and wide to meet her.

Fawkes: Excuse me, Miss Monique? Would you happen to know anything about any evil nearby?

Monique: Evil? Can't say for sure... But I heard from my sisters there's some kind of pure-white flower blooming across the river, atop the snowy peak.

They say the petals are as soft and white as the clouds in the sky, but the flower's stamen shimmers luminescent gold.

If you kind folks have a way up that mountain peak, would you mind bringing it to me?

Raine: We're incredibly busy people, we don't have time for gardening.

Monique: Oh... One second, perhaps, should you be willing to trade with me, I can give you this in exchange for that flower?

(The girl holds out a crescent-shaped stone of deep crimson to show you.)

Raine: Looks pretty valuable, Fawkes.

Fawkes: I just knew you'd say that...

Monique: All that matters is that flower. Nothing matters more to me, and the value of this certainly can't compare with how I yearn for that bloom.

Raine: When you put it like that...

Monique: The river is just north of here, visible from the north gate.

-

Market: All kinds of products sourced from every corner of the world.

Anxious Man: … Returning a Moonstone like that, they’re so hard to get hold of! How could she possibly dislike it?

What on earth does she actually like!?

-

Affluent Area: The city is also where the dignitaries live, and there is no shortage of young talent in the corporate sector.

Man of Means: I haven’t been back since I left the village, seems so long ago now. I really miss the red plums my father used to pick for me when I was a boy.

Raine: So why not go back then?

Man of Means: You’re an out-of-towner, right? The route back to the village has been cut-off for a good long time now, how would I make it there alone?

That is to say, the town mayor promised year after year to repair it, but never did.

-

Residential Area: The city’s middle and lower class families live here, eking out a living with menial jobs and Empire-given benefits.

Fawkes: Hey old boy, watch yourself! That bag on your back is pretty hefty, mind you don’t trip!

Impoverished Old Man: Thank ye, young’un… You look just like my son.

Raine: Oi I’m seriously concerned for you, what’s with the critical tone?

Impoverished Old Man: … My apologies, it’s just that this young’un reminds me of my son. Ever since he became that what’s-his-face’s guardian, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him. He never returned.

Ah… I’d go and see him myself, but the route through the mountains is long gone, so there’s no point in earning money to make the trip, I’d rather use that money to pay someone else to fix the way up.

I’m sorry lass, you can take these oranges, consider it my apology to the pair of you.

-

Fisherman: A fisherman too focused on fishing will catch everything but fish.

Fawkes: Excuse me…

Fisherman: Shh! … Be quiet!

Raine: What’s his problem?

Fawkes: Try asking again and find out.

(Ask again.)

Fisherman: You’re scaring away my fish! What the heck do you want!?

Raine: Hey now! You’re the one shouting!

Fawkes: Here’s the deal, we saw that the railroad up the southern mountain was washed away by the river, so do you know any other way to get across?

Fisherman: Some other way? Swim across, I guess? Pfft, no! No one here has wanted to go to the mountains for a long time, so no one has thought to fix the broken tracks.

If you’re serious about going up there, then I do have one suggestion.

Raine: Stop beating around the bush. You want a favour, right? Just tell us what you want already.

Fisherman: Well now, the young lady’s got panache! Straight to the point, I like it.

You see, I’ve been fishing here a goodly long while now and I’m parched! Fetch me some berries to slake my thirst, would you?

-

Blueberries (in bag): These sweet blue-coloured berries are a favorite of the townsfolk and savored as a rarity.

Red Plum (in bag): A red fruit with a hint of sweetness, few people enjoy this fruit’s unusual flavor.

Orange (in bag): A common yellow-colored fruit, this juicy refreshment is popular with thetownsfolk thanks to its abundance and affordability.

-

(Bring the Fisherman the blueberries.)

Fisherman: Yes that’s it, just what I like.

Here you go.

-

Missing track (in bag): The lost pieces of track can be replaced if found, just find the correct position to put them down.

-

Fisherman: You wanna know how I came by this track? It was so long ago, I don’t rightly recall! I just know it was flood season and stormy at the time, there wasn’t a soul who bothered to come over here and look.

Thanks to being out fishing at the time, I just so happened to stumble upon it. I had to get something out of this fishing trip, right? So I figured why not, and dragged it home.

Raine: A stormy fishing trip? There really wasn’t any special reason you were there?

Fisherman: … You’re making too much noise! Just take what you wanted and get lost!

(Ask again.)

Fisherman: Get lost! Let me fish in peace.

-

(Fix the river tracks.)

Raine: This’ll let us keep going.

-

Mysterious Hole: The entrance of the hole is pitch-black and unfathomably deep.

(Try and enter.)

A tiny hole, no adult could ever hope to fit through here. It’s dark inside, and there seems to be a draft.

-

Cannon: A lightbearer cannon, capable of firing artillery. To fire the canon, you must fill it with ammunition.

-

(Near the lit cannon)

Fawkes: Looks like this isn’t a route either.

Raine: No, no Fawkes, look! Just ignite the explosives by firing the cannon in front of it, the explosion will make a path forward, right?

Fawkes: It sure will, but won’t that cause other problems?

Raine: It’s not like we have any other way, so may as well give it a shot.

-

(Near the volcanic area)

Cyclops Hypogean: A peerlessly powerful, nightmarish enemy. Better not alert them to our presence without being sure we’re properly prepared.

-

(Near the outpost)

Fawkes: Raine, take a look. It seems like man-made marks left here.

Raine: Could it be related to the Hypogean territory we just passed?

Fawkes: Get going, see if anyone nearby knows anything about the situation here.

-

Outpost: A whole army of soldiers was originally stationed here to patrol and maintain the railroad.

Wounded War Vet: By the divine light! Where’d you appear from? I remember the way up being swept away a long time back.

Raine: You mean the southern railway track? Fawkes and I have fixed that right up.

Wounded War Vet: … Well I never, this is truly unbelievable.

Oh, don’t get me wrong! I’m not pointing any fingers, in fact, I’m really grateful to you.

Back when Chesterton was still just a village in its infancy, myself and some comrades of mine were guards there, keeping the southern route safe.

But after the Hypogeans reared their ugly heads again, this little village in the sticks suffered for it. My comrades fell one after another trying to destroy the Hypogeans dwelling there.

There was one guy, said he was going to get help, but once he was gone, he never returned. He probably didn’t escape the Hypogeans’ sinister clutches. So now, here I am, the last man standing guard.

No-one else wanted to put their lives on the line, and fear drove most of those early settlers away. The only ones left are those who can’t stand to part with their land.

Keeping the village safe from Hypogeans meant removing the tracks to the village.

Fawkes: Chesterton… that’s the same name as the town back down the mountain.

Raine: Hypogeans, you say? It just so happens we’re on the hunt for those as we speak, so why not let us deal with it?

Wounded War Vet: Truly? If you were to destroy the Hypogeans… could I return to the village…?

Bounty hunters, listen to me. I’ve left some things behind in that village, you may be able to make use of them.

Back when I could still put up a fight, I hid some artillery near the Hypogeans territory. Sadly, the foul beast discovered me and I darn near lost my life.

In fact, I never even got to take the gunpowder I prepped, right now it’s still around the camp, you can help yourself to it.

Fawkes: That’s certainly a real help!

-

Artillery Supply Depot: There’s ammunition available to fire the cannons.

Grave: There are wooden planks densely embedded in here, each one with what seems to be a year, a month and a day crookedly scrawled on it.

-

(After firing at the Cyclops Hypogean)

Raine: Hah! That’s a whole lot of firepower! It’s making me want to bring explosives on my next job!

Fawkes: They’ve got nothing on Mirael’s firepower, if she were here I wouldn’t even bother using them.

Raine: Tch, less bellyaching, more working! Let’s complete the bounty objective and then we’ll go tell the old man.

-

(Talk to the Wounded War Vet after defeating the Hypogeans.)

Raine: Hey! Guess what the good news is?

Fawkes: The Hypogeans have been eliminated, there’s nothing more to fear. Danger’s gone.

Wounded War Vet: I can’t believe it, I never imagined… I always assumed it would remain a pipe dream, but now… I, I have to find my comrades and tell them!

-

(Near the second river)

Fawkes: What’s with that expression? The job’s done, right?

Raine: I was just thinking, since we’ve come this far, may as well fix the tracks.

Fawkes: Ain’t any reward for this, not to mention folks might whine about this remote village being left without rescue for so long.

Raine: (shrugs) Look Fawkes, I’m feeling charitable, why are you raining on my parade?

Fawkes: In that case, lead the way.

-

Durri Crypt: A Durri tribe has gathered.

Durri Chief: Even though he’s the Durri Chief, it’s only pure happenstance that he was elected by the people to be their savior.

-

(Near Durri Crypt, after climbing through a Mysterious Hole)

Fawkes: So the lost track turned out to be here.

Durri Chief: Oi! What do you think you’re doing, sneaking around here?

