#used by bald mustached man club

[cameforstuff]

Just watched the new Sonic movie. I want one very important thing.

No, not the gay men.

Shadow and Agent Stone friendship, please?

[solitaryandwandering]

Top Nine Favorite TV Series

I was tagged by the incomparable @wen-kexing-apologist to list nine of my favorite shows, thank youu!! <3 This is a... daunting task. I'll do my best.

They've already listed/mentioned a number of shows in their own post I would include in mine (Avatar: The Last Airbender; I Told Sunset About You; 180 Degree Longitude Passes Through Us) so I will not be including those, to my absolute despair!! I'm only including stuff I've 100% completed, so that automatically excludes stuff like Orphan Black, Penny Dreadful, Derry Girls, Barry, or Russian Doll.

Keep Your Hands Off Eizouken!

[ID: TV poster. Background is busy with sketches of an urban sprawl, with buildings and flying ships clashing with natural elements. Three teenage girls flail with maniacal glee in the foreground. On the right is the tallest of them all, glasses perched on her head and wearing an astronaut's suit with a jet pack. On the left, a girl in an orange jumpsuit is riding a flying carpet. In the center is a short girl with a round head, clutching animation paper in her hand. She is being jettisoned by a propeller around her waist.]

It took me forever to discern what was happening in that poster, my god.

Anyway, this show!!! Exactly what I needed at the time I watched it. So full of joy and creativity with no cynicism or guile to be seen. Pure, unfettered fun but still delivered moving characters and story. It's literally about three weird teenage girls who decide to start an animation club at their high school. Doesn't sound like much but is absolutely PASSIONATE in every sense of the word, in every way you could possibly apply it practically in its creation. It's so obvious everyone had fun making this little show. This is the kind of art that makes you hug yourself with tears of happiness. Or is that just something I do?

Give me more stories about weird girls being fucking bizarre!!! I need it!!!

Tldr; Hilarious, full of heart, reminded me why I love art, why I love stories, and what I love about life. An absolute 10/10 for me.

Batman: The Animated Series

[ID: TV poster. Batman is silhouetted against a black background, drawing his cape up around his body and staring at the viewer through narrow white slits in his bat-like mask. Batman's head is backlit by a bright red sun.]

Oh, you think I'm just adding this for pure nostalgia? WRONG. B:TAS absolutely stands up to scrutiny even without nostalgia glasses. I rewatched this relatively recently and was completely blown away by the complexity in its storytelling and characterization. Yes, I was obsessed with this show (and the rest of the DCAU) as a kid, but as an adult I can find very few flaws. B:TAS may represent one of my first forays into noir, which is potentially my favorite genre across all art-forms. It certainly represents one of the first times I fell in love with a superhero story.

Tldr; Kevin Conroy IS the best Batman. 10/10

Breaking Bad

[ID: Photo of four major characters from Breaking Bad. From left to right: Gus Fring, a Chilean man wearing round spectacles and a collared shirt with tie; Jesse Pinkman, a white man in his mid-twenties wearing a black T-shirt; Walter White, a bald white man with a full mustache and extended goatee, wearing large glasses; Mike Ehrmantraut, a bald white man with a bulbous nose. All four look into the camera with expressions of tired determination.]

Ah yes, the show that seems to make it to every "favorite shows" list made by everyone else in the universe. I really do love it though; it has incredible, complex, morally-gray characters, a gripping plot and story, phenomenal thematic development, GORGEOUS cinematography and production design, and bonkers acting. It really deserves all its accolades and praise. Add to that a disabled character played by a disabled actor and you've got me singing your praises all the way to the grave!

Tdlr; Virulent toxic masculinity LOSES and we all cheer! It leaves lasting trauma and devastation in its wake and we all scream in agonized recognition! 10/10 fried chickens

Over the Garden Wall

[ID: TV poster. Two young boys are wandering in a wooded area, approaching a darkened alcove of trees and vines. The taller of the two is wearing a red conical hat and blue cape with golden buttons. He looks into the dark woods with worry. A shorter boy scampers excitedly ahead, balancing an upside-down silver teakettle atop his head and hoisting a large green frog under his arm. A bluebird flies at their side.]

My best friend and I watch this show together every year. I am such a sucker for good sibling stories and this one takes the cake. The way Wirt and Greg love each other is heartbreakingly realistic, and to set the growth of their relationship against a confusing and bizarre backdrop is so satisfying. And what a backdrop! I loved fairytales as a kid and this show scratches that itch. Besides the great little vignettes what brings me back to this story again and again is the attention to nuanced relationship development between ALL characters. Wirt's character growth hinges on learning how not to inflict loneliness on himself, to instead accept love and care from others, even those he considers too good for him. Me likey! Great music and one of the best-designed monsters/villains I've seen in any children's animated show, and you've won me over.

Tldr; Goofy kids, goofy problems. Potatoes and molasses. 10/10, would be spooked again

Bad Buddy

[ID: TV poster. Two young college-aged men are standing close together in a yellow-lit room in front of a window. The man on the left stands with his arms wrapped around the waist of the other man, looking fondly into his eyes. The man on the right looks worried, one finger over his lips as he presses his hand against the other man's mouth.]

I was hesitant to start watching BL. Nothing about the genre appealed to me beyond the romance and happy endings. But then KinnPorsche lured me in with promises of attempts not to shy away from queerness. As I was in the midst of watching that I decided to check out this show as it had been trending on Tumblr with one person I follow rabidly enthused about it. Looked super fun (and was a Shakespeare adaptation!) and free on YouTube, so I took a peek... and the rest is history. I credit this show for keeping me around. I was SHOCKED at how queer-positive and forward-thinking it was and excited to learn of P'Aof's existence. BL was being created by IRL gay people?! And they're conscious of what they're making?! Consider me seated! This show became the first BL I ever completed and I am so glad it did. This fandom is the first where I've felt relatively safe to express myself and has opened me up to so many other like-minded people, willing to watch fun stuff but also critique it in the same breath. I'm so glad a show as good (if imperfect) as this one brought me here.

