#underworld detective magazine

[oakendesk]

Underworld Detective Dec 1951

artist unknown

[pankekesito]

Rust Cohle's tattoos - A mini-essay on their possible meaning

Hi, this is probably my longest post, I may have to split it into two parts due to the length but I will try to see that everything can be compacted into one post.

DISCLAIMER!

This mini essay is done purely as a hobby by a die-hard True Detective fan, none of this is actually 100% confirmed (other than the interview part of ‘The Last Magazine’). While this is as logical and accurate a research as possible, it's just a hypothesis of what Rust Cohle's tattoos seen in the series could mean; if you don't think it's reasonable, that's fine. All opinions are valid as long as they are made on the basis of respect!

Without more to say, I hope you find this Mini Essay interesting and fun, I made it with all my love for you (and obviously because of my love for Rust); I would like to know your opinions about it, even if they are not the same as me! (I will leave a section in my profile to give you the sources used in the research in case you want to know more about the arguments to support my opinion).

An apology if something is not fully understood, English is not my first language ⸜❤︎⸝

And remember, ⥁‘Time is a flat circle’⥀

Rust Cohle has two tattoos which are a bird of unknown species on his right forearm and an unidentified symbol on his chest; right where the heart is located.

Focusing on the forearm tattoo, thanks to a short interview in “The Last Magazine” published on May 10, 2016; Josh Lord who is a renowned tattoo artist who has worked to perform various tattoos in the entertainment world along with Joji Fukunaga who directed the first season of the series mentioned that they wanted the tattoos presented in this one to have the same detailed realism that is reflected in the audiovisual product. For the case of Rust Cohle initially in Pizzolatto's original script his tattoo would consist of a pair of flaming dice. Personally I'm glad to know that this didn't happen because while they tried to give him that wild and dangerous meaning, Rust doesn't believe in the randomness of fate and every action he takes he does it consciously, carrying in him the responsibility for his actions and not granting it to fate. Josh and Fukunaga had something clear and that is that the tattoos would go from being a decorative element to a characterization, a symbolic element of the souls and the truth of the guts of the characters.

For this very reason they chose to draw on Cohle's undercover past as a member of a criminal motorcycle gang, whose emblem was originally intended to be a raven. Subsequent revisions turned the gang into the “Iron Crusaders” where very aptly the tattoos of its members refer to anvils, bones, engine parts, demons, weapons, etc. Something important to note is that the vision of the Iron Crusaders is dark, mysterious, funereal and gloomy (as all its operation within the series), the initial idea where the raven would be its emblem makes sense because in general the raven is associated with death because they are scavengers, predators and for some civilizations they embody death and the underworld.

But while the terrain where the Iron Crusaders unfold has a close relationship with the first and best known negative view (symbolically speaking) of ravens, its positive meaning has more to do with Rust Cohle's behavior and reason. The raven can also be a powerful animal totem, a protector and spiritual guide, a shape-shifter, a messenger and the symbol of transformation. In its benevolent symbolism, it represents giving up on the human world in search of wisdom, as well as being a cunning and intelligent animal capable of adapting and embracing change. In the Scandinavian tradition, the raven is a sacred and wise figure that brings virtues of “reflection” and “memory” while in Native American tribes, ravens are revered for their intelligence and spiritual importance. They are considered messengers of the spiritual world, possessors of universal wisdom and protectors against evil forces. It is also said that in Norse mythology there were two ravens that always accompanied the god Odin, whose names were Hugin and Munin. Hugin represented the power of thought and Munin represented memory and intuition; every time the sun rose both were sent to earth in search of information and every night at sunset they returned to Odin's palace and whispered all the news and events of which they had learned on their visit to planet earth.

A fact that may not be so relevant (and most probably I am just adding it to be interesting) is that there is a constellation called Corvus having four points in its constellation that make it to be, which is related to the raven (it is all due to a Greek myth). I like to think that this has a lot to do with Rust's tattoo because of the position of his tattoo (more properly speaking the wings) with the resemblance to the graphic references usually used for the raven of the constellation Corvus and the close relationship it has with the universe and the cosmic. Also the four points of the constellation remind me of the four stages of Rust Cohle seen during the series (1995, Crash Comeback, 2002, 2012).

Now we can't overlook the fact that the Celts held ravens in high esteem, associating them with battles and the Celtic Goddess of war and destruction (Morrigan). Ravens were seen as protectors and warriors, embodying the qualities of intelligence and strategic thinking. The raven's ability to shape-shift, attributed to Morrigan, further emphasizes its transformative nature. All of the above meanings attributed to ravens provided by various cultures, whether with a positive or negative focus curiously fit perfectly well with the ideology of our armored detective Rust Cohle. Rust is surrounded by silent anxiety, tragedy, death, chaos and pain. He himself struggles even with internal battles, his demons from the past. Yet he has a strong mentality, he uses his reason to adapt to even the most unsafe territories even if it means changing shape (like Crash). The fact that he more than likely made the decision to get the tattoo during his infiltration as Crash when he was in the narcotics department is reasonable as he was like a predator within the gang, a shape-shifting scavenger trying to get answers as he shrewdly roamed the rubble of human evil. The raven was his way of remembering his purpose and no wonder, Rust is very skilled with manual tasks. His hands allow him to do his work properly; watching them constantly do the dirty work and hide or reveal the ashes when necessary makes him evoke his intention in this world and how ephemeral it is on the earthly plane. It is not for nothing that the raven is on his forearm, showing his bones as a sign that death will always be with him until his last breath.

To focus on his last tattoo (and the most intriguing in my opinion) we must go back to Celtic culture. As we have seen throughout the series, symbols and religions (beliefs of something beyond comprehension) are always present because they touch the most sensitive parts of human beings. Their constant search for belonging and the meaning of life. In Celtic culture runes are used as signs, talismans, symbols and runic alphabets. Basically runes are a writing system that was used in Scandinavia and parts of Northern Europe from the Iron Age to the Middle Ages. Although it is not known exactly who invented runes, it is believed that they emerged sometime around the 1st century AD. Specifically “Rune” means secret. Runes are magical instruments of power, carriers of secrets and wisdom. There are several types of runes with vast meanings however in my research I found four runes which I will use to support my hypothesis about the possible meaning of Cohle's chest tattoo. First we must be certain that the tattoo on the chest of Rust does NOT exist as such in the Futhark Runes, or in any other compilation of symbolism so we can say that this symbol is a composite symbol; referring to the fact that although it is based on the Celtic runes, it has NO direct relationship, nor systematically objective. We can notice it even more thanks to the inverted cross of the tattoo (soon we will return to this point).

Talking about the possible runes used for the composition of the tattoo we have:

•Rune Thurisaz ᚦ

Meaning: Door. Reflection. New options. Magical use: Regeneration. Concentration. Override negativity. Meditation. New beginnings. When you need luck and control of any circumstance. Protection and defense. Neutralize enemies or opposition.

•Rune Raidho ᚱ

Meaning: Wheel. Travel. Communication. Help in taking risks. Self-healing. Magical use: Changes. Protection. Transformation. Justice according to good. Safe and comfortable travel.

•Rune Wunjo ᚹ

Meaning: Joy. Comfort. Harmony. Security. Tranquility. Magical use: Triumph. Motivation. Recognition. Achievement of goal. Success in travel. Luck in love or work.

•Rune Berkana ᛒ

Meaning: Growth. Awakening. Rebirth. Development of creativity. Magical use: Healing. Wholeness. Clarity. Motherhood. Self-realization. Fertility. When seeing the runes presented we can relate them with Rust Cohle because they present several descriptive concepts that define him; but to my point of view, of those presented the rune more linked (and similar to his tattoo) is the rune Raidho.

Throughout the series we can see the entire journey Cohle goes through both through the Lange case that is presented to him, as well as his growth individually. His journey in general has been dangerous, putting him in a vulnerable state but never fully achieving it, having Rust in a cathartic state of progression where although the road was arduous, it always ends with him having a safe process of introspection. This path was just like a wheel where he repeated over and over again aspects of his life that he had already lived (Time is a flat circle) but thanks to communication these repetitive aspects had a significant change. The clearest example of this is his relationship with Marty Hart; in the series they had a partnership that while solid was undeniably chaotic. Marty did not want to listen to Rust and Cohle could not stop spouting his pessimistic ideology until the issue related to Maggie happened which made them separate. It wasn't until 2012 that Rust swallowed his depressing verbiage in order to talk to Marty and he, took his time to listen to Cohle and support him in his plan. Changing their relationship and the situation through communication. Precisely to this, both were able to give the due justice that the case deserved and finally Rust was able to be a little warmer with himself, finally accepting the past that haunted him and taking the first step to self-healing.

Of course, the Raidho rune and the symbol on Rust's chest are not the same because as I mentioned earlier, Cohle's tattoo is (probably) a composite symbol but the resemblance both physically of the rune and allegorically to the detective's ideology is something worth mentioning. Rustin Cohle's first step in understanding his pain and being able to allow himself to open up honestly and vulnerably with someone as he did with Marty was to be humble about his feelings. Humility was an important factor in this, as well as dealing humanely with his penance given by the past. These two issues are ideological characteristics given in the Christian symbol of the inverted cross of St. Peter. According to tradition, Peter asked to be crucified upside down because he did not consider himself worthy of dying in the same way as his master, Jesus of Nazareth. However, in other contexts the inverted cross is often used as a symbol of atheism, humanism and occultism. This is also notoriously seen in Rust's philosophy as we know that the belief in something greater than the human being which governs the commandments of humanity seems ridiculous to him. A simple stoic belief to alleviate the rottenness of reality. That is why perhaps that rune was transformed according to Rust's philosophy (which makes sense, Josh Lord does not do work without tying up loose ends; much less from the hand of Joji Fukunaga).

While we don't have an exact answer about the meaning of the tattoos of our endearing and cold-hearted detective, I like the idea of trying to unravel the hidden meanings among the symbols that physically characterize his personality, trying to investigate as logically and clearly as possible the probable exact representations of Rust's philosophy embodied in his skin. I believe that the series is so well designed that even the smallest details count and that's why I took the time to try to dig into the secrets of what Rust's tattoos want to tell us.

If you made it this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read this mini-essay! It was really fun to do, I think that while I'm not sure what his tattoos really mean; I was able to better understand Rust in different and meaningful ways. I hope someday we can know for sure what they mean (although part of me doesn't want to, because that would take the fun out of it). I'd really appreciate it if you could leave a like if you found it informative or entertaining, comment on what you thought, if you have any other theories of its possible meaning or reblog this mini-essay so more people interested in True Detective could see it! A kiss to whoever reads this and I hope the Yellow King never finds you! 💛

[sammylbir]

Day 3: Talentswap (Celeste x Sayaka)

"Here's your tea, miss.", the waiter told the customer, as he placed a cup of dark red tea onto the table. Looking up from her magazine, the customer took a look at the liquid, her right eye fully focused on the elegant cup and nice shape, along with the fluid in the cup itself. With a smile, she adjusted her eye patch and turned to the waiter gently.

"Thank you.", she told him. "I love Roiboos tea."

The waiter nodded and then walked off, as the girl began to grab the handle and blow off some of the steam.

Her appearance was unique to say the least. A neat white suit with dark red accents contained a slim woman with wide shoulders and blue hair, along a pair of white gloves. Her eyes had a soft touch and yet the eagle-eyed viewer would notice that said eye contained something like a storm.

If she saw guilt in you, the storm would ravage. If not, it would rest. Calm, like the sea.

This was Sayaka Maizono, a famous detective and one who struck fear in the hearts of any criminal that she crossed paths with. Known in the underworld as The Demon Detective due to her ruthless and cold pursuit of crime, most tried to avoid her. Lest they'd face the punishment for their crimes.

But right now, Sayaka was off-duty. It was a sunny day in Bristol and she had decided to drink some hot beverage, in order to relax and to start the day off with a smile. After all, being a detective was no easy feat and she always appreciated whenever she was able to take a day off.

She took a sniff off the tea.

"Mhm....Roiboos...", she said to herself happily. "I wonder if it tastes as good, as the one in Groningen? Only one way to find out."

She grabbed the handle and took a sip of it, smiling happily and humming in delight.

"Delicious?"

Sayaka stopped and turned her attention to one of the other tables. A woman was sitting there, roughly around her age and smiling sweetly at her nearby. Her appearance was interesting to say the least.

Black hair with two massive pigtails, a black jacket with a chess-pattern. Her eyes and lips were as red as roses and her skin was uncharacteristically white and her jawline was rather angular, which contrasted with her rather feminine appearance.

Sayaka nodded and smiled sweetly.

"It is.", she answered content. "I like the temperature. It's not hot enough to burn my tongue yet not cold enough to taste gross."

"Indeed. The Cafe here is known for their exquisite tea. Especially if you add some milk to it."

"You can add milk to tea?", Sayaka asked surprised and rhe stranger nodded elegantly.

"Indeed. There are so many variations, on how one can drink tea. Whether it'd be with candy sticks, sugar cubes or milk. The variations are endless."

"I see... I didn't know that.", Sayaka replied and smiled. "Are you a tea expert by any chance?"

"Well....thank you for the compliment.", Celeste replied and then shook her head. "But my actual ability belies in something more sophisticated."

"Oh really? Like being a skilled actress?", Sayaka asked, to which the stranger tilted her head.

"An actress? Moi?"

"Yes. That's a very convincing french accent if I've ever heard one before.", the detective explained and smiled.

"Convincing? Why of course. I am french after all. The name is Celestia Ludenberg. But you can call me Celeste.", Celeste introduced herself and Sayaka smiled warmly.

"A pretty name. And i am-"

"Sayaka Maizono.", Celeste replied and smirked. "You are quite the celebrity after all."

"Celebrity?", Sayaka asked, as her cheeks reddened while giggling along. "You're such a charmer. I'm just a detective."

"A detective that brought a corrupt Dutch politician to justice.", Celeste answered with a smirk. Sayaka giggled.

"It seems my reputation precedes me. You are a fan of me or what?", she teased, hoping to get some reaction from Celeste. But the latter played it cool.