Raine: Huh? Who’s being sneaky? Why the heck did you hide this track here?

Durri Chief: Track? What’s a track? This is a treasure that protects our tribe.

Raine: Did I hear that right? Train tracks and protecting a tribe?

Durri Chief: Our tribe has always had an oracle! When disaster is upon us, only the Divine Moon can shelter us from harm!

Raine: But there’s evil beings hungrily lurking around outside, and there’s the constant threat of floods. Seems to me like that track isn’t protecting much of anything.

Durri Chief: How dare you insult the oracle! Get out of here, before I beat you up!

Unless you can find an object that looks more like the Divine Moon, don’t you dare show yourselves back here!

Fawkes: Perhaps I know where your precious Divine Moon happens to be.

Durri Chief: If… If you truly find the Divine Moon, we will give you our divine relic in exchange.

-

(Near the north Chesterton village)

Raine: The tracks do indeed seem to have come to an end at Chesterton village.

Fawkes: But check out this lever, it’s so well kept and even after all this time. Someone’s been maintaining things here.

Elderly Village Chief: (Surprised) By the Divine Light, we’ve not seen visitors for years now! Did you come up the mountain?

Travelers, you’ve come such a long way, please step inside and get out of the cold. Take a seat.

Fawkes: No need for fuss, we’ve some matters to attend to.

Elderly Village Chief: I see… Then, since you are here before me, does that mean the railway line that goes down the mountain… could it be… operational?

I’ve been kept away from my son for such a long time, he used to love red plums. I wonder how he’s doing.

Fawkes: For the time being, not entirely.

Raine: But trust us, it won’t be much longer.

-

Villager: The inhabitants of the mountains are sincere and welcoming. Their faces are weathered, but also full of sunshine.

Snow Lotus: It looks like the flower Monique wanted.

Snow Lotus (in bag): Flowers with blossoms of pristine white and petals as soft as clouds grow atop the snowy mountains. Outsiders describe it as the purest flower in the world.

-

(Bring the flower to Monique)

Monique: Did you bring the flower?

So, this is the snow lotus from the mountain top? It really is just as they say, as white as pure snow, a refreshing scent and an elegant form. My sisters were right! I absolutely must go and show them!

… No-one can mock me for being an uncultured and uneducated swine anymore, surely?

Oh right, your reward. Here’s the Moonstone, as promised. Please take it.

Raine: Whatever way you cut it, this stone is worth more than that flower…

Fawkes: Whatever.

(Ask again)

Monique: Now I’ll finally be able to keep pace with my sister’s conversations.

-

Moonstone (in bag): The radiant red crescent gemstone looks extremely valuable.

-

(Bring the Moonstone to the Durri Chief)

Durri Chief: This wouldn’t happen to be the Divine Moon, would it?

The water! It receded! I always said something was wrong before!

Thank you. Since we have our Divine Relic back, we’ll return this ‘track’ thing to its rightful owner.

-

(Put down the final track)

Raine: Phew… After all that.

Fawkes: After all so much running around, at least it wasn’t for naught.

Raine: Hah, this really has been an interesting experience. When we’re back I’ll try not to rub it in Mirael’s face.

Fawkes: Indeed, after all, it’s quite something for a certain ‘hot-tempered’ someone to have been so charitable.

Raine: Do you ever stop droning on?!

-

(Pick another flower and offer it to the Grave)

You lay the world’s purest flower in offering to the guardians resting here. The dewy petals look radiant as the gold stamen glows brightly like the sun.

-

(After dispatching the train)

Angelo: When folks in the town got word of the train tracks operating again, they all went on living peacefully as if nothing had happened.

The fisherman who’d been over at the bridge boarded the train himself at some point, making the trip back to the village.

As it reached the guard’s camp the sun was setting. He quietly alighted and slowly made his way over to the place he remembered so well.

[k7l4d4]

Midnight Striga: Owl House/Fairy Tail Crossover First Episode Part 1

Hello All, today, I am transcribing the Owl House/Fairy Tail story I created over hear, for your reading pleasure!! Everybody Clap Your Hands!!!

“Phew! Looks like I lost them!” With an exhausted sigh, Luz Noceda crashed to the ground. “Just once, I wish I could go into town without a disguise and NOT get chased by Rune Knights. Is that REALLY too much to ask?”

With a sigh, Luz hauled the satchel she carried across her shoulder off, riffling through the numerous papers and books stored within. ‘Sometimes, I wished that I was better at thinking things through… but then I remember how boring that is!’ She mused to herself, before laughing aloud in response.

“Still, that was a close call.” Stretching herself out, Luz slipped a picture out of her pocket, gazing fondly at the photo of her and her mother, laughing together. It was one of the few mementos Luz had managed to keep of that time. “I better prepare, never know who could show up.”

One campfire, properly covered to conceal any smoke or light it may give off, and give away her position, and one emergency shelter later, Luz laid into a hearty soup she managed to make. So what you will about her social skills, but Luz definitely knew how to survive off the land… with a little help from the odds and ends she “Found” in town today.

With her belly full, Luz decided it would be a good point to get ready for bed, at least after she got some reading done. “Challenges of Space-Time and the Continuum? Nah, already read that, dull as dirt. Masterworks of Weaponry: A Guide to Gear both Standard and Exotic, cool but more technical than I’m in the mood for…”

As Luz narrowed her choices, she eventually reached the SECOND big memento of her Mother among her things: The Good Witch Azura, a fantasy novel series that had been the guiding beacon to her life of adventure and intrigue up until now. A complicated look appeared on Luz’s face. Ordinarily, she’d stash this book away, content with her memories of happier times that it brought to the surface, but today, she felt like maybe she should give it a proper read. As the words danced across her vision, Luz sunk deeper and deeper into her memories, heedless of the tears pricking at her eyes. All she could see was the wonderful, maddening book that had given her so much joy and heartache. The last thing her Mother had given her before she set out on her journey. Before she could fully lose herself in her thoughts, Luz’s attention was grabbed by the sound of an Owl hooting. Specifically, an Owl hooting from just a few short feet away.

As Luz turned her head, she caught sight of the dumbfounding image of a tiny brown owl, something she would normally coo over in delight at the sight of, were said adorable owl not currently lifting into the air, her satchel of works stored within a burlap sack it was carrying. “TINY BAG THIEF!!”

With a roar of outrage, Luz launched herself after the owl, internally marveling at its ability to support all that weight with its little body, but more than anything furious at being robbed. Luz DESPISED the idea of being stolen from. With an accompanying burst of wind at her steps, Luz effortlessly dodged the trees and boulders the little owl weaved around in an effort to shake her. As Luz closed in, her hand just inches away from snatching the owl’s burden… she tumbled through the rather obvious door-shaped portal that had been floating in the air.

With a cough, Luz pulled herself to her feet, finding herself in a canvas tent, the familiar rumbling of a market just outside. Whatever resulted in her coming here, it didn’t seem malevolent… for now. As Luz looked around the interior, she noticed how odd so many of the items stored within were. “Wow, and I thought I’d seen some weird stuff.” Luz walks over to a shrunken head. “But this? This is impressive.”

“Okay Owlbert, let’s see what you’ve got for Mama today!”

“Who the what now?” Confused, and intrigued, Luz moved closer to the tent flap. As she looked out, she let out a soft gasp of awe. Before her was one of the most fascinating sights she had ever seen, beings of all forms and figures trading and haggling in an old-fashioned bazarre. The tent she found herself in seemed to connect to a stand, one staffed by a surprisingly foxy older woman, grey hair held tight behind a bandanna, wearing a stylishly torn red dress. “Okay, let’s see where this goes…”

As the woman pulled out multiple valuable objects, including an Archive Terminal that Luz legitimately cried at seeing tossed like trash, discarding each without a moment’s hesitation, only to settle on some novelty glasses as being the thing to “Make her rich.” Yeah, Luz wasn’t too sure about that. But when she pulled Luz’s precious satchel and held the treasures over a fire? Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

“NOPE!” With a lunge, Luz leapt into the air, grabbing her satchel and the book Eda had been holding over a flame, and smoothly landed on her feet, not five feet away. “Yeah, sorry lady, but this is mine.”

With that said, Luz took off running, ducking back into the tent and heading for the portal, only to come up short as it folded up into… was that a briefcase? “You’re not going anywhere.” Okay, so the probably crazy lady could do a decent threatening voice. Well then…

Luz lunged towards the woman, aiming a sharp right hook for her torso. The lady’s eyes widened, before she shifted to the side, avoiding what would’ve been a stinging blow by the skin of her teeth. Growling, Luz crouched to the ground and spun, hoping to sweep the woman’s feet out from under her, only for her to once again dodge, smoothly leaping over the attack, now sporting a teasing grin. “That the best ya got kid?”

“Not even close.” Luz snorted. Alright, no more Ms. Nice Girl. Deciding she needed to end this quickly, Luz brought her fist to her open palm, a bright light building at the point of connection. “ Light-Make:”

The woman’s eyes widened. “What the-!?”