Tldr; Excellent Shakespeare adaptations are my catnip. Product placements didn't scare me away so you KNOW it's charming. An ending so perfect it made me tear up. Fandom so lovely it made me stay. 9/10 warm and fuzzies

She-Ra and the Princesses of Power

[ID: TV poster. Two characters from the show face off against each other. On the left is a cat-like humanoid, Catra, with thick brown hair and different colored eyes: blue and yellow. Her right arm is raised in a defensive stance against the girl on the right, Adora, blonde with a large golden headdress. Her golden gauntlet clashes with Catra's arm, creating a bright burst of light.]

I just recently watched Nimona (WONDERFUL) so felt like I should shout out this show. In making this list I've further realized just how much I attach to animated shows I needed to see as a kid. She-Ra kinda takes the cake in that aspect. Multi-dimensionally queer with badass characters defying gender and relational conventions?! Fun, cheesy action with real stakes?! Anti-colonialist messaging?! Hell yeah. But most of all, this show has one of my favorite fictional characters of all time in Catra. ND Stevenson seems to have a knack for writing characters my inner child relates way too much to. Abused, neglected, shunned, bulled, traumatized kid who is visibly and invisibly different to those around her. Lights up as soon as anyone seems to respect her talents and see her potential, only to be manipulated. To crash and burn and grapple with self-hatred as a consequence. THEN she finds love in people who see her for who she is, know what she's done, and give her a chance to do better! Her character arc is so important to me. Not only that, but the ending kiss/confession between her and Adora is INCREDIBLE both as a narrative culmination and as a production win. Talk about a hard-fought queer kiss.

Tldr; Important and powerful. Good queer fun. TERRIBLE theme song. 9/10

Black Sails

[ID: TV poster. Tagline above the title reads "WAR AGAINST THE WORLD". A bald white man with soot and blood streaked across his face stands in the foreground. He is wearing an outfit typical of a pirate, holding a cutlass in his right hand. He is ankle-deep in water. He looks over his shoulder; a fleet of ships burn in the background. A large, tattered Union Jack waves behind the man's head. He is Captain Flint.]

Whenever someone asks me what my favorite show is, this is the one that pops into mind. It has EVERYTHING. Complicated, at-times intensely unlikable protagonists, queerness out the ears, great costuming, pathos, meta-upon-meta commentary on itself, the source material Treasure Island, the modern and historical world it's set in and the concept of fiction itself, EVERYTHING. You want strong themes? This show has THEMES. It's hard to find a show about rebellion or anarchy that ACTUALLY feels revolutionary. I think this show is it. This came out around the same time Game of Thrones was big so caved to some pressure in the first season to make itself appeal to a similar audience (thanks Michael Bay) but wow did they make that season pay off in a big way in retrospect. It only gets better, more assured in itself as it goes on.

Tldr; A story about stories. Straight-baited in season one, off-the-rails queer in seasons two to four. Madi deserved better. Anne Bonny: childhood hero to queer crank on TV! Me: in love. 9/10

Gravity Falls

[ID: TV poster. Three people set forth on an expedition through the dark woods. Leading the pack is Dipper, a young boy wearing a white and blue cap with a blue pine tree on the front. He is reading an old hardback tome with a gold hand on the front with the number "3" on the palm. Behind him is his twin sister, Mabel. She is grinning at the viewer, showing off her braces and harpoon gun. Her sweatshirt bright pink with a multi-colored shooting star on its front. Bringing up the rear is their Grunkle Stan, a grumpy old man wearing a red fez with a golden fish eating a smaller fish. He holds aloft a gas lantern. Behind them all is the Mystery Shack, with a triangular window lit by a yellow glow and a weather vane in the shape of a question mark. In the lower left-hand corner is a bearded gnome looking at the viewer, holding a finger in front of his open mouth.]

Oh, you think I'm just including for nostalgia reasons? CORRECT. But I do think this show is great, regardless. I think it's easy to tell at this point that I really enjoy speculative fiction. This show fires on all cylinders in that respect, hitting up the supernatural, science fiction, fantasy, horror, alternate history, and adding a splash of the gothic just for me. Add in there great familial and sibling dynamics, fun animation and a GREAT villain... that's my jam! This is the show that my best friend and I watched together and bonded over as freshmen in college. They got Mabel's sweater and I got Dipper's cap; this piece of personal history makes the show more special to me.

Tldr; Send kids to the woods and let them figure it out. Makes for some great television. Great friendships, too. 9/10 lumberjacks

Fleabag

[ID: TV poster. A white woman with short, curly brown hair and a large nose poses in a pastiche of a Christian saint. The poster itself is stylized like a Renaissance-era painting or religious effigy. A halo encircles her head as she stares off in the distance. In her hand, the woman holds a guinea pig emanating a soft glow.]

A masterclass in creating a miniseries which feels expansive and fully-contained. Might be the culmination of many things I've touched on in this list. Weird, off-putting protagonists/women, darker storylines with plenty of comedic heft, themes of grief, self-hatred, loneliness and hope, complicated sibling/familial relationships, and mental illness. Who knew? (Me.) Above all else, I love stories about love. This show manages to complicate the conversation about love - self-love, love as obligation, love as devotion, love as obsession, love as healing - in eternally satisfying ways.

Tldr; It'll pass. 9/10

[greencrusader13]

All Were Innocent Once: Chapter 11 - Shootouts and Sand

So I checked when I last uploaded a chapter of this, and it’s nearly been a whole year. Talk about writer’s block! I appreciate everyone’s patience with me in getting a new chapter out. With all the craziness in the world I can’t promise a regular schedule for uploading, but I will do my best.

Without further ado, let’s just back into the adventure!