"Well I have been interested in your career. You seem pretty smart, you know. And I respect smart people. And....."

She smirked.

"... test them."

"Test, you say? With what?", Sayaka asked curiously and eyed the faux french-woman

carefully.

Her accent was almost convincing. Almost. But Sayaka could tell that it was forced.

After all, no french person would pronounce their last name in an english way.

Celeste grinned and took something out from behind. And it was a chessboard. One that seemed very antique and made out of wood, the figures all being in proper place. Rook, knight, pawn, the full package.

"Chess, huh.", Sayaka realised and smiled. "So this is your forte?"

"Oui. I'm a very skilled chess player and am passionate for the sport. And I always appreciate a good battle of wits, so....Care for a game?"

"Hmm...", Sayaka mumbled to herself and eyed the girl for a brief moment, before getting up and smiling. "Sure. On the condition that I get to play as black."

"That can be arranged.", Celeste replied with a smirk and then Sayaka sat down, while the chess player grabbed the pawn with a swift motion and placed it forward.

What followed next, was a fierce yet silent battle. Celeste went immediately on the offensive and Sayaka lost most of her pawns at first and yet she kept up and studied her opponent. Her mentor always taught her to remain calm and composed and to always wait and see.

Which is why Sayaka took her time, before taking out her opponent's pawns, going on the offense. With a sweet smile, both contestants swapped pieces with one another, until....

"Hm.", Celeste noted, as Sayaka took out her last pawn. Only one pawn and king each remained, a clear draw. "So.....a draw. Interesting."

"Yeah.... you're quite good.", Sayaka admitted sheepishly. "I really shouldn't have given up my knight this early..."

"And i should have noticed the trap you laid for my queen.", Celeste replied and giggled. "I had fun nevertheless though. You are a skilled and smart woman Sayaka."

"Thank you. I can say the same about you as well, Celeste.", Sayaka said and smiled. "How about we have some dinner later? So we can get to know each other more. My treat."

"Of course.", Celeste answered and returned a charming smile. "Just tell me when and I shall come."

So, the two agreed on a time and they eventually went separate ways, neither of them leaving each other's heads.

Sayaka wanted to learn more about the woman, who pretended to be french.

And Celeste wanted to learn more about the demon detective and the rumors.

What both knew in the end though, was that this was going to be the beginning of something.... wonderful.

The End

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Drag/Drag Queen Masterlist

Aria in the Snow (ao3) - Eavans

Summary: If you asked most people of Daniel J. Howell’s lot in life, they’d tell you it was pretty good. A small career writing for a fashionable magazine, the heir to one of New York’s most prestigious hotels, the convenience of youth and an ailing millionaire father… what more could an 18-year-old ask for?

So when a night at the symphony turns into the start of a whole new double life in the city’s queer underworld, the heir to New York’s most fashionable hotel will have to learn what is what when you're dating a cabaret singer, and who is who when that singer becomes a troubled star.

So it’s nothing but fate to blame when things start to fall apart. The catch? It’s the last half of the 1920s—

And this romance is illegal.

Black Velvet (ao3) - Nefertiti1052 (Succubusphan)

Summary: Phil is a successful photographer who just landed a photo shoot with his muse: Rupaul’s Drag Race winner, Obsidian Rose. Will he be able to win a place in her heart as well?

break free (ao3) - wiccamoody

Summary: Dan is a competitor on the first season of RuPaul's Drag Race UK.

Dance for me? (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Murder, intrigue, and a dashingly charming police officer- all Dan needs.

The scene is set- a series of murders in 1922, an undercover officer who's discovering that he may not be as straight as he thought, a gorgeous young drag queen, and a budding romance between furtive glances over shoulders. Detective Phil Lester is sent to bust a drag ball, but instead is drawn into the eyes of Daniel Howell. He makes an impulsive choice, and begs the young man to help him- the murders are stacking up, and Phil needs a partner.

Dan, of course, agrees. How could anyone resist the deep blue eyes of someone that swept you off your feet?

Drag Me (Wattpad) - natwhatacat

Summary: Phil Lester is a drag queen. What happens when the school bully Dan Howell shows up to the show one night?

Dude Looks Like a Lady (2) (3) (4) (5)- catlester

Summary: Dan is a drag queen.

For The Gods (ao3) - danrifics

Summary: Dan and Phil's son, Evan, is in the top 4 of RuPaul's Drag Race UK. This weeks task is 'Family makeovers' and Dan volunteers to be Dragified.

I Make These High Heels Work (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Dan explores his more feminine side when he gets a day off and spends it in from of a mirror in a dress and heels.

Just Another Drag Queen (ao3) - iamthechickenqueen

Summary: The Fantastic Foursome find themselves in a complicated whirlwind of love, deception and men dressed as women

Kiss Me on the Mouth (And Set Me Free) (ao3) - xoPrincessKayxo

Summary: Dan finally manages to get an invitation to The Underground, an extremely exclusive club. While there, he is mesmerized by Luna, a captivating drag queen that looks a lot like the gorgeous stranger he met earlier that night

Shante, you stay (ao3) - danrifics

Summary: Dan and Phil's son is a drag queen know as Betta Norman

some killer queen you are (ao3) - possumdnp

Summary: Dan’s enjoyed taking a break from YouTube, but for some reason, he still feels like something is missing. Determined to fill the creative void in his life, he decides to try out something new: drag.

The Birdcage (ao3) - sadlybunny

Summary: Phil Lester is the owner of the popular drag club, The Birdcage. Dan Howell, his long term partner, is the headlining queen “Amethyst Star”. But when Phil’s son comes to them with important news, their relationship is threatened by the promise of new in-laws who might not know that Phil is gay.

Walk Like A Man (ao3) - Spiteful_Letters

Summary: Phil is a drag queen named Phillippa Treasure.

Dan is just very confused.

we break the dawn (ao3) - templeofshame

Summary: The last time Dan was here without a tour hanging over his head, he wasn’t even watching Drag Race, let alone ready to be spotted in the crowd at a drag show. Tonight, if someone recognizes them, asks for a photo, even takes a creepshot… they can knock themselves out. There’s no limit to how queer Dan and Phil can be in public, not anymore.

[seattlemysterybooks]

flickr

November 1951 issue

cover art by Michael McCann

Seattle Mystery Bookshop

[theartisticendeavor]

Vintage Magazine - Underworld Detective #01 (Nov1949)

[blueiscoool]

A Rare Roman Statue Stolen 50 Years Ago Found

A Dutch art detective, dubbed the "Indiana Jones of the Art World" for his exploits, has returned a rare Roman statue that was considered one of France's most important treasures before it was stolen nearly 50 years ago, to the museum from which it was taken.

Arthur Brand handed back the first-century bronze sculpture statue of the god Bacchus to the director of the Musee du Pays Chatillonnais in eastern France.

It was from there on a cold evening in December 1973 that thieves smashed a window, crawled through the bars and pilfered the 40-centimeter (15.7-inch) statue of the god of wine.

"The criminals made off with some Roman antiquities, around 5,000 Roman coins – but more importantly, the bronze statue of Bacchus as a child," Brand told Agence France-Presse (AFP).

"The loss to the museum and the community was enormous. One of their most precious antiquities has been stolen," said Brand, moments before handing back the statute in a ceremony at an Amsterdam hotel.

"Because back then there was no proper catalogue for stolen art, the statue disappeared into the underworld and was thought to have been lost for ever."

The director of the museum – famed for its collection of Roman artifacts from the nearby archaeological dig site of Vertillum, an ancient Gallo-Roman village first excavated in 1846 – said it was an emotional moment.

"When I saw it now for the first time, I just realised how much more beautiful it is than the copy we have had on display" since the original was stolen, Catherine Monnet told Agence France-Presse (AFP).

Hunt was on'

The statue resurfaced through sheer chance two years ago when an Austrian client contacted Brand, whose previous finds include a Picasso painting and "Hitler's Horses," sculptures that once stood outside the Nazi leader's Berlin chancellery.

The client asked the Dutchman to investigate a statue of a little boy he bought legally on the art circuit.

"When we could find no reference for such an important work existing anywhere, we realised that the work could have been stolen – and the hunt to find out what it is was on," said Brand.

After months of sleuthing, an obscure entry in a 1927 edition of a French archaeological magazine finally revealed a clue: the sculpture depicts Bacchus as a child and belonged to a French museum.

Further inquiries with French police revealed it was stolen on Dec. 19, 1973, according to an official police report of which AFP has seen a copy.

"This means we had to make a deal. The Austrian collector bought it legally on the open market where it had probably been sold more than once over the last few decades," the detective said.

Furthermore, the statute of limitations in France was five years, meaning that no criminal case could be opened, Brand said.

"But the owner was shocked to learn that the piece had been stolen and wanted to give it back to the museum. Under French law, he had to be paid a small amount – a fraction of the statue's price which could be millions of euros – for 'safekeeping,'" Brand said.

'French heritage'

Brand tapped into his extensive network, and two British art collectors, Brett and Aaron Hammond, sponsored half of the amount, while Chatillon's council paid the other of the undisclosed sum of money.

"After 50 years, it's extremely rare for a stolen object to surface. Especially such an important one, that's now going back to the museum where it belongs," Brand said.

Museum director Monnet was delighted to have the sculpture back.

"This is a particularly important art piece, because they are so rare and of such great quality," she said.

The statue was discovered by archaeologists in 1894 during a dig at the Vertillum site, already declared a historical monument two decades prior.

In 1937, the Bacchus statue formed part of an exhibition in Paris consisting of what was regarded as the 50 most beautiful art treasures of France, Monnet said.

"This just tells you how important this piece of art is as a part of France's heritage," she said.

"As for Arthur – he has free entrance to the museum for life," a beaming Monnet added.

[tropes-and-tales]

Benny Magalon: The Newest Regulator, Part One

WC: 3565

Other Pieces: This is part of a mini-series.

CW: Talk of sex trafficking, but nothing explicit. 18+ only.

______________

Working for the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department wasn’t exactly what you would call your dream job.  Your dream job, for the record, would be a hazily defined role with some magazine or newspaper where you read books and reviewed them at your leisure, in exchange for a six-figure salary and full benefits.

Since that job didn’t exist, you found yourself working as a member of the support staff with LACSD. Not a six-figure salary, but enough to afford your tiny apartment, vet bills for your dog, and the occasional splurge at the bookstore. And the benefits were good too.

You had started with the Altadena station, filling in for the usual analyst who was on maternity leave. Then you bounced around for a year – a floating employee who took assignments that lasted for months or sometimes just for a week or two.  You were something of a jack-of-all-trades:  an administrative assistant, a junior detective, and an accountant all rolled into one.  You pulled case files and organized lab results and submitted department budgets.

But after a year, a role opened up with Major Crimes. You wouldn’t have put in for it, but your supervisor pulled you aside and said that you should.

“They need someone with a little more initiative,” he said. “Someone who can pitch in on more than just organizing calendars and pulling files for them.  Someone who can step in on low-level casework.”

It was a coveted role, working with Major Crimes, so you shrugged and applied.

And you got the job.

-----

Major Crimes was…interesting.

Cops always held the potential for roughness. A lack of social graces, one could say. Some of the more buttoned-up detectives tried to hide it, but in Major Crimes, they didn’t even bother.

You knew they were testing you. Hazing you. Their former analyst was an old-timer named Callahan, a low-level cop permanently pulled from the field because of an injury. When he retired, they had dragged their feet to fill the position until the work was so backlogged that they had to capitulate.

But that first day, they didn’t make it easy, and if you had learned anything in your past year with cops, it was to take anything they dealt you and give it right back to them twice as hard.

“Looks like our stripper is here,” announced one detective when you walked into the bullpen that first day.

“Only because your mom couldn’t make it,” you retorted smoothly, which pulled a series of laughs and whistles from the other men in the room.

“Ignore Zapata,” said Nick O’Brien. He strode across the room to shake your hand, though you’d already met him a few weeks earlier, when your transfer came through. Then he turned, his hand on your shoulder to turn you too, both of you facing the bullpen.

“This is the newest member of the team,” he told them, giving them your name and a quick rundown of your past year on the touring circuit.

One by one, they introduced themselves. Zapata, the smirking one with the quip about the stripper. Connors and Henderson, also smirking.

“That’s everyone,” Big Nick said. “Except Borracho.” His eyes slid away for a moment to the shift whiteboard, and you followed his gaze. There it was, the missing detective, written in sloppy blue ink on the schedule: B. Magalon, LOA.

Cops were always going out on leaves of absence. It was rough work, draining and soul-sucking. It was easy to struggle with substance abuse to mask the pain. You gave a small nod and didn’t give the missing detective a second thought until you finally met him, a month later.

*****

Borracho hated undercover work, and this assignment was no exception. It was a big one though, spanning multiple agencies with multiple UC’s. And there were multiple crimes. Money laundering, drugs. Gun running. Sex trafficking.

It was easy enough to slide into the criminal underworld. He was naturally silent, not much of a talker, and that silence – paired with his existing tattoos and his facial hair – lent him a certain automatic credibility from looks alone. He got a shitty apartment as his home base, and he fed intel to his handler via a burner phone and coordinated drops.

It was the proximity to such awful humans. Borracho wasn’t a wide-eyed innocent; he had been on the force long enough to see the horrors humans inflicted on each other. But this assignment was something else. The drugs and guns were almost prosaic. The sex trafficking was monstrous.

He never saw it – he only heard about it. Which made it monstrous, the way his new criminal buddies casually talked about women as chattel. How much a virgin could fetch, or a snow bunny, or one that had been broken in already. Borracho always had to grit his teeth, clench his fist at that talk.

But it was ending tonight. Months of undercover work culminating in this: a private party full of merchandise – women – for sale to the highest bidders. A snare of multiple agencies just waiting to enclose around them.

And Borracho: heartsore and tired and ready to come home.

*****

Your supervisor had sold you on the Major Crimes role. They need someone with a little more initiative, he had said. Someone who can pitch in on more.

That translated, at the moment, to you being crammed into heels and an uncomfortable outfit from the LAPD Vice closet.