“Surging Spear!!” With a fierce grin, Luz released her spell, laughing inside at the dumbfounded look on the woman’s face as a bevy of ornate spears, all crafted from solid light, drove themselves into her gut, launching her into the street.

With a huff, Luz followed after, squaring off from across the lady (who she really needed to learn the name of).

As she pulled herself to her feet, the woman groaned out. “How in the Titan’s name did you do that?”

Luz blinked. “Magic.”

“Yeah, I know that, duh! I meant how can YOU use magic at all?” The woman snorted, a look of fascination in her eyes.

“I learned how.” Luz grunted, an annoyed glare fixed upon her face. “Want me to show you what else I’ve learned?”

The woman grinned. “Absolutely.”

Teeth bared in an answering grin, Luz leapt forward. As she closed in on her opponent, she focused on the energy flowing within her, and shouted, “Water Dance: Percussive Rhythm!!”

In response to her spell, water blossomed around her, circling her wrists and ankles. As she finally entered melee range, she lashed out with a trio of kicks, blunt whips of water following each. The woman dodged the kicks, blocking the water strikes using her staff, before retaliating with an overhead blow. Spinning away from the blow, Luz used the momentum to throw a punch, grinning in satisfaction as it and the accompanying water strike connected, as well as the following grunt of pain.

The grey-haired lady snorted, twirled her hand and produced a glowing ring in response. Luz may not have been familiar with spells of whatever type she was about to use, but better safe than sorry. She jumped back, and just in time, as a slithering tube of stone burst from the ground, the leading part shaped into the face of an Owl. Backflipping away from the spell, countered with her own. “Clinging Flames!”

Her spell lashed out in the form of numerous small sparks, which, while not very powerful, had the ability to cling to something without being overtly damaging, weighing it down. As the spell of the woman met her own, the flames lived up to their name, clinging to the Owl Tube and pinning it to the ground. Capitalizing on the distraction, Luz rushed in, launching an overhead kick to the woman’s face, only to be blocked by her staff.

“You’ve got some moves!” The woman grinned, the fierce joy of a challenge burning in her gaze. “What’s your name anyway?”

Luz returned her grin. “Luz Noceda! You?”

The woman barked a laugh. “Ha! I’ll make sure to remember that. The name’s-”

“EDA THE OWL LADY!!”

With the sudden shout, the crowd that had been watching their brawl scattered, cowering in fright behind the stands and trees. Coming towards them were a menacing trio of masked thugs, local guards or law enforcement by Luz’s estimate. Still, at least she had a name.

The lead guard stomped forward with a growl. “You are wanted for Crimes against the Empire, Misuse of Magic, and Demonic Misdemeanors!”

The now-named Eda groaned. “Will you bozos just leave me alone all ready? I haven’t done anything!”

“And you!” The guard turned his finger to Luz, ignoring Eda. “Are coming too!”

“WHAT!?” Luz shouted. “What did I do!?”

The guard snorted dismissively. “Disturbing the peace and destruction of private property.” He gestured, bringing Luz’s attention to the numerous signs of her’s and Eda’s duel, wreckage scattered about. The guard turned back to them, what little of his eyes could be seen behind his mask glinting in dark delight. “The both of you will be coming with us to the Conformatorium! And please, feel free to resist.”

Luz felt rage, white hot and murderous, burn in her chest. This bastard was more or less saying that, because she was defending herself, something that she was now starting to think may have just been her overreacting again but still, she was going to be arrested, tossed in prison, and left to rot. Turning her gaze to an equally enraged Eda, she asked, “Truce.”

Eda blinked, before grinning ferally. “Truce.”

With a roar, the two rushed the guards. Luz dropped down, sliding under the legs of the lead guard, a ball of wind building in her hand. “Sparrow Swarm!”

Her spell lashed out in a burst of wind bullets in all directions, each individual hit resembling a small bird strangely enough, and took out the guard before he could react. With a twirl, she spun towards the next guard, Eda having already brought down the one closest to her, and they both launched a quick strike to the remaining guard, sending him onto his back. Luz was honestly surprised at how quick they went down, but then again, they didn’t actually seem all that competent. As she climbed to her feet, she spotted Eda magically collapse the stand they had been fighting near just moments before into a bundle she could carry over her shoulder. As the crowd from before came out, roaring in delight at the spectacle, Luz chuckled, rubbing her head in satisfaction at the outcome. Before she could start enjoying the cheers, however, Eda grabbed her by the arm, hoisting her onto her staff, which was flying and COULD FLY apparently, a cheeky grin on her face.

“Up you go, kid!” Eda smirked. “You owe me some answers, and I’d hate for Wrath’s goons to get their hands on you.”

Luz rolled her eyes. “Fine, but you owe me some answers yourself. Deal?”

Eda laughed. “Deal!”

And with that, they took off for the sky.

[kay-chronister]

“The Women Who Sing for Sklep” nominated for a World Fantasy Award: read free here.

A hugely unexpected honor: “The Women Who Sing for Sklep,” a story original to Thin Places and beloved to my heart, is a finalist for a World Fantasy Award. “Sklep” is my playful troubling of Wicker Man-style folk horror, inspired by the folk music gathering project of the composer Béla Bartók and the ambivalent fascination with the “primitive” that fueled early-twentieth-century anthropology more broadly. Also, Slavic mermaids. In light of the story’s nomination, I’ve decided to make it available -- free online for the first time -- to read here. Hope you enjoy!

--

The Women Who Sing for Sklep

The composer stopped when he came to the hillside overlooking the village of Sklep. He asked his assistant to photograph the squat little houses of wattle-and-daub, sipped from his canteen, and looked upon the landscape with approval.

He rode into the village posting to his horse’s trot, stiff in the saddle after many hours of riding. His assistant was fortunate; his assistant got to walk. His assistant’s name was Triglav, after the old Slavic god, which the composer appreciated.

Sklep had no Sunday market, so the main road into town was empty, besides a woman who sold goat’s milk in glass bottles on one side of the road. The composer did not ask her where to find the town magistrate. He already knew. The house at the end of the road was taller and narrower than any of its neighbors. Already he had seen a dozen villages arranged just the same way.

In front of the tall, narrow house, the composer dismounted, put his horse’s reins in Triglav’s hands, then walked to the door and knocked. The horse nibbled hopefully at the dust in front of the house. Triglav arranged and rearranged their luggage. The composer waited, his arms crossed like two intersecting bars in front of his ribcage.

Inside the tall and narrow house, the town magistrate served coffee from an Arabic carafe. The composer’s eyebrows lifted at this display of worldliness. They were on the Hungarian plain. Last year the composer had lived with a tribe who spoke their own language and played instruments made from freshly sanded pine.

“I want to study the music of your people,” the composer said to the magistrate. “I want to live beside you and understand what inspires you.”

The magistrate did not say why, not aloud, but his brow furrowed deeply.

“Go see Magdalena,” he said.

“Magdalena,” repeated the composer.

“Come to the Cemuk festival tomorrow. I will introduce you.” The magistrate was still frowning. “What is that thing?”

He was gesturing to the camera, a cloth-covered lump in Triglav’s lap. The composer nodded to Triglav, who obediently removed the cover and peered down the telescopic lens at the squat, wind-whipped man sitting across from him.

“Please, not me,” said the magistrate, and rose to his feet. “I don’t have any.”

The composer was an expert in his field, so he could not ask for clarification.

***

The composer and his assistant showed up to the festival before anyone else did. They spent two hours photographing and recording and transcribing the gathering of wood by the young men of Sklep, who timidly darted back and forth from a thicket of birches to the field where they laid their kindling. At dusk, the boys lit a cluster of bonfires.

As the sky darkened, the people began to emerge from their houses. The girls wore white robes and had fern fronds braided into their hair; the children were barefoot. Everyone was shivering.

The composer made a note of the festival’s taxonomy: Christian alteration of a pagan summer fertility ritual. He stood at the front of the crowd, beside a birch tree covered in ribbons and beads, and watched the girls shuffle into formation. In a few minutes they would sing, opening the sky, and rain would come to the village of Sklep. The last tribe had told the composer about this miracle so many times that he believed their stories must have some basis in truth.

No one asked the composer who he was or why he had come. No one spoke. After a while the composer saw the girls open their mouths in unison like they were singing, but no sound came out. He shut off his wire recorder. He watched their lips form words he couldn’t recognize, their throats rippling with effort, their chests rising and falling.

Meanwhile Triglav winked into the camera and shot photo after photo. Triglav must either be hearing sound or had expected not to hear sound. No one acted surprised by the silence. The composer felt deeply and profoundly uncomfortable.

The girls shut their mouths in unison. The one on the end exhaled heavily as though all of the not-singing had tired her. Without speaking, they formed a line and walked into the birches. The young men followed at a respectful distance, heads lowered. A boy of eleven or twelve tried to go with them, but his father restrained him. The boy made a little choking sound of frustration. When he saw the look on his father’s face, he fell silent.