It had only taken Cirak a few minutes to determine that he unequivocally hated this planet. There was no breeze here; the desert air was still. The sun bore down on them with unrelenting heat, and though he felt that warmth was better than the cold it didn’t change the aggression that the heat possessed here. He wasn’t fully sure how the citizens of Tatooine kept themselves from putting blaster bolts in their head just from living here. Maybe the sun had zapped all of the intelligence from the moisture farmers’ minds.

Tatooine was a planet rife with cheats, smugglers, and swindlers of all kinds; truly a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Cirak was just surprised they hadn’t come here sooner. There seemed to be little shortage of potential work, and he was pretty sure that he could fire his blaster in any direction and hit someone with a bounty on their head. It was like Nar Shaddaa, but without the lights, duller clubs, and half of the fun. He had to give any fugitive credit if they chose this damned planet as their getaway destination: they really did not want anyone to find them.

Traveling with Taelros over the past several years had taken him to numerous planets, each with their own biome and flavor. They never stayed anywhere for very long – only for the duration of the job – before taking off again. Most of their time was spent on Taelros’ ship, The Reaper’s Prophet, with the rest of his crew, but even those faces changed from time-to-time. It was best to not expect consistency of any kind, not go looking for any sort of home.

His mentor had wasted little time acclimating Cirak to the bounty hunter’s lifestyle. Within a week of meeting the man he’d been given a blaster and some armor that was, at best, passable, before being thrown into the fire alongside Taelros himself. It wasn’t until later that he started learning more about the bounty hunter who’d taken him under his wing. Republic Special Forces Division, once upon a time, until he’d been dishonorably discharged from their ranks five years before meeting Cirak. He’d never asked Tael about the incident that purged him from service, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Tael had taught him how to survive as a bounty hunter, and the key philosophies of the career. Most importantly, he’d taught him the one philosophy that guided them above all others: somewhere, in some part of the galaxy, some shmuck was looking to part with their credits to have someone else dead.

In their case, however, that schmuck was some Imperial official, probably reclining on a luxury chair back in some high rise on Dromund Kaas, probably going through some bureaucratic nonsense while sipping on some fancy wine. Definitely someone Cirak would punch if given half the chance. He’d looked like the stuffy type on the holocom, what with his pencil mustache and balding head only somewhat obscured by his officer’s cap. Taelros had done most of the talking, but Cirak had assigned himself all of the judging. He’d watched in silence as his mentor negotiated their way into a wild bantha chase that, ultimately, had led them here.

Their mark, as explained to them, was a former Imp deserter-turned-raider and part-time treasure hunter named Lenurd Woth. After bailing on his assignment he’d given out the locations to several ordinances to the highest bidder, including the Black Sun, which had earned him a sizeable sum of credits from his buyers and malcontent from his former allies. He’d then vanished, only to resurface on Tatooine with a new yacht, guards under his employ, and a profession scamming the local settlers out of credits with whatever junk he’d find out in the wastes.

Killing him would be no trouble at all for the Empire, considering their vast resources. As much as Mr. Woth wanted to hide, he’d done a poor job of it with the ruckus he’d caused on his way out the door, and finding him had been relatively simple, as was tracking his routines. They could’ve dropped in an agent, put a dart in Woth’s neck, and that would be that, except for one simple reason: Woth wasn’t worth their time, not with a war going on. He was, however, worth sending a message about, hence the bounty hunters and the preference for being put in carbonite rather than the ground. Hence being on this blasted hot planet.

At least there’d be credits at the end of it all. That was the one and only solace Cirak could take on this hell planet.

Cirak lay on his stomach flat against the rise of a dune, binoculars raised as he searched the glistening sand for any signs of Woth’s skiff. The mark would be returning from treasure hunting any minute now, far from the defenses of his yacht. He and Taelros had spent the past hour planting ionic charges in the ground. Once he drove over it, Woth’s skiff would come to a halt; he’d be flat-footed and easy to take down. Using thermal or kinetic explosives would’ve made the job far simpler, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t wanted dead. Sadly, there would be no big boom.

With a sigh he pressed the binoculars into the sand. That is, however, if Woth ever showed up.

“Buck up kid,” Taelros said, as if sensing Cirak’s discontent. “Not every day we get asked by someone to go hunting for the Empire. Even less often that they ask us to go after one of their own.”

“And I’m gonna die of boredom and heat exhaustion if he doesn’t show soon.”

“You’re a bit of a whiny little thing today aren’t you?”

He kicked the ground, forming a divot with the toe of his boot. “I don’t like sand,” Cirak grumbled, baring his teeth. “It’s coarse and rough and irritating, and it gets ev-”

“Kid if I have to hear you wax philosophical about sand I’m going to lose my mind. Nobody cares about your whining.”

“Fine. Kriff it, whatever.” Cirak raised his binoculars again. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand. Sand was catching in his face fur, particularly his moustache.

It was a truly immaculate moustache. He’d begun growing it about a year into his life as a bounty hunter, but it hadn’t fully formed until a few more years after that. Now it was perfect: two strands of thin-but-bushy grey hair fell from both sides of his upper lip, framing his face in an edged way. The best bounty hunters had facial hair if they could grow it, or at least that’s what he’d learned from watching holovids in the early days.

Just as Cirak was about to prod Taelros about the veracity of the intel they’d received, a shimmer on the horizon stole his attention. He ducked against the sand dune, clasping the ion detonator in one hand while his other raised the binoculars once more. Three skiffs – not one – sped closer to them, all three mounted with a pair of turrets meant to rend metal from ships, and there was a man stationed at each one of them. Woth was nowhere to be seen.

“Think someone tipped them off?” Cirak asked.

“Looks that way. Plan hasn’t changed though. Just more blaster fire.”

“We’re charging extra for this.”

“Most definitely.”