“Vice is short a few girls,” Nick had said. “We need three more, at a minimum. Four would be better.”

You had only half-listened at at the time. You were bent over your own work, and you usually let the filthy banter and boring shop talk of the bullpen wash over you. You only took in some of it: how the LAPD Vice group had a stable of female cops they used, and how there was some undercover event that evening. Something about putting some plants in the party for when the arrests happened.

“What about the kid?” Henderson had asked, jerking a thumb at you. They had taken to that as a nickname for you, The Kid, which was better than The Stripper, you supposed.

Your ears pricked up at the moniker. “What?”

Not that it mattered. Nick gave you thoughtful look, and that was that.

-----

Which is how you found yourself now, in the back of an unmarked black SUV with three other female cops in similar miniscule clothing. Your mission was easy enough: just stick with the UC from LAPD, a compact little man with a seedy mustache and icy blue eyes. He was posing as the seller – a term that made your stomach turn – and you and the other girls were his merchandise.

“You’ll be perfectly safe,” Nick had told you. “The party is gonna be busted up before anything happens.”

It was at a Carbon Mesa home, a sprawling mansion overlooking the ocean. Your stomach turned again when the SUV pulled up and you saw the guards posted by the door with guns.

You climbed out of the SUV, and you tried as best you could to hide the fear that was roiling through you. You’ll be perfectly safe, Nick had told you, and you had to trust in his assurance.

*****

Borracho is in the back of the property, casing the rooms facing the ocean. His nerves sizzle with the coming sting, the chaos that is going to break the moment when four separate law enforcement agencies descend on this party.

Good, he thinks. For his entire time in this assignment, he never had to see the women being trafficked. He’s seen bricks of heroin, crates of guns with the serial numbers filed off. But no living, breathing victims.

Until now.

He knows that there will be some LAPD cops amongst the girls tonight, girls from Vice who are used to this sort of thing, but for the life of him, he can’t quite tell who is who. By the time he circles back to where the guests are trickling in, there’s already plenty of women there. Merchandise. His eyes sweep them; he can’t tell which ones are drugged into compliance and which are UC cops with carefully blank eyes and expressions.

But there’s one…

She has to be one of the trafficked girls, judging by the sheer terror written across her face. Her eyes are barely visible under layers of glittery eye shadow and thick mascara, but they dart around the room like a hunted animal. Her lips are stained a lurid pink, but her bottom one is slick with spit because she keeps biting it, worrying at it.

She’s uncomfortable and scared. Borracho scans the room and sees that the other men see her too. Where he wants to wrap her in his jacket, he knows those other men have far less noble intentions.

It rekindles that spark that drove Borracho to police work in the first place. The desire to protect. The desire to save.

He moves quick – not quick enough to draw attention, but quick enough to get to her first. It’s been months of living in this dark underworld, and it’s nearly at an end, but he’s singularly focused on protecting that girl – saving her – in the last hours before it all ends.

*****

It goes wrong the moment you walk into the place: your UC from the LAPD – the one you are simply supposed to stick with – melts away into the crowd. You don’t know how it happens. You blink, the edges of your vision fuzzy and black from the ridiculous fake lashes, and he’s gone.

Well, shit.

You do an awkward little side shuffle, tottering in your uncomfortable heels, and you try to tuck yourself into a corner already occupied by a tall, expensive-looking vase. You feel exposed: you’re in a skimpy halter top and a tiny skirt that shows off far more skin than you are comfortable with, and you try to wrap your arms around your exposed midsection.

It’s such a strange experience. The mansion is well-appointed, and there’s men in dark suits milling around. They look so…normal. So mundane. You can hardly believe that they are there to buy women. To buy you, theoretically.

The thought makes you shrink further into the corner, and you search the milling crowd for your UC contact. The little guy with the light blue eyes. You don’t find him, but someone else finds you.

He’s quick – you don’t even see him coming until he’s right there. He’s taller than you, dark hair and eyes. Dark facial hair, dark suit. There’s a tattoo on his neck that you can’t quite make out.

This is exactly why you had fought Nick as best you could. There had been a little voice in the back of your head the whole time, a strong gut instinct that you had learned not to ignore…but you had ceded to Nick. He was the expert, apparently.

An expert who turned out to be dead wrong, because within seconds of getting here you’ve lost your UC protection, and now some dark-eyed, dark-haired man is standing too close to you, bending his head to your ear, whispering that he’s going to take you somewhere quieter.

You’ve taken self-defense classes, but you freeze in this moment: unwilling to create a scene and ruin the sting, and also frozen with fear. But you’ve also read enough true crime books to know that a strange man taking you somewhere quieter is going to lead to something bad.

“No, I’m okay…” you start to protest, but it’s weak, your voice has no strength behind it. You’re frozen in place, but even if you weren’t – where would you go? There are so many people now, and Nick had told you that there were a few UC cops here tonight, but you have no clue who they are.

And what would you say anyway? Hi, I’m only here as a plant for the coming police raid? That’d be a good way to get yourself fired, possibly tipping off the wrong person and ruining an expensive, important operation.

“Come on,” the man says, and he puts his hand on your upper arm. Gently tugs you out of your corner and deeper into the house, and you feel powerless to stop him. It’s strange how his voice is soft, reassuring, and how his hand doesn’t grip you too hard.

That’s how they get you, you think. You think of all the murders and rapes you’ve read about where women were led placidly to their doom, too socially conditioned to be rude or put up a fight.

This guy, he’s going to hurt you – probably not kill you, because he thinks you’re for sale, but he could do plenty of harm, will do plenty of harm, and your stupid brain can’t seem to settle on the right course of action, so you are placidly led to your doom anyway.

*****

Borracho is certain he’s doing the right thing. The moment he takes your arm to lead you elsewhere, a couple of men turn and appraise you. He swallows against the acid churn of disgust rising in his throat – he can see what the other men are thinking, laying out what you might cost versus what you might earn for them.

And what they could take from you for themselves.

He takes you upstairs. Not to one of the bedrooms – even the thought makes him want to puke – but there’s a study overlooking the ocean, and that seems like a good place to stash you until help arrives. You allow yourself to be led, but you’re unsteady in your heels, wobbling and stumbling a little, and each time you do, you resist him just a little.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs over and over, like you’re a wild animal that can be soothed. That’s what you remind him of, he realizes - a fawn. Unsteady on your feet, wide eyes searching for predators. Not completely innocent, but nearly so. You know there are wolves out there; you just haven’t been chased by one yet.

The study is quiet, and Borracho shuts the door with a faint click before he turns back to you. Your arms are crossed over your midsection, trying to hide yourself, and he holds out his palms in a gesture of capitulation.

You are terrified. You refuse to meet his eyes, but you mumble something about not wanting to be there, and so he takes another step towards you. And another, then another, until you are backed against the wide mahogany desk. You finally look up at him, and Borracho can see that your eyes are brimming with tears.

I’m gonna get this girl home to her people, he thinks. You’re obviously terrified, so it’s easy for him to picture you being snatched away from some parking lot, an abduction. Someone somewhere is looking for you, and Borracho can picture the reunion, the tears of joy as he brings you back to your parents, maybe siblings…

Already he is listing out the next steps. After you are swept up in the arrests, he’ll talk to Nick, run your prints through CODIS, run your name through the national database of missing persons, get you a bed with one of the social services until you can go home –

He realizes just a beat too late that he has not cornered a fawn, but a wild cat. All of his benign, noble thoughts are securely in his own head, and all you see is a dark, tattooed man looming over you. A single tear cuts a sooty track down the curve of your cheek, but some survival instinct is powering up in you, and Borracho doesn’t notice it until you attack him.

You are like a wild cat, if an ungainly one. Your heels slip on the polished marble floors, so your first swipe at him barely registers, but you fall into him. While he grabs your elbows to steady you, you keep hitting him, and Borracho drops his UC persona for a moment in surprise.

“Hey,” he says, startled by the sudden flurry of slaps and punches coming at him, one swipe scratching his neck into a couple of burning lines. “It’s almost over.”

But again, you are scared and have no idea what he means, so your eyes go wide at his words. Another beat too late, he understands how you’re interpreting what he’s saying.

It’s almost over.

Surprisingly, you go for his eyes, and he jerks his head away at the last minute. They teach that move in self-defense classes –

And then you rear back and punch him – perfect form, pivoting from your heel to get the full force of your body weight into it – straight in the groin. Borracho’s world goes white and silent as he ascends to a different plane of existence. One of pure, unadulterated pain.

He barely registers the next few moments as he kneels on the floor, barely able to breathe through the pain: you scrambling away from him, the distant sound of breaking glass, and the general shouting and chaos that comes when a party full of trafficked girls and human scum is broken up by the law.

*****

You’re proud of yourself. You defended yourself against a creep, and you didn’t give the game away. When you escaped the dark-haired man, you found yourself alone upstairs.

Easy enough to tuck yourself away in a linen closet, and easy enough to crawl out long moments later when you hear the cops coming up the stairs. You lie on the floor, hands out in surrender, until they help you onto your feet and lead you outside.

Nick is there. So is Zapata. They look at you but don’t react, and you are led with another girl to a waiting cop car. Not cuffed, but not exactly free to go. That’s step two of your assignment: stew in the holding cell with the other girls for any usable intel into who was at the party by choice and who was there against their will.

You don’t get much from the other girls. Most are too scared to talk, and the seasoned ones are too savvy to talk. When it’s your turn to be “processed,” you tell the detective as much.

You’re thanked for your service and sent back to Major Crimes. It’s late – or early, depending on one’s view – but Nick wants you to debrief him. It’s technically overtime, and he sweetens the pot with the promise of two whole days off, off the books.

Besides, you want to tell him about the man you escaped from. The other detective seemed dismissive of your story, but you thought Nick might be more willing to hear you tell it.

*****

Borracho should go straight home. He was “arrested” and processed with the rest of the men at the party, and then his alias – Vincent Hernandez – was sent to holding until he could be arraigned in the morning. On paper, at least. In reality, Borracho steps out of a side door of the precinct, his own ID and cell phone secure in his pocket. He sheds his underworld persona like a snake shedding its skin, and he’s glad for it. Glad to be himself again.

He could go home, but he’s keyed up. Besides, he’s been away for a few months, and he needs to take inventory of his desk. Those assholes at work think everything is fair game, so he knows that his desk drawer reserve of Pepto, his ibuprofen and extra-strength Aleve have probably been depleted.

And he can check in with Nick and whoever is on tonight. He can get the wheels turning on getting you home, the terrified kidnapped girl. He had mentioned you to his handler, but the man had waved him off, unconcerned.

Borracho has his handler drop him off at Major Crimes.

Outside the door to the bullpen, he can hear it: the laughter, the shouts of Nick and someone – Zapata, maybe – ribbing someone. Who else would be on tonight? But the protesting voice sounds like a woman, and when Borracho opens the door and limps into the room – the punch to the groin now a throbbing ache – he’s immediately confused by the scene, and it takes a few tellings before he’s is up to speed.

*****

You aren’t a cop, and you’re the first to remind Nick and Zapata that fact. Over and over and over, but they still howl each time they make you repeat your story.

“Tell it again,” Zapata laughs, and you scowl under the thick makeup, cross yours arms in the oversized windbreaker that you’ve stolen from Connors’ locker to wrap yourself in until you get home.

You open your mouth to tell him to get fucked, but then the bullpen door opens and someone comes in. No, not someone. It’s the man you saved yourself from, and it makes no sense how his sudden appearance sends Nick and Zapata into fresh gales of laughter.

He’s limping, and he looks just as confused as his eyes settle on you. Two furrows appear between his brows, and he tilts his head as you sit up in your seat, alert and ready to defend yourself again. You’re awash in a fresh flood of adrenaline until Nick steps behind you, lays a steadying hand on your shoulder.

“Easy, killer,” he jokes. “Meet Detective Benny Magalon.” He nods at the dark-haired man and introduces you to him.