As the last of the boys disappeared into the trees, the composer tucked his trousers into his socks and set out after them. The procession had split the woods like a part, pressing down the undergrowth. The path left behind was easy to follow, and no one stopped the composer or his assistant from following. Beside the composer, Triglav shouldered the camera and photographed the backs of the girls’ heads and the boys’ shoulders from between the birches.

They walked for close to an hour. A few of the boys played scuffed brass instruments. Chromatic scales in irregular minor keys. Melancholy, dirge-like music. The music had no discernible tempo, but the boys all walked as stiff and regular as soldiers. The composer made a note to ask whether they practiced the ritual beforehand.

The boys glanced nervously into the trees sometimes; the girls too, though with less fear on their faces. Things with rope-like arms and legs shifted in the branches but never came down. Slick sounds came from the canopy. Presently the procession came to the side of a thin black river. The boys put their instruments down, and the girls laid candle-topped wreaths of pine and yew branches on the surface of the water.

The composer put his notes away and watched the wreaths drift downstream. He could feel that something was going to happen. Beside him, Triglav made a small shuddering sound and laid the camera into the composer’s arms. The composer was surprised, but shifted to shoulder the burden. He watched his assistant join the village youth. For reasons that he would not be able to remember later, he did not call Triglav back to him.

The girls and boys paired off, Triglav beside a girl with a narrow, pointed face that reminded the composer of a fox. The composer watched as they opened their mouths in another soundless song. Triglav sang too.

When they finished singing, Triglav waded waist-deep into the river with the other boys. Ripples formed circles around them. They shivered with the cold. The composer wondered what he would name the concerto he wrote in honor of this ritual. He knew the villagers would drown the little decorated birch tree at the end of the festival. He wondered if they would drown anything else.

Snake-like things came from the middle of the river, the same wet spitting predators that had been in the trees. Legs twined around necks, obscuring faces. The composer already knew his assistant was gone before Triglav sank into the water.

***

The woman Magdalena was old and built like a boulder. She crossed herself when the composer came to the door, saying, “You can never be too careful during green week.”

In her little cottage, she served the composer a fist-sized hunk of black bread with soft curdish cheese. While he ate, she covered the windows and locked the doors. Twice she said a charm. He didn’t know the words but he felt their rhythm and knew they were holy.

When he finished eating, the composer took out a leather-bound notebook and a pencil. He had not asked Magdalena if she would share the village music with him; he had not yet spoken to her. He thought something wordless must have passed between them. Already she had made overtures to protect him from whatever spirits the rustics believed in. He was comforted, a little flattered. He was hoping he would not end up like Triglav, dead on the floor of the river.

“Do your people use modern notation?” he said first.

She blinked at him.

“The treble and bass clefs?”

“No,” she said. “We don’t learn our music, not the music you mean.”

“And which music is that?” He made a note: ritual music distinguished from other genres. Possible religious component to this.

“The music that killed your friend.”

“The music made no sounds. I thought it must be some kind of pageant, or spell, not—not music. And it was vocals only, no instrumentation. Is there a reason for that?”

“You couldn’t hear it?” She looked suspicious.

“No,” the composer said. “Should I have been able to hear it?”

“Hmmm,” said Magdalena.

“Do you make music like that?”

“I can,” she said. “But I don’t think I shall.”

“I’ll pay,” the composer said. For months his artistic failures had been haunting him; he had drifted in a sort of waking nightmare between concert halls and conservatories. He had been longing to make music as the rustics did in his homeland. Now he was wandering the earth like Cain, a mark of wonder on his forehead, trying to find what secrets were contained within the little villages long forgotten by the Poles and the Russians whose operettas were so popular. Civilization had no beauty any longer, he had told someone in a Viennese coffeehouse. He wanted to compose the wilderness.

Magdalena blinked sleepily. “But we are, as you say, soundless.”

 “How can I train myself to hear you?”

“You cannot. Outsiders cannot.”

“And if I am not an outsider?”

The woman laughed from deep inside her throat. She took the notebook from the composer’s hands and laid it on the floor. The wire recorder, she regarded with suspicion but allowed to stay. “You do not want to become one of us.”

“Why not?”

She licked her dry lips. Her eyes kept darting from his face to the covered windows. Shadows were playing on the blankets she had used as makeshift curtains. “When you hear the music, you will not be able to live anywhere else. You will have to stay here.”

The other tribe used to say the same things when they taught him how to play their fiddles and pipes. The composer admired how romantic the people of the plains were. He took up his notebook and made a note: music of central ritualistic and cultural significance.

“While you live among us,” said the old woman, “always remember to listen for rain.”

The composer said he would. Satisfied with his first day of work, he returned to the stranger house in the middle of Sklep. The snake-like things moved in the trees above his head but he did not hear them, or pretended he didn’t. That night, he composed a mazurka on his fiddle. He lay in his bed with the burlap-scented pillow and listened for rain.

The bodies on the floor of the river shifted, and rain fell.

***

The villagers of Sklep rarely left their homes. Even the food-sellers were reluctant to set up shop. While they sold goose eggs and rye flour to the composer, their eyes roved the landscape nervously. Green week, he kept hearing. It was green week so everyone was afraid.

They were not an expressive people. They did not mourn the boys and girls whom they had lost in the ritual. The composer made a note: ritualistic sacrifices occur with regularity? No one spoke of the lost youth, or of the snake-like arms that had reached for them. Magdalena would not acknowledge that anything had been lost, when the composer asked her.

“They will come home. They have to sow their oats,” she said.

The composer sent for a pianoforte. He taught modern notation and scales to anyone who would listen. He composed nocturnes and sketches on his fiddle. He filled numerous notebooks with his observations on the popular music of Sklep, which was mostly ballads full of cruel women and their hapless lovers. Only boys sang the songs. The girls never sang. They sat knitting with their long white fingers. Their feet drummed rhythms on the floor. The composer sat with them and felt impotent.

Many nights the people retreated to the banyas, little wood bathhouses where strangers were not welcome. Boys hauled piles of hot stones from the hearth to the banya door, where their mothers and sisters stood waiting in goatskin robes. At last, the doors shut and flumes of steam rose from the banya roofs. The composer played lonely chromatic melodies on his fiddle and caught rain in a barrel. Twenty-two inches fell in the first week alone.

***

After green week ended, Magdalena washed the blankets that had covered her windows. She was hanging them to dry when the composer reached her house. While she fixed the blankets to her line with clothespins, the composer sat on a tree stump with his fiddle tucked underneath his arm. By now he had grown comfortable watching idly while she worked in the kitchen or the yard. He knew she would not want his help. He wasn’t made for that sort of work.

“You survived,” she said, and beckoned for him to follow her inside.

“Yes,” said the composer. He had been trained not to belittle the superstitions of the rustics. Their mouths and doors would shut as soon as he did. “I thought today we might work on some more transposition of the ballads.”

“No,” said Magdalena. “Today I will sing for you.”

The composer reached for his wire recorder, trying not to look as eager as he felt. He had seen how Sklep opened up when the threat of green week ended. Sellers called out to passersby without taking care to keep their voices low. Children went to and from school in noisy, gleeful throngs. Men walked tree-shaded roads without looking nervously above them. But Magdalena, the composer had feared, would stay closed.

The woman took a long sip of water and grunted to clear her throat. Her arms hung at her sides and her chin pointed to the ceiling. When she sang, she made no sound. The composer sat and listened, his wire recorder humming uselessly in his lap. Triglav would have photographed the woman’s open mouth, her squinted-shut eyes, her flared nostrils. Triglav was dead on the floor of the river. The composer remembered hearing the story of some German hack who wrote a piece made entirely of rests: four pages of silence.

Then, after a few minutes, sound began to come from the woman’s throat. She sang in an undertone as thin as eggshell. The pitch of her voice wavered like an instrument being tuned. The composer could not have imitated the sound on his fiddle or pipe or piano. He could not have described it with modern notation. He could only listen, holding the wire recorder to Magdalena’s open mouth and wondering if the device would even catch the sounds she made.

“Did you hear me this time?” she said, when she was finished.

“A little,” he said. “Are you trained to produce such sounds?”

“I am too tired for questions,” said the woman. “Please, go before the rain comes.”

The composer packed up his belongings. As he reached the door, the sky opened and rain poured down.

***

After green week, Triglav returned. He came out of the river with a wife and a lush, dark beard on his face. When he shaved, his skin was smooth as a child’s underneath. He would say nothing of what happened on the floor of the river. He moved like a sleepwalker.

Ewers of water rested on every flat surface in the small house that Triglav shared with his new bride. The table, the bookcase, the stove top, the porch steps were all covered. Triglav’s wife did not offer the composer anything to drink when he came. The composer was accustomed by now to the inhospitality of the people of Sklep, and took the liberty of filling his canteen from one of the kitchen table pitchers. He found the contents murky and sour, as if taken from still water.