Despite the increase in protection, Woth’s security didn’t appear as though they knew of Cirak and Taelros specifically. The sentries scanned the sands, but it was an aimless search, a general kind. Cirak recognized it well from the few times he’d been hired for security detail by overly-paranoid aristocrats fearing assassination attempts. They still didn’t know about them, and as such, they were heading right into their trap.

Cirak popped the lid off the detonator as the skiffs neared the ion charges.

“On my count Cirak,” Taelros said, raising three fingers. “Three…”

His thumb hovered over the red button. Red buttons were the best, especially when explosions followed.

“Two…”

The skiffs drew closer, their engines growing ever louder.”

“One…”

They were right over the charges.

“Now.”

Cirak clenched the detonator and slammed his thumb downwards onto the button. Instead of an ionic burst, there was nothing. The motors hummed, still approaching in what now felt like a lackadaisical speed. Cirak pressed the button again. Then a third time. Still nothing. He shook the detonator as though the resulting ionic burst was hiding somewhere within and simply needed dislodged. It wasn’t, because that’s not how detonations work.

Taelros sighed, running his hand down his face and dragging his features along with it. “Cirak, did you arm the charges when you planted them?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?”

“It’s not a stupid question if it makes the most sense.”

“Of course I armed them! They’re live!”

“Then why haven’t I seen any-”

The shrill sound of a singular round of blaster fire cut through the air, and Cirak looked up just in time to see it strike the engine of the outmost skiff. The vehicle burst into flame as shrapnel scattered across the desert sands. Without slowing momentum the wreckage veered into the center skiff, which in turn rotated violently into a collision with the third. In the distance he could hear shouting as panicked scoundrels fought to wrest control back from the increasingly devastating situation in what few seconds they were afforded. Both remaining skiffs flipped, their repulsor engines dying simultaneously and throwing their passengers in various directions before landing in separate dunes. Some flew higher than others, and, Cirak realized, had he been prepared it would’ve made for excellent skeet practice.

He glanced over at Taelros. His mentor looked equally shocked and no less amused. “Well,” Cirak said, storing his binoculars. “I’m not about to look a prize bantha in the mouth. Let’s clean up the security and then deal with poor Lenurd.” He unholstered his twin blasters – among them his father’s old holdout blaster (which, to be fair, he’d now possessed far longer than his father ever had) – and then bound over the dune.

Woth’s scattered retinue was still climbing to their feet as Cirak approached. He twirled his blasters patiently while examining them. For a former Imp he sure employed several aliens. Most Imps only tolerated Chiss. Maybe he found them useful, relatively cheap labor when he couldn’t otherwise afford selectivity. He shrugged at the thought. It really didn’t matter either which way.

From the corner of his eye he saw Taelros heading for the other downed skiff. Time to go to work, he thought. Cirak cleared his throat, aiming his blasters at the wreckage survivors. “Attention everyone having a bad day. We are just after your boss Lenurd Woth. Hand him over, and it’ll be less ammo I have to waste wasting you. There’s no point in dying for him; all you’ll do is increase my paycheck for resistance fees.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than one of the mercenaries closest to the skiff dove for his rifle several paces away. Cirak fired before the man could so much as take aim. The bolt struck him square in the chest, and he fell limp.

“Not smart,” he chided. “What’ll it be for the rest of you boys?”

Death, apparently. Viewing numbers superior to having a blaster trained on them, the remainder of the mercenaries all simultaneously reached for their weapons. It was a common fallacy, thinking that surely they would be the lucky one who got the shot off and ended the threat. No one ever was. Some were faster than others to their credit, actually getting their blasters from their holsters before Cirak’s fire reached them and ended their lives.

He holstered his blasters as the sounds of combat continued from the other side of the sand dune. “He’s not in this one Tael!” Cirak yelled, turning towards the presumed sound of Taelros’ slaughtering. “Any luck over-”

Sudden movement caught his attention, and he only had a mere moment to throw himself prone before an axeblade swung where his head had been. Cirak flipped onto his back. A gamorrean stood over him, axe raised for a second strike. He rolled to the side as his assailant hacked at the sand, pushed himself to his feet, and somersaulted past him. The gamorrean squealed, spit and sweat running down its piggish mouth.

Cirak drew, managing to fire off a single shot into the gamorrean’s chest, but the blast did little when compared to its size and strength. It was a strength Cirak was swiftly reacquainted up close. A backhanded slap sent Cirak sprawling backwards, loosing his blaster from his grip. His ears rang. The image of the gamorrean blurred from heat and pain as Cirak lifted his head.

Another blaster fire rang out, knocking the raised axe free. The pig-man made a sound that could only be described as a surprised snort, head swiveling in the direction of the shot. It was just enough time for Cirak to draw his other blaster, aim, and fire two clean shots into its head. The gamorrean fell backwards, sending a burst of sand skywards.

A blur of red streaked past from overhead, touching down hard in the sand. Cirak wiped at his eyes as he surveyed his savior. The figure stood covered from head-to-toe in brilliant scarlet armor that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. His helmet, which obscured every aspect of his face, had two pincers that met just at the bottom of his black T-shaped visor. It was a unique touch, but Cirak still recognized the style, the symbology of the pieces. It almost made him want to shoot anyways.

The man was a Mando.

Mandalorians were far from uncommon in the bounty hunting business, but common encounters with them did little to mitigate Cirak’s instinctual hatred of those people. Centuries ago they’d invaded his species’ homeworld, partly for sport and partly for retribution for losses experienced in wars prior, and proceeded to butcher or enslave as many cathar as they could manage. It had led to the near-extinction of his people.

Cirak felt he had a birthright to feel bitter.

The Mandalorian in front of him, however, did not seemed particularly concerned about possible grievances pertaining to genocide, and approached him with an outstretched hand. Cirak slapped it away. “I’m fine,” he said. He pushed himself to his feet and recovered his dropped blaster, dusting sand from it.