“Our new analyst. The newest regulator,” Nick says. “A little feistier than Callahan, but I guess you already know that.”

~~~Tag List~~~ @bananas-pajamas  @massivecolorspygiant​   @imspillingcoffee​   @amneris21​   @paintballkid711​   @mad-girl-without-a-box​   @bestattempt​   @rosiefridayrogersunday​   @strawberrydragon​   @hoeforthefictional​   @greeneyedblondie44​  @leannawithacapitala​   @stardust-galaxies​@melaniecraig80   @thesandbeneathmytoes​

[shepherds-of-haven]

So I follow MANY interactive fiction blogs and I just have to say that you're my favorite by a long shot because I just love answers that you give in response to hypothetical scenarios and AU's for your characters. Like you actually put in effort and give well-thought out answers, so I thank you for that. As for AU's I have one of my own if you don't mind please. What would be the RO's for a murder mystery a la Cluedo? Bonus points that they can't leave the mansion for extra chaos. Thank you!

Ah, thank you so much for your kind words! 💖 I'm lucky to be a part of such a great community of talented creatives and kind, genuinely awesome people! Interacting with readers is such a pleasure, even if I do fall behind on messages and such I'm so sorry

I'm in North America, so I was genuinely like "what on Earth is Cluedo" gkljglfdjgd only because it's called Clue where I'm from! But I, uh, never played it, so I'm just going to go off of my knowledge from Knives Out 😂

SETTING: a Southern Gothic mansion in an undisclosed location, owned by a woman only referred to in jest as The Autarch by her adopted children. It is a stately manor, richly furnished and glittering with wealth, though imposing and dark-windowed during storms.

CONTEXT: a powerful and wealthy tycoon referred to only as "The Autarch" or "The Iron Lady" was once feared across the country for her ruthless business dealings and formidable empire. In her middle age, a mysterious experience and the sudden death of her husband caused her to have a change of heart, abruptly abandoning her empire to her only son and devoting her life to adopting six orphan children. However, stopping her business dealings did not completely change her personality: she was a hard, unforgiving woman, and her relationships to her children (now all grown) can be described as "strained" at best.

In her declining age, the lonely Autarch in her high mansion somehow came to befriend a psychic by the name of Mimir of the Silver Eye. Only the servants were witness to what was said between them, and even then, they never had the full story. The most that anyone knew was that the Autarch began to express more interest in resuming her business activities again, to the disconcertion of her only biological son, Enik, who had helmed the empire on his own for the last twenty years. Meanwhile, Mimir moved into the mansion to keep her older friend company, and to help advise her on matters both business and personal.

One stormy night, the Autarch calls all 7 of her children back home in order to discuss matters of great importance, including her decisions about her will. Some came eagerly, and others with great reluctance--there were arguments had that were years in coming, and there were private talks between siblings who hadn't interacted in years. But the matter that the Autarch was keen to discuss was postponed: the storm knocked out the power in the mansion, and all turned into bed, sleeping fitfully in rooms they'd abandoned decades earlier.

They never discovered why the Autarch had called them to their old haunting grounds, either, for in the morning, she was found with a knife buried in her heart.

CHARACTERS:

- Riel Syndran. A world-famous private detective and consultant famed across the world for his ability to solve any mystery, no matter how old or tangled. He is known for being comfortable with ruthlessly manipulating interrogation subjects and suspects in order to extract the truth and solve his case no matter what; this obsession and willingness to massage the rules--although he claims the truth is his only goal, above all other things--is what makes him unsuitable for conventional police work, but his results speak for themselves. He arrives on the mansion's doorstep mere minutes after the Autarch is found murdered and is claimed to have been hired by an anonymous party, casting suspicion on his timing and the pre-planned nature of the death. His signature move is being recognized by various people as "the detective who solved the Apple Killer case" (or some other famous case of his) and replying in irritable tones that it was actually "the Orange Killer case, but you were close". He abhors smoking and has doctorates in body language analysis and psychology, as well as a law degree, and is gifted with a photographic memory. He picks invisible lint off of his sleeves while he thinks.

- Blade Bronwyn. An FBI agent (think Agent Cooper in Twin Peaks) who has been in the town of Old Haven investigating a string of serial killings across the country. He hears about the murder of the Autarch from the local police and arrives at the manor a mere hour after they were alerted, keen to investigate the murder as part of his ongoing case. He plays the straight man to Riel's more eccentric detection methods, and is seen more as a serious, by-the-books rule-follower determined to get answers. The suspects in the manor find him to be emotionally-insensitive, blunt, and grim-faced. He has a better sense of smell and sight than Riel does, as well as more combat experience, and is the only person in the manor acknowledged to be carrying a weapon. He takes his coffee black and very strong.

- Enik Goldenson. The Autarch's only biological child and the oldest. He was granted full control of her holdings and business empire when she retired in order to focus on raising her new family. He has made his disdain of his adopted siblings very clear, not least because he resents having to share his future inheritance with them. He has historically been a bully and cruel towards his mother. Rumor had it that he was once studying to become a priest. He has avoided returning to the mansion ever since Trouble knocked his lights out at fourteen years of age. He was once briefly engaged to fellow heiress Lavinet Naveen, who eventually spurned him, finding him "repulsive." He has the most bad blood among anyone in the family and is considered one of the prime suspects in the Autarch's murder, as it was possible that she may planned to cut him out of the will. Blade places his suspect status as RED while Riel believes he is at an ORANGE: Enik may be far too clever to kill his own mother under such suspicious and bloody circumstances.

- Trouble Alder. The first of the Autarch's adopted children, he was once an urchin running a street-fighting racket on the streets of New Haven. He was nicknamed Trouble for his surly temper and quick ability to get into fights and settle things with his fists, necessitating being sent off to a military boarding school in an effort to curb his violent tendencies as a teenager. He is extremely protective of his other adopted siblings, and while he resented the Autarch in his youth, he has begrudgingly come to respect her more for taking him in as an adult. He now works as a decorated sniper in the military and is working to earn his pilot's wings. The revelation that he kept military weapons in his room casts suspicion on him as a murder suspect, though Riel quickly dismisses him as not being a good enough liar to get away with it.

- Tallys Ironwood. The second of the Autarch's adopted children, she made her hatred of the old woman very well known, and had an even poorer relationship with her than Enik did. Tallys's parents were victims in an accident caused by one of the Autarch's manufacturing plants, and she has always felt that her subsequent adoption was mere lip service to atonement for the Autarch, while she would have rather stayed with her more impoverished aunts and uncles. She ran away multiple times in her youth and has not spoken to the Autarch since she was 18. Her overt hatred and reluctance in coming back to the mansion casts suspicion on her as a murder suspect. She has a degree in plant science and works as an environmental activist, particularly targeting products and campaigns by Enik's company, creating unspeakable friction between them.

- Ayla Aescar. The third of the Autarch's adopted children, nothing is known about her biological parents. She was adopted from a neighboring country and has since returned to it as an adult, making an effort to reconnect with her origins and culture. Her relationship with "the old woman," as she calls her, was more neutral, though it comes out that the Autarch frequently bailed her out in secret whenever Ayla ran into trouble, such as trespassing on Jalis government grounds. Nominally, she works as a photographer for a travel magazine, but secretly, she is an investigative photojournalist looking into various covert practices by the Jalis government. This brings up a question of whether the Autarch's killing was political, and whether it was actually meant for Ayla.

- Chase Trinaeste. The fourth of the Autarch's adopted children, it's joked that he was intended to replace Trouble when he was sent off to boarding school due to having a more charming personality and sweeter face. However, he ended up being the most troublesome one of the bunch, having multiple run-ins with the law from a young age and displaying various tendencies towards larceny, grand theft auto, and more. He had no shame about stealing and pawning off valuables from the mansion and was a well-known skirt-chaser, leading to constant stress in their household about what he was getting up to when he snuck out of the house at night. At eighteen, he disappeared from the mansion, and no one has heard from him in the intervening years since. He completely ducks any questions from Riel or Blade about what he does for a living, leading most to conclude that he has gotten himself deeper entrenched in the criminal underworld. This has cast obvious suspicion on him and his involvement in the murder, as he was known to steal from the Autarch herself. He seems to feel some measure of loyalty and possibly remorse towards his adopted siblings, but hides it well under a polished veneer of charm and casual swagger.

- Briony Stormbreaker. The fifth of the Autarch's adopted children In a dramatic fashion, she was discovered as a young child swept away in a huge flood caused by a storm, with no ability to communicate (or seemingly remember) anything about where she could have lived or who her family was. She was subsequently adopted by the Autarch and is one of the few who had a fairly good relationship with her, always expressing gratitude for giving her a home and family (though this brought her into conflict with siblings like Tallys, as she usually tried to defend the Autarch when she wasn't there to speak for herself). She was the sibling who always tried to unite the others, and their constant arguments and conflicts constantly broke her heart. She was an easily-upset child who tended to be babied by Trouble and Chase, but after constantly bullying from Croelle and Enik, she toughened up and began taking martial arts classes, abruptly displaying her own ferocious temper and violent streak as well as unusually powerful physical strength. She currently works as a passionate public prosecutor. She was heard conversing with the Autarch privately with raised voices, on the night of the murder, and is known to sleepwalk during violent storms. She even had a phase with an imaginary, sword-shaped friend as a child, as well as repeatedly claimed that she's seen ghosts in the manor. This perceived paranoia has led some to wonder whether she could have harmed the Autarch in her sleep. As Riel says, "It's always the nice ones." Blade: "Not in my experience." Riel: "Not in mine, either, but in some continuity, it must be true."

- Croelle. The last of the Autarch's adopted children. He was by far the most anti-social and troubled part of the family, refusing to speak to those he deemed beneath him and breaking Trouble's arm in a disturbing display of dominance as youths. Unlike Enik, his cruelty is more ruthless and matter-of-fact, the way an animal might treat another animal, rather than pointed and manipulative. Regardless, he was a terror to all of the other siblings, and he was eventually thrown in juvenile detention (and later prison) for killing members of a gang, seemingly in self-defense. However, he never cared to divulge the full details of the story, and has been serving his sentence ever since. No one besides the Autarch knew that he was coming until they arrived at the manor. Croelle claims that he and the Autarch had been exchanging letters for the last few years, and that he has begrudgingly allowed her back into his life, which was why she decided to invite him to this gathering upon his release from prison. However, there is currently no evidence that any such letters exist. As an adult, he is currently quieter and more mellow and has shown no particular proclivity towards violence, but there is always a sense of danger lurking in his eye regardless. His social skills have not improved by much. He is considered one of the absolute top suspects for the old woman's murder. His feelings on his adopted siblings or really anything are extremely unknown. He keeps asking everyone about free will, which annoys everyone except Riel.

- Shery Acquell. A longtime maid for the Autarch and one of her closest friends and confidantes. She alone has been caring for the Autarch in her declining health, ensuring that she has been receiving the proper medical care and dietary attentions, and even reading her books in the evenings. Their closeness has led some to speculate that the Autarch may have bequeathed a part of her inheritance to the maid, or that perhaps Shery was motivated to ingratiate herself to the Autarch to attain said inheritance. She was the last person to see the Autarch before her death, knows something about what transpired between her and Mimir, and ultimately reluctantly admits that she believes in the ghosts that Briony has seen, too.

- Halek Prince. The manor's live-in chef. He is one of the few non-family members staying in the mansion the night of the murder, and suspicion is cast on him when his cooking seemingly gives Ayla, Briony, and Red an allergy attack, leading some to posit attempts at poisoning. Mimir claims to have seen him in places where he shouldn't be or even couldn't be, and he is generally someone viewed as a good suspect for the murder. Riel thinks something else is going on here.

- Red Antiqua. Ayla's journalist partner who accompanied her to the mansion, partly to serve as a buffer for the family awkwardness and partly because he was curious to learn more about the reclusive Autarch. Nominally, he is a travel writer, but secretly, he is working as the same kind of investigative journalist that she is. His secret photographs of the manor prove to be a key piece of evidence in uncovering the murder suspect. He is forced to be confined to the manor, the same as everyone else, to prevent information leaks or runaways. He uncovers a secret doorway in his room and is too curious not to duck into it...

- Caine Tavadon. The son of the manor's groundskeeper, he is often seen with his dog, peeping into the windows of the manor because he's incorrigibly nosy. His witness statements lead Blade and Riel to key footprints on the grounds. He claims to have seen a strange figure staring down at him from the windows of the mansion before.

- Prihine Naveen. Enik's current fiancee, she accompanied him on this odious visit to his mother's manor and is a witness in the proceedings. Although they can barely tolerate each other, their shared ambitions for wealth and power keep them together as a polite though distant couple. A file in the Autarch's study reveals that she has been watching Prihine for some time and discovered that she was having a secret affair. The file indicates that she planned to tell Enik face-to-face, leading others to speculate that Prihine may have murdered the old woman in order to preserve her engagement. Enik remarks that there was a period of time where Prihine was not in bed.

- Lavinet Naveen. Prihine's older cousin, and Enik's ex-fiancee. They've technically known each other since they were children and were schoolmates at the same prestigious institution. The Autarch and Lavinet's father initially had designs to marry the two to forge a powerful alliance between their business empires. However, Lavinet quickly backed out of the engagement, finally admitting that she couldn't stand Enik and would never marry him. Although this has generally caused relations between the two families to become frosty, she has strangely remained on good terms with the Autarch herself, who always admired Lavinet's chutzpah and steely will. (This was just another reason for Enik to hate his own mother.) Lavinet was free to come and go to the manor as she pleased, and dropped in on the Autarch once every few months, as her family's manor is nearby. She only recently discovered that her own cousin, Prihine, is now engaged to her ex, and rushed over on the night of the murder in order to dissuade Prihine from the marriage or convince the Autarch to put a stop to it. This led to a four-way argument (between Lavinet, Prihine, Enik, and his mother) of epic proportions, meaning that Lavinet is not clear on suspicions of murder, either.