“It’s not to drink,” said the wife.

The composer sat down and waited for Triglav to come home. His assistant’s wife sat down across from him. Occasionally she dipped a dishrag in one of the pitchers and patted herself down with the swamp water, wetting her face and neck and hair. The composer lifted the camera from his lap and took photographs; the way the girl craned her neck, he could see that she wanted to be admired. After a while he asked if she liked to sing. She told him she’d always thought songs were better left to people who didn’t have any in them.

“Any songs?”

“Any blood,” she said.

Triglav came in the door humming. He asked the composer if they could go fishing soon. He said, “Alida tells me we won’t have rain tomorrow.”

From beneath the wet rag draped across her face, Alida said, “There will be no rain until the stranger house is empty.”

Triglav said, “Does she think she can do that? Put us men under siege that way?”

“She’s unmarried,” said Alida. “Of course she can.”

***

At the side of the river, Triglav spoke in a low tone of what happened during green week. He said he remembered those days as a dream. He watched while his existence swam above him. He had no power to stop things from happening on the floor of the river.

The girls could breathe, could swim. The girls’ limbs got longer, their incisors jutted out from their mouths; when they kissed the boys who partnered them on the shore, it stung like salt rubbed in a wound.

He said the girls sang sometimes at night, the same ritual songs they’d sung at Cemuk.

“You can only hear those sorts of songs properly underwater,” Triglav said to the composer. “They make so little sound above the surface.”

The composer took out his notebook and made a note: damage to the inner ear necessary for ritual music to resonate as intended?

“I only wonder,” the composer said. “Why did you marry her?”

“What do you mean?”

“She almost killed you. She might still kill you.”

“Oh, that’s how things are in this town,” said Triglav. “Every woman sees her husband drowned before she marries him. All the girls are made like that. They have to be, or they couldn’t make the rain come.”

His assistant believed in the power of the ritual now; the composer made a note.

“This power she has over you, you don’t mind it?” he said.

“Of course,” said Triglav. “They have us underneath for one week, just one week, and then we have them for the rest of their lives.”

“Or they have you,” the composer said.

The air was hot, for the sixth month had come and the summer solstice was close, yet still Triglav shivered. He said, “You shouldn’t stay here any longer.”

“Why not?”

Triglav wouldn’t say. “We ought to get away from the river,” he said. “A bachelor is worth the same as a grave here.”

“What’s that?” The composer had never heard the proverb before.

“Nothing,” Triglav said. “Nothing. That’s just what we said underneath the surface.”

***

Magdalena was not inside her house when the composer next came to her door. Steam rose from the roof of her banya, so he determined that he would return in an hour; an hour passed and still she sat inside the bathhouse. Long into the night she remained. Every half hour, boys brought hot stones and fresh water to her banya door.

The composer did not question them, though he wanted to. No one in Sklep would speak to him since he listened to Magdalena sing. His music students stopped attending their lessons and his interview subjects made implausible excuses that the composer recognized for what they were: rejections, closed doors. At night he played Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude on the pianoforte. He remembered a story about how Chopin had written the piece after he saw a vision of himself drowned on the floor of a river, raindrops falling over him in a steady patter. The composer thought perhaps he could call the rain to Sklep if he played that prelude enough times. The sun could not shine while someone played Chopin well.

The villagers of Sklep were too reserved to openly blame him for their drought, but the magistrate did come once to the stranger house. The composer admitted him and then returned to the piano bench, continuing where he’d left off in the Raindrop Prelude. “You can leave this town,” the magistrate said, when the composer came to a rest, “whenever you want—perhaps you did not know?”

“Do you fear to be seen with me?” the composer said, dropping to the bottom of the piano as he came to the slow, solemn portion of the piece marked sotto voce. He could hear the rainfall especially well in this bit, the drops coming steadily down. “Will they cast you out too?”

“I fear starving more than I fear the wrath of any woman. The only thing she can do is what she’s already doing: not singing.”

The composer stopped playing and made a note: music a mechanism of social control.

“You believe there will be no rain if the girls won’t sing?” he said, returning to the piano.

“The girls? No. They are—needed. For what they are. For the blood their children inherit. But for now, Magdalena is the only woman who makes the rain come.”

“And when she dies?”

“Another woman will sing for Sklep.”

The composer had reached the prelude’s closing motif, a bright tentative passage like the morning after a storm. He played the last chords. He held them down for longer than the score prescribed. Without turning his head, he said, “That might be for the best, don’t you think?”

***

Magdalena was still inside her banya when the composer came to her house. Steam rose from the bathhouse in white shuddering waves, but still the air felt dry. For weeks there had been no rain. The composer knocked on the door twice, then waited. When she told him to come inside, he did.

Magdalena was wrapped in wet willow leaves, a rustling gray garment that covered her from chin to ankles. Her bare feet, pale and shriveled with water, sat propped on one of the wooden benches affixed to the walls. Her wet hair was bound with fern fronds and hung down her back in heavy bundles.

“I want you to bring the rain,” said the composer.

“No,” said Magdalena, and rose from the bench. The willow leaves crackled softly when she moved. Outside, the wind picked up.

“You won’t?”

“No,” she said. “Not while an outsider stays in the stranger house, banging on foreign instruments and writing songs that sound like bad copies of the ones we sing at Cemuk-time.”

“You refuse?”

“Leave Sklep.”

The composer understood. The crops were wilting in the fields. The river had gone down so far that the Sklep river-girls swimming along the floor were visible from the bank. The trees were as bare as they were in wintertime. Even bathhouse wood couldn’t retain its moisture. Even the wettest things had become perilously dry.

***

Everyone knew who burnt down the banya with Magdalena inside. They also knew when the banya burnt, because the first rain in weeks fell in time to put out the last of the flames.

Sometime later, when he had left the stranger house and taken a wife of his own among the village people, the composer asked Triglav’s wife, the new rain-bringer, to sing for him. She did, in a cool, sonorous undertone that made each note sound like a secret dropping from her lips. The composer could hear her perfectly.

[screpdoodle]

Duality - Chapter Six (The Tick, Tick... Boom)

Kaos pulled the white rubber gloves up to his forearms, rubbing his hands together before pulling his goggles down over his eyes. He surveyed the beakers and flasks set before him, the same ones as on everyone else’s desks. Clear liquids and purple crystals in petri dishes. This looked to be an experiment Kaos was quite familiar with, and the one he had hoped for today. It was the exact base for the catalyst that he needed. Droppers and scoopulas were set off to the side, along with a handheld mortar and pestle. Kaos looked up to the board, where the teacher was just finishing up transcribing the instructions in fluid cursive. She brushed a permed curl behind her pointed ear, then plopped down at her desk, a book in her hands moments after. The other students had already started following along, immersed in their own little worlds. Grind the crystals into a fine powder. Kaos grabbed a handful of shards, dropping them into the mortar. They sounded like wind chimes as they hit the stone bowl, twinkling softly as Kaos used the pestle to grind them down. Well, tried. After a few moments, his hand began to cramp up, the crystals barely having cracked. He huffed, looking around the class. Surely, someone else wouldn't notice if he switched their mortar for his own. Kaos’ gaze came to fixate on the Ent a few tables down from him, their attention captured by the vial of clear fluid they were fumbling with, gnarled hands cracking the glass with absolutely no effort. Kaos’ expression soured, a prickle running up the back of his neck before the vial shattered, liquid splattering over the table and their oaky chest. The teacher looked up as the Ent started wailing, stumbling out from behind their desk and rushing for the door.

“This is the third time this has happened…” Kaos heard the teacher grumble before heading out after the Ent, leaving the class to fend for itself.

Kaos blinked, then hopped down from his seat as the chatter returned to the classroom. That timing couldn’t have been better. Kaos made his way over with mortar in hand, making sure not to be seen. Carefully, he switched the two out, being sure the Ent hadn’t ‘contaminated’ the crystal powder before quickly making a break back to his desk. Now, he could focus. Mix a few drops of activator into the powder. Mix until it forms a paste. Kaos piled the dust into a petri dish, picking out a few leaves before pouring in a few tips of the clear liquid. As soon as it touched the crystals, a plume of smoke curled up into the air. Kaos used his gloved finger to mix the substance around, ignoring the growing heat against the rubber. It didn’t take long for the dust to form into a granular paste. He flicked the extra on his finger back into the dish. Mix the paste in with the rest of the activator. Kaos tipped the paste into the flask, covering his face with his arm to defend against splashback, then began mixing. The clear liquid faded to a pastel purple, bubbling. Now. Now was the time. Kaos took his lunchbox out as the flask frothed, flipping the metal box open to reveal nothing but a napkin and some crumbs. Checking to make sure no one was watching, Kaos pulled on the napkin, removing the bottom and revealing a few thin vials filled with multicolored substances, all tethered to the real bottom of the lunchbox with thick bands of elastic. Kaos first slipped out one who’s contents seemed to pulse and glow with every movement, like lightning coursing across an overcast sky. He popped the cork off, then dumped the entire vial into the beaker, the substance sloshing over the sides a bit as he stirred it in, pooling around the base. Kaos waited for a second, until the static gathering in the air had cleared, then carefully grabbed the smallest vial from his lunchbox. Contained within it was a thick, crimson liquid. The very thing he had spent countless hours toiling over last night. Milking out every last drop of nectar he could muster by the light of the moon. He had spent weeks preparing, tracing their patterns in and out of Mother’s special garden, finding the exact time they were at their most active. The time they produced their best nectar. Beelossoms. A very rare breed that cultivated a very flavorful honey, but when unprocessed, the creatures used it as a defense mechanism. One that caused exploding pustules on any living being it was injected into. Kaos couldn’t help but let his hands shake as he popped the vial open, tilting it over the bubbling maw of the flask. He held his eyes open wide, not risking even a blink, holding his breath as to not jostle the substance. He just needed one drop. Just one. Single...