Although he couldn’t see his face, Cirak got the sense that the Mandalorian was giving him the expression of someone who had just been slapped. “Your man is over this way,” the Mandalorian said coldly. The rocket booster on his back ignited, and he took to the air once again before disappearing beyond the opposite sand dune.

Cirak grumbled to himself before following suit. He found Taelros beyond the dune, leaning against a flaming skiff while deep in conversation with another human man; a fellow bounty hunter from what Cirak could tell of his armor and weaponry. A carbonite slate of some poor soul – probably Woth – floated on a transportation bed beside him, which Taelros kept a steady hand on. The Mando had landed next to this unknown person, arms folded in what Cirak only figured was silent judgment of the situation.

Taelros regarded Cirak as he drew closer. “Ah, see, this is the kid I was telling you about. Braden, this is Cirak Kiht, my protégé. Cirak, this is Braden. He’s an old friend of mine.”

Cirak looked him over. Taelros and his friend seemed roughly the same age, though Braden possessed a more weathered face with fewer scars. His head had been shaved bald, and contrary to Cirak’s personal beliefs regarding bounty hunting he had no facial hair. His suit of armor was that of Golan Arms make, specifically designed with survivability in mind and able to absorb all but the most powerful of blaster fire. It didn’t come cheap.

Braden extended his hand, which Cirak then shook. “I was curious to see how you’d handle a change of plans and if Tael here hadn’t dulled too much with age. You didn’t disappoint.”

“Well, it isn’t the first time one of our plans have gone sideways,” Cirak said, “Usually they’re his that do.”

“Yeah, shut up kid, or I might just ask Braden here to swap protégés.” Taelros snapped his fingers. “Right, your protégé here. What’s his name again? You said it in passing.”

Braden curtly nodded towards the Mandalorian. “This is Dekon of Clan Arrun. One hell of a shot, great merc. Been traveling with him for a couple years now.”

Cirak glowered at Dekon and moved closer to Taelros’ side. “Your man seems rather emotional Taelros. It’s hardly a beneficial trait in this profession,” Dekon said, insultingly matter-of-fact.

“Mando scum tend to have that affect on me. Funny how genocide does that to people.”

“Insult my people again and I’ll drop your numbers by one,” Dekon snapped.

Snarling, Cirak went for his blaster, but Dekon was faster, having his own drawn and in Cirak’s face. Shock gripped him. He hadn’t been outdrawn since he was first learning how. “I wouldn’t,” Dekon said coldly.

Taelros forced his way between them, lowering Dekon’s blaster with one hand while restraining Cirak’s wrist with his other. “Boys, boys, cultural histories aside there is a bigger picture here that we need to focus on. Cirak, can you play nice with the Mando for a little bit?” Cirak glared at Dekon, anger still hot on his ears and face, but he nodded all the same. “Good! Now let’s get the four of us to a cantina. Braden said he wants to team up for a job, and I think you’re gonna want to hear this.”

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - Tapes

The Mystery Shack was quiet, a rare treat for the hectic household. Waddles was enjoying the silence, glad to be back in his old home. He enjoyed the scratches behind the ear from Mr. Pines and the belly-rubs from Mrs. Pines and the couch in the living room back in Piedmont, but the pig felt comforted by the sounds and smells of the cabin in the woods of Gravity Falls. It was like being hugged by an old friend or a family member unseen for too long. While he slept in the old armchair, the only human in the house sat on the floor, watching the pig sleep.

Ford shook his head and chuckled under his breath, craning his neck to look at Mabel's pet. It was cloudy outside, like it might rain soon, but for now the weather was dry. Ford turned to face front again, facing the TV, as he sat on the carpet with a big box out in front of him. At the end of last summer, when trying to help Stan regain his lost memories, Ford had dug out some old home-movies of the twins going on adventures, building the Stan O' War, and battling ghost pirates. When it was time to depart for the sea, in the chaos of it all, the film reels Ford had kept hidden away over the years had been haphazardly shoved into a box that was then tucked by the TV. Reorganizing the movies seemed like a nice task to take part in with everyone else in the Shack gone.

Carefully as to not ruin the tapes, Ford laid out each reel on the carpet and started to read the labels. Some were neatly written in his mother's handwriting, while others were quickly jotted down in Stan's chicken scratches or in Ford's little cursive writing. Quests to find the Jersey Devil, adventures to discover Atlantis, and progress of their beloved boat all laid out on either side of the old scientist, and Ford held his cleft chin with a six-fingered hand when his eyes averted back to the cardboard box and discovered VCR tapes.

Ford began to read the labels. Well, all the labels there were, anyways. Some of the tapes were blank and intrigued Ford the most, and so to discover what they were and how to best organize the home-videos, he randomly selected a tape and slipped it in the VCR player. He turned on the screen and pressed play on the player. After a quick second of nothing but static, Ford smiled at seeing his grandnephew sitting at the desk in the attic-bedroom that separated the younger twins' beds.

"Welcome to Dipper's Guide to the Unexplained." The boy said, taking advantage of the night as he sat in his orange t-shirt and grey shorts. "Today, Gravity Falls' Anomaly #13: The Modius Chicken Strip."

Ford made himself comfortable, his knees up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs, as he watched the twelve-year-old give a small investigation about said chicken strip. It seemed like the kind of thing Ford would've done at Dipper's age. His mind began to wander when the Dipper on screen said,

"Well, that concludes Gravity Falls' Anomaly #13: The Modius Chicken Strip." He pulled the strip out of the basket and munched on it happily. "It's infinitely delicious."

Suddenly, catching Ford's attention, some small creature sped by the camera, knocking it over and sending playing cards all over the floor.

"Whoa! Hey! What the…? Ah!" Ford watched as Dipper aimed the camera at his sleeping twin sister. "Mabel, did you see that? Wake up!"

"Never. Let me sleep forever." Mabel moaned as she turned her back on her brother, making Ford chuckle. Yup, she was definitely related to Stan.