- Mimir. The psychic who somehow came into contact with the Autarch and began to convert her to the ways of the supernatural. She has been the Autarch's closest friend and confidant for months, even going so far as to move into the mansion. Many point out the obvious designs on the Autarch's inheritance and possible sinister intentions for taking advantage of the older woman, especially since no one but Shery knows what Mimir has actually advised the Autarch to do. However, Riel points out that there has been no traceable financial irregularities when it comes to Mimir; the Autarch doesn't seem to have paid her for her services, only providing Mimir with food and a roof over her head. The psychic speaks in extremely cryptic tones and lapses into trance-like states. Riel in particular scorns her for her supposedly psychic abilities, insisting that she is a fraud, until she comments on aspects of his past that no one could possibly know, shaking him. She is a prime suspect for the murder until it's discovered that Mimir insists on being locked into a windowless room, only being released by Shery in the morning, to protect herself from the ghosts that haunt the grounds...

[oakendesk]

Underworld Detective Sep 1952 (modified version of Jan 1951 Detective World)

Michael McCann

Detective World Jan 1951

Michael McCann

[rosesastrology]

The house meanings, in depth

1st house (ascendant): how you react, stature, your impulses, instincts, vitality, form and shape of the body, breath, physical appearance, complexion, life, our image, how we are perceived, the self, strength, light, behavior, manner of being, the identity, identification, initiation, the head (headaches), facial features

2nd house: how your voice sounds, abundance of food, assets, stocks, attitude towards possession, wealth, money, concrete values, self-worth, control, banks, personal finance, where you need to feel secure, personal needs, (real or illusional) certainties, neck, vocal chords, material comforts, gain, profit, collarbones, hedonism, hedonist sex, personal material needs, possessive love, jealousy, the senses, sensuality, nutrition, income, gems, jewelry, resources, self-esteem, talents, inheritance from the father, ammunition

3rd house: interactions, communication style, learning, mundane knowledge, logic, extended family (not parents), the color orange, siblings, close friends who feel like siblings, uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, cousins, writing, education up to university, language, arms, hands, fingers, shoulders, contracts, mobiles/telephones, personal community, friend groups, neighborhood, local vicinity, short-distance travel, travelers, our daily commute, transport, rituals, environment in which we live/work, postal service, regular journeys, letters, rumors, messages, written reports, faxes, journalism, diaries, the press, propaganda, magazines, public opinions

4th house (Imum Coelli): parents (in particular the father), immediate family (Inc. grandparents), our roots, memories, the past, childhood, ancestry, ancestral lands, home life, the private self, what you do behind closed doors, family roots, home, houses, land, mining, oil, minerals, fossil fuels, nurturing, emotional foundation, physical death, foundation of life, karmic debt through family, roots of consciousness, upbringing, ancestral/ethnic traditions, nationalism, final years of life leading up to death, water supplies, ground, quality and fertility of ground, history, funerals, crops, farming, breasts, the chest/lungs, the beginning and ending of all things, wells, deepest region of the underworld, the origin of humanity, graves, buried treasure, drowning, inheritance from parents

5th house: your will, ideas, children, how you express yourself, progeny, pleasure without responsibility, no regret pleasure, joy, fun, romance & sex (NSA), fertility, pregnancy, miscarriages, health and condition of children, creation, hobbies, sports, creativity, entertainment, gifts, luxury, scandals, controversies, indulgence, parties, theatre, drama, parks, leisure, porn, prostitution, dancing, inns, banquets, pubs, art, love affairs, muses, music, clothes, gambling, horse-race betting, betting, taverns, liver, the heart, the back, a honey color, lotteries, speculation, games, resorts, spas, feasts, holidays, leisure, overindulgence, diplomats, recreation, parks, the stomach

6th house: discipline, service, plants, nurturing, schemes, medicine, work, slavery, daily routine, maintenance tasks, mundane work, tasks, accidents, illness, injuries, health, healing, doctors, veterinarians, nurses, death of friends, physicians, animals, pets, housework, chores, infirmity, bones, farmers, caretakers, cattle, weakness, affliction, sorrow, food reserves, dark colors, smaller intestine, lower stomach, guts, liver, kidneys

7th house (descendant): relationships, business partners, romantic love, long-term commitments, mutual commitments, marriage, long-term enemies, what we project on others, partnerships, the spouse, engagement, lovers, fugitives, runaways, escaped convicts, thiefs, the destination, paternal grandfather, butt, lower intestines, bladder, womb, sex organs

8th house: transformations, death, birth, doubt, questions, the occult, material spiritual pursuits such as astrology and tarot, high needs, power, spiritual sex, crisis, the underworld, the devil, demons, mental agony, anxieties, fear, mental illness, inheritance, financial support, possession of others, obsession, other people's money, debt, loans, collective resources, emotional and material richness, power, control, abuse, sexual abuse, taxes, decay, loss, the quality and nature of death, ego death, spiritual death, inheritance, legacies, poison, inner transformation, personal vulnerability sex organs, bladder, groin, gallstones

9th house: higher (classical) knowledge, law, religion, saints, psychology, long-distance travel, culture, foreign countries, belief systems, morals, ethics, race, ethnicity, growth, physical freedom, luck, progeny, prophecies, prophets, where we find meaning, larger than life questions, religious buildings, spirituality, higher education (university and above), teachers, mentors, guides, divination, mystic pursuits, meditation, yoga, mysteries, detectives, mental & physical journeys, lawyers, publishing, the unknown, space, the universe, meaning of life, philosophy, foreigners, dreams, visions, inspiration, astrology, mysticism, books, wisdom, university, scholarships, students, counsellors, advisors, solicitors, cults, God, the freemasonry

10th house (medium coelli): career (not per se everyday work like the 6th), ideals, ambitions, desire for success, reputation, traditions, honors, awards, prizes, recognition, fame, leadership, kings and queens, law, authority, business, social status, inheritance from the mother, judges, magistrates, butt, hips, thighs

11th house: friendship, credits, where you feel as though you belong, community, the collective, adoption (usually a 5th house involvement is present), humanitarianism, collective activism, radicalism, parliament, groups, social network, stepchildren, other people's children, hopes, aspirations, support, assistance, protests, trust, praise, positive hope, broader ambitions for the larger collective, political ideals, supporters (behind the scenes), servants, councils, ambition, freedom, optimism, confidence, personal strength, motivation, security, restoration, mother's money, legs, ankles

12th house: mental freedom, dreams, sleeping conditions/disorders, prisons, mental asylums, transcendence, reincarnation, isolation, loss, institualitzation, insanity, poverty, slavery, step-parents, self-sabotage, paranoia, hidden enemies, hidden pain, emotional baggage, karma, shadow work, addictions, substance abuse, escapism, art, secrets, misunderstandings, being unaware of something, captivity, imprisonment, sorrow, monasteries, scandals, personal fears, hidden family secrets, shame, guilt, regret, scandals, suicide idealism (especially if there are bad aspects between the 8th, 12th and asc), traitors, spies, witchcraft, hauntings, bondage, finances of friends, sickness of spouse, death of the children, mother's kin, underground movements, hospitals, the occult, freemasonry, disease, bad health, hands and feet

Ref:

- skyscript.co.uk

- straightwoo.com

[rockislandadultreads]

Feminist Fiction: Reading Recommendations

Dietland by Sarai Walker

The diet revolution is here. And it’s armed. Plum Kettle does her best not to be noticed, because when you’re fat, to be noticed is to be judged. Or mocked. Or worse. With her job answering fan mail for a popular teen girls’ magazine, she is biding her time until her weight-loss surgery. Only then can her true life as a thin person finally begin. Then, when a mysterious woman starts following her, Plum finds herself falling down a rabbit hole and into an underground community of women who live life on their own terms. There Plum agrees to a series of challenges that force her to deal with her past, her doubts, and the real costs of becoming “beautiful.” At the same time, a dangerous guerrilla group called “Jennifer” begins to terrorize a world that mistreats women, and as Plum grapples with her personal struggles, she becomes entangled in a sinister plot. The consequences are explosive. Dietland is a bold, original, and funny debut novel that takes on the beauty industry, gender inequality, and our weight loss obsession—from the inside out, and with fists flying.

Still Lives by Maria Hummel

Kim Lord is an avant-garde figure, feminist icon, and agent provocateur in the L.A. art scene. Her groundbreaking new exhibition Still Lives is comprised of self-portraits depicting herself as famous, murdered women—the Black Dahlia, Chandra Levy, Nicole Brown Simpson, among many others—and the works are as compelling as they are disturbing, implicating a culture that is too accustomed to violence against women. As the city’s richest art patrons pour into the Rocque Museum’s opening night, all the staff, including editor Maggie Richter, hope the event will be enough to save the historic institution’s flailing finances. Except Kim Lord never shows up to her own gala. Fear mounts as the hours and days drag on and Lord remains missing. Suspicion falls on the up-and-coming gallerist Greg Shaw Ferguson, who happens to be Maggie’s ex. A rogue’s gallery of eccentric art world figures could also have motive for the act, and as Maggie gets drawn into her own investigation of Lord’s disappearance, she’ll come to suspect all of those closest to her. Set against a culture that often fetishizes violence, Still Lives is a page-turning exodus into the art world’s hall of mirrors, and one woman’s journey into the belly of an industry flooded with money and secrets.

The War Widow by Tara Moss

The war may be officially over, but journalist Billie Walker's search for a missing young immigrant man will plunge her right back into the danger and drama she thought she'd left behind in Europe in this thrilling tale of courage and secrets set in glamorous postwar Sydney. Sydney, 1946. Though war correspondent Billie Walker is happy to finally be home, for her the heady postwar days are tarnished by the loss of her father and the disappearance in Europe of her husband, Jack. To make matters worse, now that the war is over, the newspapers are sidelining her reporting talents to prioritize jobs for returning soldiers. But Billie is a survivor and she's determined to take control of her own future. So she reopens her late father's business, a private investigation agency, and, slowly, the women of Sydney come knocking. At first, Billie's bread and butter is tailing cheating husbands. Then, a young man, the son of European immigrants, goes missing, and Billie finds herself on a dangerous new trail that will lead up into the highest levels of Sydney society and down into its underworld. What is the young man's connection to an exclusive dance club and a high class auction house? When the people Billie questions about the young man start to turn up dead, Billie is thrown into the path of Detective Inspector Hank Cooper. Will he take her seriously or will he just get in her way? As the danger mounts and Billie realizes that much more than one young man's life is at stake, it becomes clear that though the war was won, it is far from over.

Kill the Farm Boy by Delilah S. Dawson, Kevin Hearne

Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, a hero, the Chosen One, was born . . . and so begins every fairy tale ever told. This is not that fairy tale. There is a Chosen One, but he is unlike any One who has ever been Chosened. And there is a faraway kingdom, but you have never been to a magical world quite like the land of Pell. There, a plucky farm boy will find more than he's bargained for on his quest to awaken the sleeping princess in her cursed tower. First there's the Dark Lord who wishes for the boy's untimely death . . . and also very fine cheese. Then there's a bard without a song in her heart but with a very adorable and fuzzy tail, an assassin who fears not the night but is terrified of chickens, and a mighty fighter more frightened of her sword than of her chain-mail bikini. This journey will lead to sinister umlauts, a trash-talking goat, the Dread Necromancer Steve, and a strange and wondrous journey to the most peculiar "happily ever after" that ever once-upon-a-timed.

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Historical (1920′s-1950′s) Masterlist

Links Last Checked: June 2nd, 2022

Aria In The Snow (ao3) - Eavans

Summary: If you asked most people of Daniel J. Howell’s lot in life, they’d tell you it was pretty good. A small career writing for a fashionable magazine, the heir to one of New York’s most prestigious hotels, the convenience of youth and an ailing millionaire father… what more could an 18-year-old ask for?

So when a night at the symphony turns into the start of a whole new double life in the city’s queer underworld, the heir to New York’s most fashionable hotel will have to learn what is what when you’re dating a cabaret singer, and who is who when that singer becomes a troubled star.

So it’s nothing but fate to blame when things start to fall apart. The catch? It’s the last half

Back Seat Bingo (ao3) - existingcourage

Summary: Phil, a young television and radio personality lands Dan, an upcoming producer as a co-worker. Friendship is inevitable, but what happens when life, love, and fear gets in the way? A 1950’s Phan AU.

Class of 1953 (ao3) - shutup_turd

Summary: It’s the year 1950, and Phil is making a fresh start during his first term at the University of Oxford. He’s found genuine friends, he’s doing well in his studies, and he can finally be his authentic self…although there’s still something missing.

One evening he stumbles upon a group of actors rehearsing Shakespeare in a sumptuous candlelit chapel, but it’s not the scenary catching Phil’s eye. Instead, it’s a charming man with curly hair whose eyes seem to burn even brighter than the candles.

cobbled paths and grey skies (ao3) - watergator

Summary: phil meets a handsome stranger at the market.

Dance for me? (ao3) - the_toadlet

Summary: Murder, intrigue, and a dashingly charming police officer- all Dan needs.

The scene is set- a series of murders in 1922, an undercover officer who’s discovering that he may not be as straight as he thought, a gorgeous young drag queen, and a budding romance between furtive glances over shoulders. Detective Phil Lester is sent to bust a drag ball, but instead is drawn into the eyes of Daniel Howell. He makes an impulsive choice, and begs the young man to help him- the murders are stacking up, and Phil needs a partner.

Dan, of course, agrees. How could anyone resist the deep blue eyes of someone that swept you off your feet?

Hold The Night (ao3) - vvelna

Summary: It’s late 1940, and Dan and Phil are living in London during the Blitz.

Let Me Love You (ao3) - yikesola

Summary: Dan opens his bedroom door and sees a little white square of notebook paper lying on his pillow. He reads Phil’s scrawled handwriting, “Sorry to miss you Danny, I’m stopping by Franklins before class. Meet me for a malt shake tonight, usual time?” An au fic about postcards and milkshakes.

Stars (ao3) - brookwrites

Summary: Dan grew up in a normal 1930s London family with his parents and little brother. everything was completely and utterly normal… until the bombs started dropping. When Dan was fifteen his father went off to war, and when he was sixteen he and his brother Hayden were sent off to a foster family in rural England. he looked up at the stars and couldn’t help but wonder how something that beautiful could exist in such a broken world. just when he thought things would never get better, Dan met Phil, and he became the shining star of his life. but when Phil turned eighteen and went off to war, Dan couldn’t help but wonder when, if ever, the stars would twinkle the same way again.