Plop.

Kaos pulled the bottle away, shooting his hands into the air in triumph as his grin widened. The muted lavender liquid began shifting to a deep copper. It was at that moment the door flung open; the teacher stomping inside, the sudden arrival causing Kaos to yelp. He bumped the table as the two of them locked eyes, the concoction sloshing over the sides. Kaos’ triumphant grin turned to one of sheepishness, then to one of concern as he noticed the flask frothing and bubbling more than before. Before Kaos could take cover, the liquid erupted into a cloud of coppery dust, flooding the air, the other students coughing and spluttering in alarm. Seconds after, alarm began to blare,the sprinklers coming on overhead; flushing the rust colored smog to the ground. In a panic, Kaos grabbed the flask, covering it with his arm so the remaining liquid didn’t get diluted.

“Apologies, miss, I have to go! I really gotta use the washroom!” Kaos spoke hurriedly as he pushed past the teacher, running out into the hall, the sounds of panicking students and his teacher’s yelling nothing but background noise to his thoughts, rust-colored dust trailing after him as he made a break towards the meeting spot.

“Benevolent Ancients, what happened to you??”

Kaos glared at Dyskord as he stopped to catch his breath, attempting to wipe the copper dust from his face. His goggles were resting on his forehead, a ring of uncovered skin left around his eyes. His clothes hung off of his frame, drenched from head to toe in freezing sprinkler water and rust-colored sludge.

“Chemistry is a dangerous thing, numbskull. But that doesn’t matter. Did you bring the-”

Before Kaos could finish his sentence, Dyskord threw a small, metal cage to the tiled ground at Kaos’ feet. Like his communicator, it seemed to be constructed of scrap metal and miscellaneous parts. Kaos let a grin creep across his face as he knelt down to pick up, ignoring the harsh, jolting movements it was making. He held the cage up to the light, inspecting its contents. Contained within it was a small, verdant ball of razor-sharp teeth, pink gums, and stubby limbs. Its eyestalks swiveled around as it tumbled around the cage. When it noticed Kaos peering at it, it lunged forward, gnawing at the metal bars between them. Kaos yelped, jumping back, a little bit of liquid sloshing other the lip of the flask. It bubbled and fizzed as it hit the tiled ground, evaporating almost immediately.

Click click.

Kaos looked over, a quick flash of light causing spots to dance across his vision. When it cleared, he saw Dyskord, snickering as he looked over a developing photo, a small camera clutched in the other. It was a camera Dyskord had had since Kaos was little. He remembered Dyskord running around the house, shaggy blonde hair in his eyes and the clicking of the shutters as he filled rolls upon rolls of film. It was a hobby that had slipped to the wayside as the years flew past, but Dyskord always made a point to bring his old, outdated camera along on their little ‘adventures’. Whether it be exploring the grounds behind the castle, an unsanctioned midnight outing to a ‘nearby’ market; or, apparently, to document Kaos’ humiliation at the jaws of a caged Chompy.

“What do you think you’re doing!?” Kaos hissed, dropping the cage (much to the Chompy’s dismay) and storming over to Dyskord. He reached up, trying to grab the photo from his brother’s grasp. To no avail.

“Oh come on, baby brother. It’s a great candid shot!”

“It’s humiliating, you bumbling buffoon!”

Dyskord merely pushed Kaos back, ruffling his hair in the process, chuckling to himself. Kaos snarled, then took a breath, gathering himself together as he readjusted his clouded goggles, shooting one last glare over to Dyskord. He then thrust his hand forward, beckoning for something.

“Whatever, we need to hurry. Your backpack. Hand it over,” Kaos demanded, motioning with his outstretched hand.

Dyskord swung his backpack off of his shoulder, but simply clutched it to his chest like a child would their favorite stuffed toy.

“And let you get your grubby, science-covered prints all over it? No way!” Dyskord stuck his nose in the air. “It’s limited edition!”

“It's a cloth sack you painted on. Quit being a baby and give it to me!” Before waiting for an answer, Kaos set the flask down and grabbed ahold of Dyskord’s backpack, tugging on it with all of his might before it slipped from Dyskord’s grasp, sending both it and Kaos stumbling back. He fell to the ground beside the caged ball of chlorophyll and teeth, not waiting a beat before zipping it open and rummaging around inside; much to his brother’s chagrin. The Chompy rattled around within its confinement, eyes watching as Kaos threw miscellaneous items from the bag. Sheet music, a half drank bottle of water, what once looked to be a sandwich bag but was now full of white and blue fungus, the list went on.

“Could you at least try to be gentle??” Dyskord begged as he dodged a haphazardly thrown wrench, gathering up what he could as Kaos searched the contents of his bag, blatantly ignoring his wishes as he threw a bag of expired ‘timebombs’ at Dyskord’s head. “I don’t treat your toys like this!”

“They’re collectors edition action figures, not toys!” Kaos retorted. “Besides, most of this is garbage anyway. Didn’t Mother already get on your tail about keeping your bag clean? It attracts Greebles!”

“Oh, and the fact that you hid one of their egg sacs in the wall doesn’t?”

“Zip it, fool.”

Kaos dug his hand into the bag one last time, finally pulling out a small, plastic box with a triumphant a-HA! He draped Dyskord’s bag over the Chompy cage without a second thought, popping the plastic box open and carefully removing what was inside. A crisp looking syringe, the silver tip almost glowing under the buzzing fluorescent lights. Giggling to himself like a schoolgirl, Kaos reached over and grabbed the flask, being careful not to spill any more of a liquid as he balanced it on his knee, priming the needle before dipping it into the substance. He filled it up to about halfway before tapping the end like he had seen done countless times.

“I still have no idea how you got your hands on one of those things,” Dyskord mused as he picked his backpack up, oblivious to the damage the Chompy had managed to do to one of the straps as he slipped the contents back inside.

“Getting detention from the bio teacher has its perks, brother,” Kaos shot a grin towards Dyskord before getting to his feet, his eyes fixated on the shimmering liquid suspended within the syringe. His own formula, his own handiwork, and soon all would bask in its masterful craftsmanship. Kaos cracked the cage open with his free hand, grabbing the Chompy by its eyestalks and lifting it into the air. The Chompy flailed its stubby limbs, snapping at the air with countless rows of razor sharp teeth, thrashing around much to Kaos’ amusement.

“So. Infodump to me again. This stuff is supposed to do what exactly?”

“It’s quite simple really.” Kaos cleared his throat as pulled his glove up his forearm, only for it to slip down again almost immediately. “I, KAOS, have created an ingenious formula, taking the natural properties of Blazing Beelossom nectar and the secretion from sea dwelling thunderslugs found only in the dark depths of-”

“Layman's terms, Kaos. We don’t have all day.”

“I mashed two highly dangerous goops together with some powder to make a boom boom liquid.”

“Smartass.” Dyskord puffed, crossing his arms. “What I don’t understand is, like, why do we need the little bugger? If it’s ‘boom boom liquid’, why not just spill it and let it do its work?”

Kaos snickered, pressing the tip of the syringe against the side of the Chompy’s bulbous head, causing it to freeze in place, simply dangling there as its eyes fixated on the needle. “Because, my idiotic brother, it only reacts when in contact with a living organism. The serum is dangerous on its own, yes, but not explosively so. See, if my theories are correct, this concoction should latch onto the living organism on a molecular level, causing a chain reaction which should, if my calculations are correct, cause it to spontaneously combust. Now, this is no regular spontaneous combustion, oh no-”

“Spontaneous combustion is a usual thing?”

“Hush. Let me finish.” Kaos inserted the syringe as he spoke, the Chompy squealing like a chew toy, before falling completely still, like a fawn caught in the headlights. Absentmindedly, Kaos pressed down on the plunger, the liquid draining into the Chompy, its verdant flesh starting to fade into an apricot orange as it filled with the deadly chemical. “As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, within half a minute for a creature of this size, its molecules will begin to ‘vibrate’ to an extent where they can no longer hold themselves together, causing the creature to explode like a living atomic bomb!!”