"Some creature just jumped out of nowhere!" Dipper explained. "It's eating out leftover Summerween candy!"

That got Mabel's attention. "What?!"

"Look!"

Ford peered at the screen as Dipper turned the camera to where a small monster was nestled inside an old tire and eating the children's Summerween candy. The scientist's eyes widened with wonder and disgust as he saw a…

"Ew, it's like a… naked little man." Mabel said it best and Ford privately agreed with her, its sharp teeth, beady red eyes and lack of sanity making it apparent that it wasn't human. Ford honestly didn't know what it was. A rabid gnome? A gremlin?

"Okay, this is now Dipper's Guide to the Unexplained, #76… uh, That Thing." Dipper announced to the camera as he showed a title card to the one-man audience.

Ford edged himself closer to the screen as Mabel tried to get the monster to drop the basket of candy, but he only licked it creepily and the static appeared again, but was soon replaced with Dipper wearing some sort of makeshift armor out of stuffed animals and had clubs and a trash can for weapons.

"I'm gonna capture him for science." Dipper said boldly.

"And for candy!" Mabel added from behind the camera. Sweet Lord, how similar were Mabel and Dipper to Stan and Ford?

"Get this on tape in case I die or whatever."

Ford laughed and watched with a smile on his face as Dipper slowly crept up to That Thing and tried to trap it. Using a club to edge the candy closer, he waited until the monster grab the treat and Dipper just barely missed it with his little trap. That Thing climbed up the ceiling, the bucket of candy in his sharp teeth, and Mabel tried to hit it with a stuffed toy that only fell back on her as she yelled, "Die, mutant, die!" The creature ran out of the bedroom and the twins followed, the camera losing focus for a moment as the kids ran down the stairs. That Thing pounced on Dipper when they reached the living room and the video cut to the monster sitting on top of the fridge. Eventually they chased it back into the living room to then have it be distracted to the TV. Ford laughed at the irony, seeing how he was just as drawn to the TV screen now as the monster was to whatever movie he was watching.

The film cut away and made Ford laugh again to find the children sitting and eating candy as they watched the movie with the monster, to whom Soos confused for Stan. That was the end of the tape and it soon poked out of the player. Ford rewind the tape as he looked for a new one to watch. That same pride he had for his nephew when he read the boy's entries in Journal 3, when Dipper saved him from the spaceship, and when Dipper graduated middle school last month returned strongly in Ford's chest. The same could be said for Mabel, too. The logical part of Ford told him to only glance at the tapes so he could know how to organize them best, but his softer side told him to enjoy watching the tapes he didn't know existed until three minutes ago.

The second tape showed Dipper holding the camera as he stood in town. "Alright, ah… welcome back to Dipper's Guide to the Unexplained. Today we investigate Gravity Falls' Anomaly #82: This Guy." Dipper panned the camera to a balding man with a mustache reading a newspaper and sipping coffee in a bowling alley. He looked like he was an employee on his break. "Sure he looks normal, but if he's so normal explain why he's always facing left."

The video cut away to many shots of the man always facing left, and Ford had to admit that his behavior was very abnormal. He held his chin in thought as the man was so inclined to run and walk backward to avoid being seen by his right side.

"Literally, I've been following him around for weeks, and I've never once seen the right side of his face. And neither has anyone else." Dipper explained. "But why? Mabel. Theories?"

The camera panned to Mabel as she pulled out a bunch of drawings of their theories and narrated through them. "Theory One: he's hiding an embarrassing sunburn. Theory Two: half-man, half-lizardman. And Theory Three (my person favorite): he's normal, and Dipper's just crazy!"

"That's not a theory! That doesn't count as a theory!"

Mabel and Ford both laughed and Dipper walked into the bowling alley, giving Mabel control of the camera as he managed to convince the poor guy that it wasn't on. Dipper tried to get the guy to show his right side by passing shoes and giving Dipper his fallen wallet, but in the end it looked like the boy was going to give up, until the man was about to pick out a bowling ball and Dipper shoved him by the shoulder, revealing the right side. Ford gasped as half of a robotic man was missing, revealing little green jelly-like creatures that committed suicide as soon as their cover was blown. The robot was disassembled, caught fire, and set off the sprinklers in the bowling alley.

"Well, that concludes anomaly #82!" Dipper said as he and his sister ran for their lives. "Uh, I think we might wanna burn this tape!"

Ford shook his head, seeing how the boy must have forgotten to, and he rewind it before selecting another tape. The old scientist had seen many things in his inter-dimensional travels and within the magnetism of Gravity Falls, but anomaly number eight-two might be best left alone. Regardless, he had no intention of burning the tape. Ford picked another tape at random and slipped it into the VCR player. He chuckled at seeing Dipper's abnormally-large head being crushed by his sister's fingers.

"Hello, I'm Dipper Pines. The girl trying to crush my head in Mabel."

"I'm helping!"

"Today on Dipper's Guide to the Unexplained - okay that, that's enough - today, we investigate Anomaly #23: Grunkle Stan's Secret Tattoo."

Ford's heart sunk uncomfortably as the camera panned to a board full of Stan's back and shoulder and ideas of what the hidden symbol could be. Clearly, Stan was very careful to not let anyone see it, and today the children were going to try to figure out why and what it was.

"What is he hiding? A college prank? Secret symbol? Or something stranger?" Dipper asked the camera. "Stan claims it doesn't exist, but today we're gonna find out."

Ford was deaf to Mabel trying to show what was under her bandage as he thought about the "tattoo". Stan's scar was a painful reminder of everything Ford had done to him, of all the things Ford did to his brother over the years, like refusing to thank him after saving him from the Nightmare Realm, letting him live on the streets for ten years, and erasing his mind. He had called Stan up to Gravity Falls, he had demanded Stan take the first journal and get as far away as possible, he had refused to let Stan destroy the book, and he had kicked Stan into the hot symbol, burning through his clothes, killing his flesh, and leaving him tagged like an animal.