The Next Night - nebulous-frog

Summary: Germany in 1937 was a hard place for anyone “different”. Dan just wanted to live his life, fall in love, and die surrounded by family, but his particular community was too “different”. Dan found himself hiding, wishing for a better world, maybe even finding it in the eyes of an unlikely savior.

The Roles We Play - adorkablephil

Summary: Dan Howell and Phil Lester work together as voice actors for BBC radio dramas in the late 1930s, but slowly begin to develop “inappropriate” feelings for each other.

While Our Blood’s Still Young (ao3) - celestialfics (orphan_account)

Summary: In the midst of 1950s America, Phil works at a malt shop that Dan frequents after school. Inevitably as their relationship progresses, the two boys face unrelenting adversity in a world that does not yet see all love as equal.

Who’s Taking You Home Tonight? (ao3) - whatkindoffanfics

Summary: October, 1944. While World War II rages on, Dan Howell finds himself thrown into the secretive world of Bletchley Park, a headquarters for intercepting and breaking the codes of encrypted German messages.

[seattlemysterybooks]

flickr

October 1951 issue

Seattle Mystery Bookshop

[maxwell-grant]

So that ask about a Doc Savage/The Shadow crossover (which as an aside, I agree that Doc is probably the worst of the archetype he is functionally the Ur-Example of that isn’t an intentional deconstruction focusing on his worst eugenicist/borderline-fascist aspects to create a villain) has me thinking: what exactly would be the boundaries for a good, well-written crossover between the Shadow and different genres or eras of what we all collectively call pulp? Could someone do a crossover between the Shadow and Indiana Jones that didn’t rely on one or the other being little more than a glorified cameo in a small portion of what was essentially the other’s story, or reducing the former to his lamest two-dimensional “gun-toting homicidal maniac” interpretations? Could the Shadow ever functionally exist in a universe shared with a space opera setting like the Lensman series? It seems like one could theoretically do a crossover between the Shadow and a character of the same era like Nero Wolfe or Sam Spade, but would it strain credulity to attempt it with characters from an updated form of the private detective archetype like Thomas Magnum’s Hawaiian noir or Rick Deckard’s cyberpunk dystopia? Obviously not expecting answers to each of these hypotheticals specifically, just as examples of the kind of thing I’m wondering now.

I will be going through some of your hypotheticals though, you clearly gave a lot of thought to this and it's only fair I respond in turn. I am always eager to respond anyone who wants to ask specifics about writing The Shadow, because much of what I strive to do through this blog is to just inform people about the many, many things that made The Shadow great, the things that have been neglected, and to provide paths anyone who wishes to write the character may take. I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to write The Shadow someday, but the least I can do is spread knowledge as I work my way there. I'd like to think I've done allright so far.

It's a fairly big question though so we're gonna through it by pieces...

...not THAT way

what exactly would be the boundaries for a good, well-written crossover between the Shadow and different genres or eras of what we all collectively call pulp?

Part of the reason why I did a post yesterday on The Shadow's influences is because looking at them, looking at a character's influences and history, I think are always essential to the prospect of tackling them. And in that regard, The Shadow doesn't actually have much, if any, boundaries stopping him from crossing over with just about anything. The most that's stopping the pulp heroes currently is, besides legal issues, their time periods and obscurity, but The Shadow is the most famous of them all, and a lot of stories have already worked with the idea that he's immortal (which I have my misgivings with, but for better or worse is clearly not going anywhere, and it's not a unworkable concept).

Right from the start, The Shadow was designed to be a long-running, versatile character that could partake in whatever adventures they felt like telling, and part of this is due not just to an incredibly strong personality not afforded to most pulp heroes or characters in general, even those who tried imitating him, but also the fact that he often takes a narrative backseat to the agents and proxy heroes, which means he doesn't have to carry a narrative by his own (and is in fact best suited not to), can blend in to just about anyone's story, and still stand out and be the center of sprawling mysteries. Actually, I'm gonna let Walter Gibson answer this one for you:

While his major missions were to stamp out mobs or smash spy rings, he often tabled such routines in order to find a missing heir, uncover buried treasure, banish a ghost from a haunted house or oust a dictator from a mythical republic.

There was no limitation to the story themes as long as they came within the standards of credibility--which proved easy, since The Shadow was such an incredible character in his own right that almost anything he encountered was accepted by his ardent followers.

Widespread surveys taken while the magazine was appearing monthly showed that a large majority of newsstands sold nearly all their copies within the first two weeks of issue. While other character magazines might show an early flurry, their sales were either spread evenly over the entire period or gained their impetus about the middle of the mouth and sometimes not until the third or even the fourth week.

From the writing standpoint, this made it advisable to adhere more closely to the Cranston guise and to emphasize the parts played by The Shadow's well-established agents, since regular readers evidently liked them. Also, it meant "keeping ahead" of those regulars, with new surprises, double twists in "whodunit" plots, and most exacting of all a succession of villains who necessarily grew mightier and more monstrous as The Shadow disposed of their predecessors.

Always, his traits and purposes were defined through the observations and reactions of persons with whom he came in contact, which meant that the reader formed his opinion from theirs.

This gave The Shadow a marked advantage over mystery characters forced to maintain fixed patterns and made it easy to write about him. There was never need for lengthy debate regarding what The Shadow should do next, or what course he should follow to keep in character. He could meet any exigency on the spur of the moment, and if he suddenly acted in a manner opposed to his usual custom, it could always be explained later.

The Shadow’s very versatility opened a vast vista of story prospects from the start of the series onward. In the earlier stories, he was described as a “phantom,” an “avenger,”, and a “superman,” so he could play any such parts and still be quite in character. In fact, all three of those terms were borrowed by other writers to serve as titles for other characters.

Almost any situation involving crime could be adapted to The Shadow’s purposes

The final rule was this: put The Shadow anywhere, in any locale, among friends or associates, even in a place of absolute security, and almost immediately crime, menace or mystery would begin to swirl about him, either threatening him personally or gathering him in its vortex to carry him off to fields where antagonists awaited.

That was his forte throughout all his adventures. Always, his escapes were worked out beforehand, so that they would never exceed the bounds of plausibility when detailed in narrative form. And that was the great secret of The Shadow.”

In some regards, The Shadow is a mirror. He presents himself to people the way that's best suited to them, the way they'd like him to be, the way he needs to be to affect them. They want money, he has it. They want honor, glory and purpose, he gives them that. They want to fight and turn around social systems for the better, he funds their dreams. Gangsters want the underworld's greatest hitman on their side, he becomes that and lets it be their doom. The story calls for a rich aristocrat who can rub elbows with politicians and kings and presidents, he can do that as long as it suits him. Kent Allard can be a world famous celebrity in one story and a disfigured, broke and faceless nobody in the next. You want a kind janitor with unexpected fighting skill to spy on police and assist the homeless, he has a little someone named Fritz for the occasion. You want an evil monster to be defeated, bring out Ying Ko. Hell, James Patterson's upcoming Shadow novel, which by all reviews seems to be pretty lousy, apparently features The Shadow transforming into a cat. Why? Screw you, that's why! But you'd never see James Bond or Batman spontaneously transforming into a cat without outside interference. He's The Shadow, he's got a face for everything.

(Okay to be clear I don't actually want the Shadow to literally transform into animals, at least not without a good explanation which the book clearly doesn't provide, but I do think it illustrates my point about how generally weird he is)

He is a shapeshifter who can be just about any character in any given narrative who only reveals himself when it's time to materialize into a cloaked terror or a familiar face (whether it's Cranston or Allard or Arnaud and so on). War stories, romance stories, sci-fi stories, globetrotting stories, parody stories, he's done all of them and then some. He doesn't need to be the protagonist of a story, he doesn't need to be invincible, and he doesn't really have any set rules regarding powerset. Gibson stressed credibility a lot, but for over 70 years now, that's clearly gone by the window of the character's writing. By design, he was always meant to be able to smoothly integrate into any existing narrative. Frankly, the only thing that's really holding him back (or saving him, depending on how you look at it) is the fact that he's not public domain (yet).

I think for a start, it's not so much boundaries, because in make believe land boundaries are just things to be overcome on the way to telling a story, so much as it's a good working knowledge of the character and of how far you are willing to stretch your storytelling limitations to include him, because he can account for just about all of them. Now, obviously there's stuff that works for the character better than others, a lot of Shadow fans don't like it when they take the character too much into fantasy, there's debates on how superpowered should he be if at all, and so forth. I have my own preferences, but one of the bigger tests of long-running characters is how can they succeed and thrive when placed outside of their element, and The Shadow can do that.

Could someone do a crossover between the Shadow and Indiana Jones that didn’t rely on one or the other being little more than a glorified cameo in a small portion of what was essentially the other’s story, or reducing the former to his lamest two-dimensional “gun-toting homicidal maniac” interpretations?

would it strain credulity to attempt it with characters from an updated form of the private detective archetype like Thomas Magnum’s Hawaiian noir

Well regarding the first question, the latter portion I think is very easy to do. Just, don't write him like that. Just be aware of why that's a mischaracterization, why the character doesn't need that to work, why he works better without it, and so on. It shouldn't be that hard.

Regarding Indiana Jones and Thomas Magnum, I think these two actually lend themselves very easily to crossovers with The Shadow. On Indy's case, he already is a Pulp Hero operating in the same time period, who's got a heavily contrasting niche and personality to build a fun dynamic around. Indy is more story-driven, in the sense that the Indiana Jones moves are all centered around his experiences and point of view and growth as a person, compared to The Shadow's stories, which are not really about "his" story as much as they are about the stories of the people he comes in contact with. Indy is a blockbuster superstar while The Shadow lurks and slithers through the edges and cracks of a story until it's time to strike. But if anything that just makes even more of a case as to why they could team up without issue, since there's a further built-in complimentary contrast to work with.

I have never watched Magnum P.I so there's definitely stuff I might be missing, but looking him up, past the necessary explanation as to why The Shadow's hanging around the 80s, it wouldn't strain credulity at all for the two to team up. The Shadow has had Caribbean/beach-themed adventures and one unrecorded adventure in Honolulu, he has a beach bum secret identity called Portuguese Joe that he could use for this occasion, and Magnum seems like exactly the kind of character who could star as the proxy hero of a Shadow novel. He's lively and friendly and can look after himself, he has a job that leads him to trouble and puts him on contact with criminals as well as victims, he's got secrets and a dark past and a laundry list of character flaws, he's perfectly capable of carrying a story by himself but can be out of his depth in the schemes that he gets caught up in.

Could the Shadow ever functionally exist in a universe shared with a space opera setting like the Lensman series? Or Rick Deckard’s cyberpunk dystopia?

I'm going to tackle parts of this question more throughly when I answer one in my query that's asking me "How would you do The Shadow in modern day?", which I still haven't gotten around to answering because it's a tricky one. I won't go into the specifics for the two examples you listed because I've never read the Lensman books and googling about them hasn't helped much very much, and Deckard's a fairly standard P.I character mostly elevated by the movie he's in, there's not really much to discuss regarding him specifically interacting with The Shadow. The question you're asking me here seems to generally be: Could The Shadow functionally exist in settings so radically apart from the 30s Depression era he was made for?

My answer for this is a maybe leaning towards yes. Starting with the fact that the concept of The Shadow is more suited for allegorical fantasy along the lines of space operas and cyberpunk, than the gritty realism he's been saddled with for decades, which I'll get into another time. For some reason, a lot of people seem to harp on about how the Shadow's costume is impractical and unworkable for modern times, and said James Patterson novel mentioned above ditched it all together, which as you can guess was a massively unpopular decision. Matt Wagner talked once about how cities don't have shadows and men wearing hats anymore and that's part of why you can't have The Shadow in modern times (as if The Shadow was always supposed to be dressing like an average guy, and not cowboy Dracula). But nobody seems to have a problem with characters dressing up exactly like The Shadow showing up all the time in dystopian future cities with fashion senses where they stick out like a sore thumb (and really, they should stick out, otherwise what's the point of being all weird and dark and mysterious?)

Although The Shadow is specifically suited for urban settings, is conceptually rooted in 1930s America, and there are important facets of his characterization related to history like the Great War, there are not the be-all end-all of The Shadow. It's part of the character. Other parts integral to the character are, as mentioned above, the versatility and metamorphous nature he was always intended to have. His nature as a character who exists to thrive in narratives not about him and not centered around him. His roots on Dracula and King Arthur and Oz and Lupin which are concepts that have had so, so many drastical revisions and turnabouts that still stuck to the basic principles of the icon.

Besides, The Shadow's already been there. He's already been to space, he's already been in alternate dimensions, he's already reawakened in modern/future times several times now (when he doesn't just live to them unchanged). He's been a cyborg twice, and between those, El Sombra, Vendata, X-9, the Shadow-referencing robot henchmen from Bob Morane and Yu-Gi-Oh's Jinzo referencing the movie's bridge scene, it's enough to constitute a weird pattern of The Shadow and Shadow-adjacent characters turning into robots. Perhaps one positive side effect of The Shadow's decades-long submersion in fantasy is that it's opened the character for just about anything, and I think this could be a good thing if it was married to an adherence to the things that made him such a juggernaut of an icon in the 30s and 40s.

Really, The Shadow partially works on Predator rules. And by that I mean, the big secret of the Predator that filmmakers don't seem to get is that the best way to make a Predator film is to just put the Predator somewhere he's not supposed to be, and let that play out. Because the Predator is, by design, a trespasser who invades narratives and turns the power dynamics around, and that works for any narrative you put it into.