Kaos cackled, then paused, catching himself before it got too loud. He looked over to Dyskord, whose expression had become sunken, the corners of his mouth twitching as he eyed the Chompy. Kaos managed to soften his maniacal grin, pulling his mind back to reality.

“Though, eh, the effect is less potent the smaller the creature it latches onto. Which is why we’re using the ‘humble’ Chompy. Big enough to cause some damage, but not enough to, you know, completely demolish the entire island.”

Dyskord didn’t take his eyes off the Chompy hanging from Kaos’ grasp, which had begun to bubble, blisters forming on its squirming skin, the syringe hanging from the side of its head. Kaos followed his gaze, his heart stopping.

“...how long did you say it takes for the ‘boom boom juice’ to kick in?”

“Thirty seconds, approximately.”

“How long have we been talking?”

Kaos glanced to the nonexistent watch on his wrist. “...I’d say around twenty, twenty five seconds, per se.”

“So. We’ve got ‘approximately’ five seconds to ditch the living death sentence and hightail it outta here?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Kaos looked back to the Chompy, who had begun to drool, steam curling off of the dribble. He tried to peel his hand from the eyestalks, the flesh stretching and clinging to the rubber glove like orange putty. Kaos held back a gag as it flopped to the ground, then staggered to get up, his mind grinding to a stop as the Chompy gazed up at him. Then, it clicked.

“Wait. Oh fu-”

Before Kaos could finish his sentence, the Chompy burst apart in a blast of blinding light, engulfing everything around it.

<- previous chapter | next chapter ->

[justasparkwritings]

Codename Cupid: Chapter 11

Previous: Tailing Taehyung 

Pairing: Min Yoongi X OFC

Genre: Angst, Secret AgentAU, AgentAU, Government Agent AU

Rating: PG15

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: Swearing, Kissing, Mentions of Consensual Sex

Summary: The final part of Suga’s orders are carried out. 

Codename Another Shot at Love Pt. 4

Winter After Graduation

           December and January passed without much to report. That being said, everything that OT7 had planned went swimmingly, with one singular exception.

           The dinner at the Lee estate had sent a wave of insecurity through Euna, which made it easy for Yoongi to feign ignorance when he began, deliberately, to pull away from her.

           The first few weeks after dinner were filled with Yoongi convincing Euna that he was going to stay, that he was all in, that he wanted to be with her. She believed him, and by believing him, started the early drafts of their futures together. He hated the deception, the lies he strung together as easily as breathing, the files and documents charting his deception updated daily by Hoseok.

          Hoseok had the unpleasant task of transcribing all conversation and interactions between marks and members of OT7, his specialized training and exceptional hearing made his job easy. Yoongi was instructed to record everything, except sex or any hooking up that went down. Being in charge of most of the tech, he wielded his glasses and watch, set to record when they were on his person, set to turn off when they couldn’t detect his body heat. He could manually turn them off, a button on his watch near the band allowed him to with ease. He’d only fucked up once or twice, not recording when Cupid spilled important info, which angered Namjoon to no end. They weren’t amateurs, Yoongi should know better. Regardless, everyday Hobi transcribed the conversations between Yoongi and Cupid, adding more to the list and charts of the lies being told.

           “Jun-Seo said that Jimin wanted to send you something, a welcome to the gang, gift,” Euna said over dinner.

           Surprised and pouting, Yoongi responded, “A gift?”

           “Knowing Jun-Seo and Jimin, it’s probably a Dae-Seong voodoo doll,” Euna shrugged.

           “Okay, did they want to drop it off or give it to you?” Yoongi shrugged it off.

           “Jimin wants to have dinner, the four of us,” Euna told him, sipping her wine.

           Nodding again, Yoongi asked, “How do you feel about that?”

           “I would rather not,” Euna said.

           “Then we won’t.”

           “Isn’t it part of being a family?” She asked, unsure what the protocol of a functioning family was.

           “Having dinner? Didn’t we just witness Guadalcanal? You think the troops wanted to hang with the natives after they slaughtered them?” Yoongi scoffed. He hated how docile Cupid was towards her family, always doing what she thought was right, rarely what she wanted.

           “Eh, it wasn’t that bad,” Euna responded.

           “You’re shitting me,” Yoongi’s eyes were wide. “War is not normal, I mean, besides Iraq and Afghanistan, that’s normal.”

           “No, I’m not. We’ve had far worse, that one was honestly, average. At least my mom made it through the entire meal, and no one broke a glass or threw a plate at Dae. They weren’t on their best behavior, but it was better than most meals we share,” Euna informed him.

           “That’s toxic, psychotic, that’s fucking horrifying, Euna. You don’t have to put up with that.” Yoongi took her hand in his while she watched her roll her eyes.

           “Didn’t you know that, though?” She snapped.

           “Know what?”

           “The Lee family, and Lee Enterprises, breeds nothing but toxicity and wages psychological warfare on every member of the inner circle. That’s why no one leaves,” Euna’s temper continued to flare throughout the night, sleeping as far from Yoongi as possible, barely acknowledging him as he slipped from her home the next morning.

           Arriving at work the next day, Yoongi and the OT7 team spent an additional week tracing the longevity of careers at Enterprises, as well as tracking hirings, firings and workers who just disappeared from records.

           “Who’s been there the longest?” Namjoon asked, files scattered across the conference table, writing strewn on the glass between offices. He was growing tired, a sign from the cold he’d acquired running a surveillance mission with their recent acquisition, a trainee ready to be put into the field.

           “Not including the Lee family, that would include a somewhat distant Vanderbilt relative, a Henry Claypoole,” Yoongi said.

           “Not a Korean?” Seokjin asked.

           “No, the Lee’s didn’t rise into prominence until, well, it looks like the late 80s, when they did a market sample and it became apparent that an Asian-American owned company would serve better in the future than another fortune 500 owned by a white family, that and Vietnam had ended and American sentiment towards Asians of all kind was changing,” Namjoon responded.

“Once the Civil Rights Act passed, and the government continued to allow Asians immigrate, opinions were changing.” Yoongi added.

           “It wasn’t that long after Vietnam though,” Seokjin was skeptical.

           “It didn’t go over well, they hadn’t gone public until the early 2000s, so it balanced out. It was pretty hush-hush until the mid 90s when Claypoole died.” Namjoon pulled up the paperwork, passing it to Jin.

           “Still, Vietnam, AIDs, their investors were okay with this?”

           “At the heart of the Lee business model, is a relentless grab for power. They were making ins with the wealthiest families in Asia, Europe, UAE, Middle East and South America. There wasn’t a royal family or billionaire who hadn’t put their money in,” Namjoon told the men.

           Curious, Seokjin asked, “Before it was Lee Enterprises, what was it called?”

           “Claypoole & Lee Enterprises,” Hoseok responded. He’d forged a few older documents with their old insignia and water mark.

           “CLE?” Jin had looked at their old stocks, comparing them to other companies when he was in college. They were a fickle company, always hard to pin down or predict.

           “Yes,” Hoseok answered again.

           “They changed their name?” Jin confirmed.

           “It was a complete rebranding to help with their demographics, but it also made sense once Claypoole was six feet under.” Namjoon replied.

           “The less American, the better?” Jin clarified.

           “Exactly, better for the global image,” Namjoon adjusted his glasses before running a hand through his hair. Dark and quaffed, it fell back into place in gently swoops.

           “Claypoole worked in the bank from day one,” Yoongi addressed the three men.

           “Claypoole was just a figurehead, the original chairman of the board while Lee and his crew ran the company,” Namjoon said.

           “How do their hiring practices measure up?” Hoseok asked, he spent zero time reading and understanding the internal workings of the company unless he has to write in a specific person’s voice.

           “They accept applicants in pools, hiring in spring/summer, train in fall, then reevaluate the following spring. Their classes or cohorts are no more than ten people, with a few exceptions based on the market demands and company growth. Some years, specifically at the beginning of the tech boom, they hired fifty people, other years, six. It is fairly unpredictable,” Namjoon passed around another set of documents.

           “The most tenured staff has been there for thirty years,” Yoongi said sipping his coffee.

           “Yoongi, you haven’t had to sign an NDA?” Hoseok asked.

           “No.”

          “What about retention?”

          “No one talks about retention. It wasn’t in my contract at all, no blind clauses or double language.”

          “Has anyone left in the year you’ve been there?”

          “Not that I’ve seen. No one talks about contracts or negotiation outside of the speculation of what will happen come May.”

          “Their plans for negotiating contracts also vary by years spent, first years going through a level of hell that slowly descends as you work your way up the ladder,” Yoongi informed.

           “Why would they want people to stay?” Hoseok asked.

           “They’re all complicit? They knowingly are committing felonies, so staying means no one can hold it against them?” Yoongi suggested.

           “An entire company of 200 people, all insider trading? All embezzling? That’s inconceivable,” Namjoon was unsure how realistic the possibility was.