Ford rewind the tape when he saw Dipper hiding on the roof from an angry uncle and picked up another tape to watch. He had just pulled out the tape with Stan's scar when the door opened and closed and Waddles perked up. Mabel came into view and the pig ran into her arms. She giggled at having her cheek licked and hugged her pet tightly.

"Hi, Waddles. Did you have a nice nap?" Mabel looked up and her smile grew. "Hey, Grunkle Ford! Whatcha doin'?"

"Hello, Mabel." Ford greeted as he carefully stacked the already-watched tapes and picked out a new one to watch. Hopefully the next one wouldn't shove his mistakes back in his face. "I'm organizing these videos."

"Oo!" Mabel said and put Waddles down, who retreated back to the armchair and curled up for a nap.

The brunette pulled put out a blue sweater-in-the-making, some yarn, and a pair of needles from behind the armchair and sat next to Ford on the floor. The old scientist smiled down at his grandniece and started the next video.

"Welcome back to Dipper's Guide to the Unexplained. Anomaly #54: The Mailbox."

Mabel's eyes widened and she gasped, "You found Dipper's tapes! Hey, I remember when we found that mailbox."

"You do?" Ford asked as Dipper explained how the mailbox had no house or address.

Mabel nodded and scooted closer to Grunkle Ford as she knitted a sweater. Ford smiled, sat with his legs crossed, and had Mabel in his lap as they watched Soos slip a letter into the mailbox. Mabel looked up to see Ford's shocked expression when the tail of the mailbox lifted on it's own and a new letter was inside the mailbox. The thirteen-year-old girl laughed and continued to watch Dipper and Soos test the mailbox.

"What did I shave into my head this morning? 'A baby duck holding a paddle ball.' Dude! It knew!"

"What?!"

"Ask it more questions!"

"When is the end of the world? '3012'. Huh, we got awhile."

"Who's my dream-woman? Whoa! Hot tamales! Save that one for the archives…"

"What is the exact time and date of my death?"

"Did aliens built the pyramids?"

"Or… what is the meaning of life?"

"What are marshmallows made out of?"

"Or… who wrote Journal #3?!"

"Who wrote the journal?! WHO WROTE THE JOURNAL?!"

Ford's face suddenly felt hot as his nephew said, "We're finally gonna get the answer to the greatest mystery in Gravity Falls!"

Mabel laughed over the tape of her destroying the mailbox by trying to mail a video of her shoving gummy worms up her nose at remembering her twin's old obsession. "Oh, man! I almost forgot how crazy Dip-Dip was to find you! He spent half of last summer obsessing over who wrote the journal."

Ford smiled gently at remembering the excitement Dipper had when he first met his great-uncle. While Mabel had happily shaken his hand, claiming his extra finger made it more friendlier than normal, Dipper had nearly thrown up over discovering who the Author of the Journals was. Not only that, but the author was a family member - his long-lost Great Uncle Stanford - and would grow closer to him as time went on.

Ford rewinded the tape and looked down at Mabel pleasantly. "I can imagine it was thrilling to have such a big mystery solved."

Mabel nodded. "At first we thought it was Old Man McGucket, but then we found a memory that explain that he was your assistant. We kinda hit a roadblock after that, but I know Dipper never stopped thinking about it, even if he was dealing with Time Baby, an angry Love God, or a level-ten ghost." Mabel picked up a tape and said, "Let's watch this one next!"

Ford let her slip it into the machine since the episode about the mailbox was done resetting, and they watched an episode in which Dipper and Mabel tried to find The Hide Behind. Ford let out a soft "ah" when he recognized the page in Journal 3 that told of a "mysterious creature always just out of sight". First, Dipper did some interviews to confirm from locals if The Hide Behind was real or not.

"The Hide Behind?" Manly Dan asked and Ford smiled fondly at seeing who had once been a teenager and built his home was now a grown man with his own kids, three of which was cutting a tall tree down behind the lumberjack. "Oh, he's real alright, REAL AS MY BEARD!"

"I remember Boyish… I mean, Manly Dan." Ford told the girl in his lap. "He and his father built this house. Well, mostly he built the house. Dav Corduroy wasn't as young as he once was, but Dan was more than up to the task."

"Wendy's dad built the Shack?!" Mabel gasped.

"Yup." Ford chuckled.

"Dad…"

"It's comin' down!"

"DADDY'S DOING A MOVIE!"

Dan yelled without even looking behind him as a tree was falling and threatened to crash his house. "He's doing a movie now…"

Ford and Mabel both laughed as the tree fell on top of their house and then the video cut to an interview with Lazy Susan. A flash of lightning and then the sound of thunder occurred while the pair of Pines watched the home-video of Lazy Susan spinning and Grunkle Stan grunting that the people of Gravity Falls were literally the dumbest people in the world. Literally. And to prove a point, the video cut back to Lazy Susan pointlessly spinning on one spot.

By the time the video about The Hide Behind had ended, it was raining hard outside. The drops of water drummed on the roof and the thunder and lightning were distant enough that they were not afraid of a disaster occurring and could enjoy the sights and sounds of the summer storm. Ford and Mabel both awed at the dark figure that hid behind Dipper as he walked away. Ford's eyes were as wide as saucers and he grinned.

"Incredible! Dipper managed to get the Hide Behind on camera!"

"Wait until Dipping Sauce finds out!" Mabel said gleefully.

While Ford rewinded the tape, Mabel suddenly jumped up and ran off. Soon the sweet smell of popcorn wafted from the kitchen and into the living room, and Mabel soon came back with a big bowl of popcorn.

"What good is watching movies without snacks?" Mabel asked as she held up the bowl to her Grunkle Ford.

He smiled. "I agree, my dear. Thank you." He popped some pieces into his mouth and the teenager resumed her spot on his lap and continued to work on her blue sweater.