The first movie is all about setting you up for a jungle action movie with Schwarzenegger's Sexual Tyrannosaurus Crew as the biggest baddest death squad around, only for the Predator to appear, turn the tables on these shitheads and pick them off one by one until Arnie scrapes a victory by beating it at it's own game. The 2nd movie is about a drug war between cops and gangs in L.A, until the Predator shows up and suddenly he's the big problem again that's gotta be put down. All the other movies fail because they try to be "about" the Predator, but the Predator doesn't work that way. He's a ugly motherfucker who's here to fight and kill things in cool ways for the sake of it's warrior game, who already has a specific structure to how his story's meant to play out, and that's all he needs to be. What you do is just take that character, take the structure he carries around, and throw it somewhere that works by different rules, and let the contrast play out the story.

Obviously there's a lot more to The Shadow than this, I write a billion essays on the guy after all, but much of what makes The Shadow work, much of what made The Shadow such an icon at the decade of his debut and such an interesting character to revolve any kinds of stories around, was because of the great contrast he posed to everything surrounding him, and the ways he can both be at the forefront as well as the backseat of any story.

Going back to what Gibson said:

Almost any situation involving crime could be adapted to The Shadow’s purposes. He could meet any exigency on the spur of the moment, and if he suddenly acted in a manner opposed to his usual custom, it could always be explained later.

The Shadow was such an incredible character in his own right that almost anything he encountered was accepted by his ardent followers.

advisable to emphasize the parts played by The Shadow's well-established agents, since regular readers evidently liked them.

The keyword here isn't that the Shadow should be realistic, frankly that's always been a lost cause. He was never really that realistic, and it's unfair to expect writers to keep pace with Gibson who had lifelong experience with the in and outs of magic and daring escapes and whatnot. The keywords I want to stress here is "accepted by his ardent followers".

Make a good explanation, an explanation that fits the character, an explanation that works, and the rest will follow. And if you can't, make us like the character. Make us accept that he can do and be all these things. Give us something to be invested in. And if that can't be The Shadow himself because he has to stay at arms length constantly to be mysterious, Gibson cracked the code almost a century ago through the agents. Make us invested in them, and through them, we will become invested in The Shadow.

The pulp Shadow would get tired, get injured, need rescuing, need to stop and rest and catch his breath, would need to think and plan and make split decisions on the spot and sometimes would make the wrong ones only to reverse them in the nick of time, and it made the fact that he was achieving all these things all the more impressive. The pulp Shadow was a creature of fantasy grounded in the history of the world he was a part of.

If you can make people care about The Shadow, be truly, genuinely invested in him and his world and the people he comes in contact with, be as invested in those as audiences were back then, you can and maybe should put him anywhere, doing anything, as long as you know what you're doing. As long as you understand what makes The Shadow tick, what makes him work and what doesn't, and whatnot.

Which is a lot of words for "do whatever you want, just don't fuck it up"

[recurring-polynya]

For the AU request, whichever one(s) you prefer (for RenRuki of course):

the X-Men universe

the Mafia/criminal underworld

the circus

as FBI agents (the X-Files world perhaps)

So, I got this ask, and I immediately wanted to go for X-Files, because I was hugely into X-Files when I was a tween/teen, and I think that my actual first published work of fanfic on the internet might actually be X-Files. (I didn’t even post it myself, I was like 12 and I didn’t have the internet at home, but a friend of mine posted it on Usenet for me, I have no idea whatever became of it). Anyway, I was going back and forth in my head who I wanted to be Mulder and who I wanted to be Scully, and then I got this ask:

@ulkoilla​ said:

I though the 10 would be full in about 1 microsecond so I didn’t even try :D This is maybe not AU enough for the purpose but I'd love to see your take on Bleach world where the shinigami work among humans as if they were in gigai -> they'll have to balance the supernatural, perhaps violent elements of their life with the modern day laws and such (like in Supernatural). Renji and Rukia have ofc gotten in trouble with the non-supernatural law (meet: Detective!Aizen?) and are on the run…

It suddenly occurred to me, What If: X-Files World, but Renruki are the cryptids. And it suddenly popped into my head exactly who I wanted to be Mulder. Anyway, I am sorry missrambler, if I messed it all up, I hope you like it anyway.

Also, I somehow thought that I would save myself some trouble by combining two prompts, but then it ended up… really long. (Forty! Eight! Hundred! Words! Go to Talks-Too-Much-Jail, Polynya!!)

PS: This takes place in D.C. because it’s X-Files and also because I am familiar with D.C. and I never get to write about places I know about. A half-smoke is a local delicacy that’s halfway between a hot dog and an Italian sausage. They are delicious.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

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Ichigo Kurosaki had known that an office with a view of the Smithsonian might be too much to ask, but he had not expected to take have to take two separate elevators down to sub-basement C, and walk past a storage room, two broom closets and a weird old vending machine full of brands of snacks he swore he hadn’t seen since he was a child.

Maybe Agent Inoue has a huge lab, he told himself. Maybe it needs to be 50 meters below ground because she collides large hadrons down here or so that her work can’t be picked up by spy satellites.

He had to turn sideways to get past a rack of wire shelves full of banker’s boxes, but there, on the other side was a door sporting a handwritten cardboard nameplate reading “Special Agent Orihime Inoue.”

“Come in!” a voice called inside, just as he raised his hand to knock on the door.

Ichigo blinked twice, and then went in.

The office was cluttered, mostly with more cardboard boxes, but books were also stacked precariously on top of boxes on top of books. The walls were plastered with maps and graphs and photographs of hazy blurs in front of staircases. There was a large poster showing a UFO, with the words “I WANT TO BELIEVE” in block caps below it.

A woman with long chestnut hair twisted up into a bun and held in place with three pencils was hunched over a metal box full of diodes and transistors and other things you would buy at Radio Shack. Or rather, that other people would buy at a Radio Shack. Ichigo had never set foot in a Radio Shack in his life.

“Er, good morning,” Ichigo said, as the woman looked up and blinked at him owlishly. “Agent Inoue? I’m Ichigo Kurosaki. I’ve been assigned to work with you.”

“To spy on me, you mean,” Agent Inoue corrected, cheerfully shaking his hand with great vigor.

Ichigo bristled. Yes, he had been directed to ‘provide additional documentation on Agent Inoue’s activities,’ but that hardly counted as spying. She was known to be somewhat scatterbrained, and having an organized person around would probably be a great benefit to her. “If you have any doubts about my qualifications or motivations--”

“Oh, don’t take it personally!” Inoue replied, slotting a lid onto her electronics project, and attacking it vigorously with a jeweler’s screwdriver. “Just because you’re a spy doesn’t mean you aren’t a nice person. Also, I read your file, you have a very interesting background! Degree in literature with a focus on folk legends. Teaching at the academy for the last few years while working on your book.” She took a momentary break from her screwing to fix him with her big, soft brown eyes. “Tell me, Agent Kurosaki, what do you think happens after you die?”

Ichigo froze. “I would be buried? Maybe there would be a funeral first?”

Inoue started laughing so hard that Ichigo was sure he caught a tiny, adorable snort. “Sorry, sorry! I wasn’t clear!” She sniffed, and wiped a tear from her eye. “Do you believe in continued existence after the death of the body? An afterlife, religion-based or otherwise? The existence of ectoplasm, cold spots, spirit photographs, EVP?”

“Are you talking about… ghosts?” Ichigo asked hesitantly.

“Yes!” Orihime replied with a nod. “Ghosts.”

“We-elll…” Ichigo drew out. “I believe that people believe they observe certain phenomena, as part of the cycle of grief and--”

“Just say ‘no’ if you don’t,” Inoue interrupted him.

“Er, no. I don’t.”

“That’s okay. Are you good at carrying heavy things?”

“Am I... I guess?”

“Perfect!” She shoved the box into his arms, and Ichigo’s knees almost buckled under the weight. “Let’s walk and talk, I want to go get a reading over near Franklin Square before 9 am. We’re gonna pass a really good half-smoke cart on the way, do you like half-smokes?”

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“Take a look at this,” Inoue said, her cheek half stuffed with sausage, jabbing a finger at the LED read-out of her mysterious box.

It was rather hard for Ichigo to see, because he was holding the box and the readout was on the other side, but he did his best to crane his neck around. “What am I looking at? The squiggles? I’m sorry, it looks like nothing to me.”

“Exactly right!” Inoue announced, waving her half smoke in the air. “Not a sniff of spiritual residue!”

Ichigo pressed his lips together. “Um… is that good?”

“It is interesting,” Inoue corrected. “Five days ago, a sixty-four year old woman had a heart attack while sitting in that bus shelter.” On every day since, I have been able to record EMF fluctuations, and on Sunday, I was able to get a voice recording that sounded like a woman reciting a grocery list. But this morning, nothing! Nada!”

“Well, uh, ghosts gotta move on eventually, right? Otherwise, just about everywhere would be haunted, right?” It’s not that Ichigo had suddenly started believing ghosts or anything, but there was something about Agent Inoue that just made you want to go along with her and see where all this panned out.

Inoue shot him a finger gun. “Or, they get moved along.” She shoved a folded paper map at him. “You can put that thing down.”

Ichigo eased the Spirit Detect-O 9000, or whatever it was called, to the grass and accepted her map. It was a street map of DC, meant for tourists, emphasizing all the local transit routes and popular attractions. There was also a great loop marked on it in orange highlighter, zig-zagging back and forth through the city. There was a little ‘x’ marked on Franklin Park, with “Tuesday, early morning” written in a bubbly hand.

“What is this?” Ichigo frowned. It didn’t seem to match up with any of the metro or bus lines. It didn’t even match with the sidewalks, it appeared to cut straight through large buildings like the convention center.

“As far as I can tell,” Inoue said, her brown eyes very solemn, “that is the patrol route of our local grim reaper.”

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“So I actually got interested in grim reapers,” Inoue explained, once they were back in the office, “while I was investigating violent ghost phenomena.” She was eating a bag of corn chips that she had gotten from that ancient vending machine by punching it and then shoving her own arm up the chute. (She’d gotten Ichigo a bag, too, but he was too afraid to eat them.)

Ichigo was sitting at a cluttered table that Inoue had told him “could be his desk.” Half of it was taken up by a large aquarium full of rocks and a water bowl, but no life forms that Ichigo could detect. The other half was covered with back issues of “Ghost Hunter Technology” magazine. “You mean like poltergeists?” he asked.

“Not exactly. Poltergeists are noisy, but they aren’t usually able to kill their targets.”

“Kill? Ghosts can’t kill people, aside from, like scaring them to death,” Ichigo scoffed. “I mean, folklorically speaking. As we established earlier, I am not a ghost-believer.”

Inoue tipped her head to the side. “They do, actually, it just tends to get blamed on something else.”

“By ghost-non-believers.”

“By everyone, really, and that’s what’s so strange.” Inoue pulled a fat binder from a stack of seemingly identical ones, and tossed it open in front of Ichigo. “Edison, New Jersey, 2014. An elderly woman dies ‘of a broken heart’ a week after her husband dies of cancer. Coincidentally, a telephone pole falls on her house the same night and rips a hole in her house.” She turned a page. “Norfolk, Virginia, 2017. A young woman dies in what the police rule as a suicide, despite the fact that she made a 911 call 48 hours previous, expressing fear of her ex-boyfriend. Three days later, the boyfriend is dead of mysterious causes. Coincidentally, his apartment complex suffered significant damages from ‘a wild cougar.’”

Ichigo squinted at the pictures. The walls of the building were scored with what did appear to be scratch marks. “Hell of a cougar.”

“Exactly! And I’ve got dozens of these historic cases. But about four months ago, I was able to investigate one myself-- a young man named Joe Wallace. He lives here in the city, over near Dupont Circle. Wallace had cut off his toxic dad years ago, and refused to visit him in the hospital as he was dying. Four days after his father’s death, a truck crashes into his house in the middle of the night and then drives away before the police can arrive.”

“And he died.”

“No!” Inoue held up one finger. “Scratches and bruises, but he doesn’t die!”

“Okay, great. So what does he remember?”

“He remembers a truck crashing into his house.”

Ichigo scratched his chin. “I am confused.”

“Look at this!” Inoue stabbed a finger at the pictures. “These are claw marks, not vehicular wreckage! There’s damage on the second story window! Wallace had scratches and defensive wounds, as if he had been fending off an animal! And look here, at the damage to the walls of the bedroom!”

“What am I looking at?” Ichigo asked, squinting at a photograph that looked like it had been blown up past the point of recognition.

“There were cuts and slashes in the walls and bedding as though someone had been fighting with a sword.”

“Like a Medieval Times sword? Was the guy a Medieval Times enthusiast?”

“More consistent with a katana. Do you like Medieval Times?”

“No one likes Medieval Times.”

“I like Medieval Times. You’ve probably never even been. But back to the ghost! Why would Wallace remember a truck crashing into his house, when nothing about the scene is consistent with that story?”

“He was...lying?”

“His memories were replaced.”

“His memories were replaced,” Ichigo echoed.

“Yes.”

“By… aliens?”

Orihime heaved a deep sigh. “By a grim reaper.”

“A grim reaper with a samurai sword.”

“How on earth did you come to this conclusion?”

Inoue raised one eyebrow. “Because when I placed him under hypnosis, Wallace didn’t remember anything about a truck. He did remember a monster with batwings and a mask made of bone and his dead father’s voice who tried to kill him, except that he was saved by a tall man dressed in black. The man had bright red hair and fought the monster with a sword that was also a whip and then he wiped Wallace’s memories.”

Ichigo stared at her. “You can hypnotize people?”

Inoue gave him a long-suffering face. Ichigo had the sudden flash that he was going to be seeing that face a lot in the days to come. “Yes, I am a certified hypnotist.” Inoue’s phone suddenly started playing “Tubular Bells”. “Oops, that’s an alarm. Come on, we have a meeting with some important people. Do you like diners?”

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Agent Inoue apparently did not care for public transit, but she walked very quickly. Ichigo was concentrating so hard on keeping up with her that he nearly collided with her back when she stopped very suddenly.

“You don’t mind if we make a quick stop, do we?” Inoue asked.

“You said the meeting was with important people.”

“Oh, don’t worry about them!” Inoue pursed her lips. “You see that bodega right there?”

They were in a part of downtown that was mostly mid-to-upscale restaurants and government buildings and FedExes. But sure enough, there was a dingy little bodega nestled between a Mexican-Indian fusion place and an Au Bon Pain, the windows stuffed with t-shirts from the last administration and a variety of cell phone chargers. The overhead sign read “Urahara Shop.”

“Y...eah…” Ichigo replied.

“That place is a hotbed of supernatural activity.”

“Is it?” Ichigo asked.

“I am almost positive that it is a supply point and meeting place for grim reapers, monster slayers, cryptids, alien hunters, and lycanthropes, but the owner is on to me.”