           “An entire company, minus one,” Jin whispered.

           “Yoongi, how is our Cupid doing?” Hoseok smirked.

           “She wants to move in,” Yoongi muttered.

           “What?” Seokjin yelled.

           “Yeah, oh, and her clothes have begun to infiltrate my closet,” Yoongi sipped his iced americano, his own making, a product of the espresso machine he had begged Namjoon to buy. The coffee ice cubes, a stupid idea from a pop-up video, had turned Yoongi’s favorite addiction into a godly experience.

           “She wants to move in, with you?” Hoseok was shocked.

           “Fuck off,” Snapped Yoongi.

           “What else?” Namjoon asked.

           “She’s been calling a lot, at random times in the day. She’s got snacks in her apartment for me, like really niche stuff. She bought a thousand-dollar bottle of whiskey for me, bought me a pair of silk pajamas that cost near $550. The worst of it all, and I swear, I swear, she’s developing an impregnation kink.”

           Namjoon and Hoseok laughed, doubling over to hold their sides as they became consumed by the idea.

           “Seriously?” Hoseok gasped.

           “Whatever happened at that dinner has her scared shitless,” Seokjin remained calm, though the shock etched into his ageless features. “She’s never wanted kids.”

           “Which is why it’s concerning,” Yoongi said.

           “You stopped using condoms?” Namjoon dropped the laughter to stare at Yoongi. “Don’t tell me you stopped using-

           Yoongi’s eyes widen, cheeks tinting pink as he blushes. “No, no, that’s how I know she’s developing this, obsession. She very vocally, wants my fucking seed.”

           “Does she ask you not to use one?” Hoseok inquired.

           “Yeah and tells me I can take it off and I don’t need to because she’s on birth control, which she isn’t.”

           “Pull out?” Hoseok suggested.

           “Oh yeah, the second least successful method to avoid pregnancy,” Namjoon laughed again.

           “You can tell her you don’t want STI’s,” Jin offered.

           “She’ll ask if I’m sleeping with other people,” Yoongi had gone through every option, there was no good solution. He pissed off Cupid, or he put himself at risk. Unwanted pregnancy was not how he was going to start off his mid-twenties. Fatherhood was not on the table, especially not with someone he at his core, didn’t love.

           “Are you?” Jin wondered.

           Rolling his eyes, “When would I have the time?”

           “You’ve always been a one partner kind of guy,” Hoseok responded.

           Confusion in his eyes, Yoongi tilted his head. “What does that even mean?”

           “Just that-

           “Yoongi, start distancing yourself, as gradually as possible,” Namjoon redirected.

           “Roger that.”

           It was a cliché, become a horrible partner to get the other person to break up with you so you didn’t have to. It’s even more of a cliché for the person hoping to be dumped to revert back to their pre-relationship behavior in order to get their partner to dislike them, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, that was exactly what Yoongi did. Frankly, he didn’t have to try very hard, though, to get Euna to be hurt by him.

           Introverted in nature, he began by closing himself off to her, cancelling plans, bailing at the last second. He became withholding of sex and general intimacy, being standoffish when she tried to get him to open up, annoyed when she tried to use her wiles against him. He tapped into all the flaws past partners had accused him of and let them run wild.

          It was slow at first, building up Cupid’s resentment towards him, for every step away from her he took, she took three more towards him. Her internet searches became solely based on ways to keep Yoongi, entrapment through a hole in the condom, or preying on him after a night of drinking. She lost all sense of what was acceptable, what was normal, and spun out completely. Cupid tried to track his phone, bought burners to call and catfish him, put extra security in place in his corner of Lee Enterprises to ensure she had eyes on him all day. Paranoia and obsession have no place in a healthy, stable relationship, but Yoongi couldn’t fault her for feeling both towards him.

          The final straw, on Yoongi’s end, was a confrontation the night following Cupid’s weekly family dinner.

          “Why didn’t you come to dinner? Who were you with?” Cupid demanded when she called Yoongi.

          “I told you, I have a deadline and Matthew needs the plans before the market opens on Monday,” Yoongi reminded her.

          “You’re not at work,” She snapped.

          Calmly, Yoongi exhaled, “I’m at my apartment.”

          “Why are you lying to me,” It wasn’t a question, but an accusation.

          “I’m not lying, Euna, I am at home working,” Yoongi answered.

          “Why don’t you ever come to dinner?”

          “You said I didn’t have to, after the first one,” Yoongi reminded her.

          Cupid scoffed, as if that was a true reason. “Jimin’s there, and recently, Dae’s wife has been making an appearance.”

          “I would prefer to not engage with your family unless I have to. It blurs the lines of work and personal –

          “But you’re dating me! You’re fucking me, you’re in love with me.” She rattled off, “Why does my family have to be the problem? What’s really going on?”

          “What do you mean?” Yoongi was already tired of the conversation.

          “You’ve been acting weird for months. You don’t want to sleep with me, you hardly stay over, you’re distant and weird,” Accusation after accusation, Yoongi had made a list himself of what she could potentially throw at him.

          “I have been going through a lot, can’t you understand that?”

          Scoffing again, Cupid responded. “You’ve been going through a lot? What about me?”

          “Euna, I know I’ve been shit, I just-

          “You don’t love me anymore, do you?” Bingo.

          “What?” Yoongi feigned hurt.

          “You’re not denying it,” She snapped.

          “Do you really think that?”

          “Yes, Yoongi, I do. I think you used me to get into good graces with the company so you can move up the ladder. Now that you’ve got some traction, you fucking don’t care about me or our relationship.”

          “That’s crazy! When have I ever shown any sign of wanting to move up the corporate ladder? It wasn’t my idea to fall into bed with you, Euna, your mother set this up,” The angrier he pretended to be, the faster this would be over.

          “Why are you acting like this if you’re still in love with me?” She demanded to know.

          “I told you, works been chaotic and I –

          “If work’s chaotic, why not tell me? I can change that.”

          He held in a laugh, “That would be like nepotism but worse.”

          “Are you saying this to make me feel better?” She asked, voice softening.

          “Euna,” If only she could see him, eyes closed, glasses on his desk, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He was tired. Tired of Euna, tired of working at this company, tired of lying. He didn’t often burn out on missions, but this had taken him to his edge.

          “You don’t want to have sex, you don’t want me in your space, you cancel plans, you never answer my calls. Yoongi, are you cheating on me?”

          “What?”

          “You are, aren’t you?” She could feel the tears breaking through, the resolve of anger she had disappearing.

          Yoongi took a deep breath, knowing she was going to throw up whatever she could until it stuck.

          “Euna, stop,” Yoongi sighed.

          “Then tell me what’s going on,” She whispered.

          He had to say it, he had to otherwise this fight would continue on, resulting in an in person confrontation. “We should break up.”

          The silence on the other end was worse than her screaming at him.

          “What?” Her voice was still soft, a heartbroken whisper.

          “We want really different things, and I don’t know if I can or will ever be able to give you what you need. I’m sorry, Euna, I am,” Yoongi said. He wasn’t a heartbreaker, he loved fiercely and passionately. But Cupid was a mark, plain and simple.

          “Fuck you, Yoongi,” She spit.

          “I’m sorry, Euna,” He laid on the apology.

          “You had my heart,” She sniffled.

          “I know,” He sighed.

          “And you stomped on it, ran it over with an 18-wheeler, and threw it into a blender. Fuck. You.” Cupid was back to anger, coursing through her like lava down the side of Kilauea.

          “I’m sorry,” He repeated.

          “I want my stuff back, and I want you to put in your transfer at Lee Enterprises,” Her voice was fueled by anger and sudden heartache.

          “A what?” Yoongi was shocked.

          “Transfer, you can’t work under me after this,” She had switched to business mode. There was one thing Yoongi had remained impressed by, and that was Cupid’s ability to put the job over everything else, everyone else, not because she had to, because she wanted to.

          “That’s unlawful,” Yoongi warned.

          “I don’t care.”

          “Euna,” He pleased.

          “Transfer, or I will fire you.” An ultimatum, something she never wanted to be faced with.

          “You can’t –

          “Don’t. Test. Me.”

          “Okay, I’ll do it Monday,” Yoongi compromised.

          “You can send my stuff back, I don’t want to see you.” Cupid hung up. In her home, she threw her phone against the wall, watching it rebound onto the carpet before she fell to the floor, tears abounding. How many heartbreaks could she withstand? How many tears would fall at the emotions of another man, breaking her spirit? In some deep recesses of her subconscious, Dae-Seong’s words played through without a scratch. Maybe he’d been right.

          Yoongi texted OT7, who no doubt had already known through the rapid transcription Hobi was almost certainly completing, or through listening to the fight go down. The receipts would show that Yoongi had followed orders as directed, he completed his mission, his mark had been hit. Hook, line and heartbreak. Looking at the calendar, he laughed darkly. Of course, he would break up with her days before Valentine’s Day.

Next: Codename The Mochi of It All