“I see,” Ichigo said levelly.

“Can you go in and pretend to be a customer? They have lots of good candy you can look through. Inoue dug in her purse and came up with a fiver. “Here. Buy a scratch ticket or something.”

“I’m not buying a scratch ticket, they’re a scam.”

“If the big guy is working the counter, he’ll glare at you until you buy something, so be prepared.”

As Ichigo pushed open the door, he realized he’d never actually agreed to any of this. Agent Inoue’s secret hypnosis powers, once again. Whatever. It was a bodega, there were a thousand of them in DC. They all had the same Nats t-shirts and coffee mugs with pictures of the Washington Monument on them. Ichigo pretended to be interested in a rack of comics. He tended to prefer indy comics over the big publishers himself, but even so, he didn’t recognize any of the books. Maybe they were by local authors.

Up at the front of the shop, a tiny, dark-haired woman was giving whatfor to the man behind the counter, a tall fellow with pale, straw-colored hair sticking out in tufts from under the saddest hat Ichigo had ever seen, a shapeless, battered bucket, striped green and white.

“Well, I can sell you a new battery for your phone, Miss Kuchiki, maybe that would help.”

“Not if it only lasts as long as the last one you sold me! I really need to get in touch with my partner, except that even if I could get my phone working again, his battery is probably dead because everything you sell is the same crap!”

“Ah, that’s too bad! You know, I think Mr. Abarai was in here a few days ago… I wasn’t in at the time, but Jinta said he came in, asking about…”

The man trailed off, and Ichigo glanced up to see the shopkeeper looking directly at him.

“...metrocards. But as you know, we don’t sell metrocards anymore.”

The woman made an aggravated noise. “You’re so useless! If I write him a damned note, will you give it to him if he comes in?”

“Oh, of course! Anything for you, Miss Kuchiki!”

The conversation trailed off as the woman hunched over the counter to angrily scratch out a note.

Ichigo stuffed the comic he was flipping through back on its rack. He skipped the enormous display of bedazzled flip-flops and started perusing the surprisingly extensive selection of gum.

“Here!” the woman finished and shoved her note at the shopkeeper. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Have a wonderful day!” the shopkeeper tootled, giving her a little finger wave.

Ichigo felt bad for the woman. “Er, excuse me?” he said as she passed.

She turned to scowl at him. For such a tiny person, she seemed to contain a remarkable amount of rage.

“Do you need to call someone? You can use my phone, if you’d like.” He held it out like an offering.

The woman blinked at him for a moment.

“I didn’t mean to be nosy! You were just kind of loud and you sounded worried about your, um, partner.”

“I’m not worried about him, I just need to find him.” Her face softened. “Thanks, Mister, but I can’t reach him on a regular phone. Don’t worry, I’ll track him down eventually.” She turned to leave, then stopped to jab an accusatory finger at Ichigo. “And that’s professional partner, not… you know! Whatever!” She stomped out.

What a strange, tiny person.

Ichigo selected a gum and walked up to the counter.

“Oooh, dragonberry lime, good choice!” the man trilled. “Anything else I can get you? Bottled water? Fanny pack? Spare phone battery?”

“I’ll pass,” Ichigo replied dryly.

“I imagine it’s against FBI policy to let a stranger use your cell phone,” the shopkeeper said sweetly.

Ichigo’s brows furrowed. “This is my personal phone. And how did you…?”

The man gave a chortling laugh that sent shivers down Ichigo’s spine. “Because headquarters is three blocks away and only an FBI agent would wear a suit that square.”

Ichigo took his change and his gum and shoved them both in his pocket. “Yeah, well, your hat sucks.”

The man laughed harder. “Doesn’t it, though?”

Once he was outside again, Ichigo handed Inoue the gum and her change. “The owner of that place is a creep.”

“The guy in the green and white hat?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Urahara. You’re right, he’s the owner. Were there any other customers?”

“Just the short lady. You must have seen her come out. She was ripping Urahara a new one for some dodgy cell phone battery he sold her. I think she must have been NSA or something. She said she was trying to get ahold of her partner, but she needed a special phone.” As he said it, Ichigo realized it would be pretty odd for an NSA agent to be buying cell phone batteries from some shady bodega.

“No one came out,” Inoue replied.

“She definitely did! I heard the bell over the door ring.”

Inoue regarded Ichigo very seriously. “Agent Kurosaki. I was standing here the whole time. You were the only person who went in or out.” She looked at the gum. “Ooh! Dragonfruit lime! Do you want some?”

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They were late to the meeting.

Two men were waiting for them in the back corner booth. One of them had pinched, pointy features and piercing blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His chin-length haircut was pretty dramatic, but not as dramatic as his pure white trench coat. A cup of black coffee sat on the faded Formica table in front of him, but it didn’t look like it had been touched.

His companion was an enormous, good-looking Latino who was shoveling pancakes into his face.

“Inoue,” the dramatic guy said. “Who’s this?”

“This is my new partner, Kurosaki,” Inoue replied. “Kurosaki, this is Uryuu Ishida,” she indicated the white trenchcoat guy, “and Chad,” Mr. Pancakes.

“Also known as the ‘Lone Archers,’” Ishida specified. “We are apolitical actors who are interested in revealing the truths that are regularly hidden from the general populace by secret forces that conspire within the machinery of the American government.”

“You can just call me Chad,” said Chad.

“Good morning!” the waitress said. “Can I get you folks anything?”

“Oh, yes! I’m getting mozzarella sticks! Do you like mozzarella sticks, Kurosaki? They’re so good here!”

“So’re the pancakes,” added Chad.

“I’ll just have a coffee,” Ichigo announced. He glanced at Ishida’s cup. “Black.”

“Double mozzarella sticks, please!” Inoue chorused. “And a cherry coke!” She leaned over to Ichigo and spoke out of the side of her mouth. “I’ll give you a mozzarella stick.”

“Do you want some pancake?” Chad offered to Ishida. “I never think to offer.”

Ishida waved him off with a hand. “Agent Inoue. At great personal peril, I was able to obtain a sample of the item we discussed.” He slid a small paper packet across the table. “There are two tablets inside, but one should be sufficient for your purposes.” Ishida leaned forward, his mouth set in a firm line. “I was cautioned very strongly against using this, unless one had a firm plan for handling the… consequences.”

“I understand,” Inoue replied, stuffing the envelope into her purse.

Ichigo wanted to ask more questions, but the conversation shifted very quickly to some USGS floodplain maps that Ishida wanted Inoue to obtain for him that were apparently not available from the public webportals, allegedly because of filesize. Ichigo could practically hear the air quotes around the word “filesize.”

“We’re going to look for Jersey Devils next weekend,” Chad explained, sounding pretty excited about it.

“There’s only one, Chad,” Ishida corrected. “It’s just ‘Jersey Devil.’”

“There could be more than one,” Chad shrugged.

Thirty minutes later, they departed. Inoue had an order of mozzarella sticks in her purse. Ichigo had an armload of backissues of the Lone Archers’ ‘zine, which was, conveniently enough, titled The Lone Archer. There was no doubt in his mind that at least Ishida was completely off his rocker. The jury was still out on Chad… he struck Ichigo as the sort of guy who just went along with Ishida’s nonsense because he was a good friend and also liked taking camping trips and doing layout for ‘zines.

“So what was that thing they gave you?” Ichigo pestered. The idea of that little paper packet had been burning a hole in his brain the entire time.

“You busy tonight?” Inoue asked, raising an eyebrow slyly. “Between 10 and 11?”

“What are we doing?” Ichigo asked cautiously, wondering if he would be able to charge his time.

“We’re going to try and attract an angry ghost.”

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“Are you… sure this is… a good idea?” Ichigo asked for the sixteenth time, as Inoue focused the thermal camera on him.

They were in an old, abandoned lot that had formerly served as a Metro service facility. It was pretty spooky all on its own, filled with train cars too dilapidated for salvage.

It was 10:25pm. Inoue had set up no less than 17 different pieces of ghost detection equipment. Ichigo was questioning his life choices.

“You told me you don’t believe in ghosts. If ghosts don’t exist, then what could possibly go wrong?” Inoue posed.

“Well… that’s true,” Ichigo granted. “And, for the record, I still do not believe in ghosts. But in the Pascal’s wager sense of things, I am considering the ramifications of what happens if there are ghosts that exist, regardless of my belief in them.”

“And?” Inoue asked.

“Well, you said that these ghosts have hurt and killed people before. It seems like trying to attract one without having any method of, um, fighting it, seems kind of… irresponsible?”

“Ah, but you see, I’ve specifically picked this time and location to coincide with the grim reaper patrol routes I’ve been mapping out. Our friendly neighborhood psychopomp ought to show up just on schedule to fight the angry ghost for us. We’re doing them a favor, as I see it.”

“How so?” Ichigo exclaimed.

“It’s not like we’re creating an angry ghost out of nowhere. We’re just attracting an existing one to our location. We’re saving the grim reaper the trouble of having to hunt it down.”

Ichigo pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was it so difficult to argue with Inoue? Possibly because she was so incredibly earnest in all her beliefs, and all her arguments were in completely good faith, it’s just that her logic came from some other dimension. This woman has solved multiple, high-profile murders, including several that were ice cold, Ichigo reminded himself. So she’s quirky. I am sure I can learn a lot from her.

“Okay, everything is in place!” Inoue announced, placing her hand on her hips. “Go hide behind that pile of moldy seats!”

Inoue took Ichigo’s place at the center of her recording equipment. “Agent Orihime Inoue speaking,” she said, for posterity. “It is 10:28pm. I am crushing one tablet of a substance called ‘Hollow Bait.’” She crunched the little white tablet, which looked an awful lot like an Alka-Seltzer, between her fingers, and then made a flying leap for the rotting pile of damp, orange upholstery that Ichigo was crouched behind.

“So, just out of curiosity,” Ichigo started. “How long would we have to wait, theoretically, with nothing happening, before we would declare this a bust?”

Inoue pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Usually, I would give it about two hours, but if you’ve got somewhere to be, I don’t mind if you leave early. It is nice to have company for a change.”

“No, I don’t have anywhere else to be,” Ichigo replied. “I mean… sleeping, I guess.”

Inoue gave a charming little laugh. “I don’t sleep very well. And hunting for ghosts is more interesting than most of the stuff on Hulu.”

The way that she said it gave Ichigo the distinct impression that Inoue was, well, lonely. But that didn’t seem correct. She was weird, sure, but she was also friendly and talkative, and, er, well, she was extremely cute. Surely she had tons of friends.

“How’d you get into ghost hunting, anyway?” he tried to be conversational.

“Hmm,” Inoue hummed noncommittally. “Let’s just say there was an incident in my teen years, where my memories don’t match up to the property damage.”

Oh. Ichigo wondered if he should apologize, when suddenly, a cold chill ran down his spine and a sound like a roar echoed in his ears, except he didn’t actually hear anything. “Did you hear that?” he gasped.

“It’s the EMF detector,” Inoue nodded, scrambling for the reader and Ichigo realized he could hear a faint beeping.

“No, not the beeping, it was like a… a… scream…”

“You heard a scream?”

“I didn’t exactly…” Ichigo trailed off as he heard two more, coming from different directions. “There’s more than one. Monster screams. Not human screams.”

Inoue stared at him, eyes wide. “I don’t hear anything. Have you ever been tested for latent psychic ability?”

There was a sudden change in the air pressure, and a fetid, rotting smell, even worse than the Metro seats. Ichigo grabbed Inoue by the shoulders and rolled out of the way, just as the pile of junk they had been crouched behind compacted like it had been through a car crusher. Or smashed by a giant foot.

“Whoa!” Inoue exclaimed, trying to push Ichigo off of her so she could see what was going on.

Ichigo blinked through the night. He couldn’t see anything, but there was an area of space that looked thick and hazy, like it wasn’t refracting the harsh glow of the sodium street lights quite correctly.

“We have to get out of here,” Ichigo gasped.

“Can you see it?” Inoue asked, her eyes wide and excited.

“Not-- not really,” Ichigo replied, pulling at her arm. The air blurred, and Ichigo had the sense the thing was jumping at them. He could tell it was fast, but he couldn’t see it, he didn’t know what to--

“Howl, Zabimaru!”

It was both there and not quite there, a liquid blade made of glass and starlight, that snapped through the air at the invisible thing. The monster bellowed, and whipped around, charging at a dark figure standing atop one of the old Metro cars.

“Pick on someone your own size, ugly!” the man bellowed, and as Ichigo squinted, he realized that their savior was dressed all in black. He was tall, and his hair was pulled back in a spiky ponytail. It was bright red. He was also wearing sunglasses, even though it was the middle of the night. They were pushed up on top of his head, to be fair, but Ichigo had a feeling this detail would stick with him.

“You can see that guy, right?” Ichigo asked Inoue desperately. “The guy who’s fighting the ghost? The guy that looks just like the guy in your report?”

“There’s a guy?” Inoue asked. “No. Where is he? Can you usually see ghosts?”

“I don’t even believe in ghosts!”

“Well, maybe you don’t believe in them because you can see them and you don’t want to, did you ever think of that?”

“I don’t think now is the time to interrogate my personal traumas!”

Suddenly, there was another drop in pressure, and Ichigo had the sense of heavy breathing and sharp teeth. “Inoue. I think there’s another one.”

“Well, can you get the guy to come fight this one, too?”

“He seems busy,” Ichigo squeaked.

Something black flashed by his vision, and there was a loud crack and a sound of something screeching in pain. A second dark-clad person had arrived, landing softly on sandaled feet. There was the same unreality to her, a sense that she wasn’t entirely there, as well as a certain familiarity that Ichigo couldn’t place. Her sword was bright in the darkness, like moonlight reflecting on snow.

“Oi, there you are, you big dummy!” she shouted at the first man and Ichigo realized with a jolt that it was the angry woman from the bodega. “I’ve been looking for you for four days!”

“I had a problem with my gigai and maybe you should check your texts once in a while!” the tall guy shouted back. Ichigo refused to think of him as a grim reaper. A grim reaper would not wear sunglasses.

“My phone died!”

“Can we-- ow! -- discuss this later? I’m glad you’re okay, I missed you. Why are there so many Hollows in this train yard?”

“You’re such a sap! And the Hollows are here because some stupid humans got ahold of some Hollow bait.” The woman turned, and glared at Ichigo. Her eyes burned with blue flame, like the burner of a gas stove.

That would have been the last thing Ichigo remembered, if he had actually remembered it, or any of the things that came before it.

  👻     👻     👻

Ichigo was sitting at his desk.

Inoue was sitting at her desk.

The sun was streaming in the window. The clock on Ichigo’s phone read 7:12am.

Inoue frowned. She examined a coffee cup on her desk. She took a hesitant sip, and then made a face. “Why are we here?” she wondered softly.

“I hate to pull an all-nighter,” Ichigo said, stretching, “but it sure does feel good to be caught up on paperwork!”

Inoue regarded him. “Kurosaki,” she said, “how long have you worked here?”

Ichigo frowned. “Well, I guess this is my second day.”

“Right. So… how much paperwork did you have to catch up on?”

Ichigo blinked. He very distinctively recalled working through the night-- his hand cramping, the incredibly spicy Thai food they’d ordered, Inoue’s seemingly infinite Boy Bands of the 90’s playlist. “I… was helping you, I guess?” Come to think of it, why was he filling out paperwork by hand, anyway? His laptop sat next to him, the lid closed. It wasn’t even plugged in.

Inoue’s fist slammed down onto her desk. “Gosh darnit! They wiped my memories again!!”