Ford inserted the tape just as the door opened and closed once more. Dipper walked in, wet from the trip home, and pulled his blue journal out of his vest to make sure it was dry. He sighed with relief to find that it was, looked at his family in the living room, and said, "Hey guys, what are you watching?"

The teenager's eyes widened when he saw himself appear on the screen.

"Welcome to Dipper's Guide to the Unexplained. Anomaly #42: The Tooth."

"Oh, no!" Dipper panicked, his hands over his signature pinetree hat, the hat he had traded with Wendy when he left last summer and had gotten back when the twins arrived back in Gravity Falls. "No, no no!"

"C'mon, Dipper!" Mabel whined as the camera panned to giant tooth, scaled by Mabel.

The video then cut to Dipper playing the tuba. The boy groaned and held his face, covering his eyes, as Ford marveled at his grandnephew playing an instrument by the lake.

"You play the tuba?" Grunkle Ford observed and turned to find Dipper clearly uncomfortable. A bit confused as to what the boy was embarrassed about, Ford said, "Don't worry, Dipper. I can play the piano."

"You can?" Mabel awed as she watched the screen and saw her twin brother examine the giant tooth.

"Your great-grandmother taught me before Pa made Stanley and I take boxing lessons." Ford explained and cringed. He made himself promise to never refer to Ma as a great-grandmother again; it made him feel too old.

The video cut to Tate McGucket in his tackle-shop as Dipper and Mabel interviewed him. Dipper sat in the armchair with Waddles and petted the pig to give him something to do other than watch in humiliation.

Ford stared and pointed to the TV. "Wait, is that Fiddleford's son? Tater?"

Mabel nodded. Sweet Lord, the four-year-old boy was all grown up. A man now. Yes, Ford was well aware he had been gone for thirty years, but to see Dan and Tate had changed so much really showed how much time has passed. Then again, they weren't the only people to have changed. Pa was gone, Ma was now a great-grandmother, Shermie had grandchildren for crying out loud! Shermie's son, whom Ford had seen as a baby when he was in high-school, had children of his own. So much time had passed in the long years Ford had roamed the dimensions after the incident. He became so lost in his own thoughts that he almost didn't catch Mabel's response to his question.

"Yeah! He's a nice guy! Isn't he living with McGucket now?"

"That's what I heard." Dipper said from the armchair.

Ford nodded in agreement, having heard from his Fiddleford recently, and the old scientist tried to focus on the home-video.

"I'm here at the lake to investigate. I brought Mabel for backup."

"And I brought Bear-O, my adorable childhood puppet! Hey-Oh! Ain't that right, honey? 'Did somebody say "honey"?!' Haha!"

"Nope. Creepy. Bear-O's creepy. Everyone hates Bear-O."

"'But Dipper, who could hate Bear-O?'"

Mabel had asked in her Bear-O voice.

"I can think of a few people."

While the screen showed just how much people hated Bear-O, Mabel glanced up to see what her Grunkle Ford thought of her childhood puppet. She grinned, mistakenly taking his look of disgust for a look of delight, and said,

"Aw, see, Dipper?" The brunette said. "Grunkle Ford doesn't hate Bear-O!"

Dipper was too busy sitting in misery to argue as he watched the pair of twins paddling out onto the lake, thankfully without the creepy bear.

"Mabel, I have seen many disturbing things among my travels across the multiverse," Ford narrated. "Very little makes my skin crawl anymore, but somehow Bear-O has managed it."

"Thank you, Grunkle Ford!" Dipper sighed.

"Boo!" Mabel yelled as she resumed her knitting and watch as bubbles started to come up from the lake.

"Dipper, look!"

"They're over by that island!"

Ford leaned forward a little to see if his old theory of a giant head being disguised as an island was true. He had never taken the time to fully investigate, the idea coming to him in the midst of building the portal, but now he wondered if he was going to receive some answers thanks to his niece and nephew.

"We have to see what happens. What was that?" The camera glitched and something was rumbling. "Oh, no! What's happening?!"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER! ROW, ROW, ROW!"

Ford, Mabel and Dipper watched as the camera was sat in front of Dipper, facing him and the island, and watched as it emerged from the lake and yelled in a horrible voice; the island was in fact a giant floating head with a missing tooth.

"HOLY MOSES!" Ford yelled in shock.

"IT'S GETTING CLOSER! KEEP ROWING!" The camera glitched and soon the little audience saw Dipper looking for the camera. "I dunno. I've been looking for... there it is."He picked it up and explained, "Okay, after it attacked us, that giant head-thing just sunk back into the lake, and it lost another one of it's teeth trying to eat our boat! But the important thing is, we survived. Barely."

"Huh, yeah… 'Did somebody say "Bear-ly"?'"

Ford and Dipper both yelled in horror and Mabel scowled as she worked on her sweater angrily. Ford rewinded the tape and caught the sound of his nephew groaning in misery. He turned as much as he could with Mabel in his lap to find Dipper shielding his eyes as much as his hat could.

"Why did you have to look at those stupid tapes?" He groaned, embarrassed that his old idol had seen his amateur Guide to the Unexplained.

"Dipper, I thought you made those videos to show people the weird stuff or whatever." Mabel said as she worked. "Why are you getting so embarrassed over it?"

"I dunno, I just…" Dipper lifted his hat a little to uncover his eyes and he hugged his knees as he sat in the armchair with Waddles. "It's nothing but stupid aggression of an adolescent. I guess… I guess when I made them I never thought that one of the greatest investigators of anomalies would ever watch them."

Ford watched the teenager carefully and something dawned on him, something that nearly made him throw up. When Ford returned to his home dimension, he had his journals in his possession. He had opened Journal 3 and assumed that he'd skip a page or two from where he left off and resume documenting his research and findings in it, but he had found that his nephew had written and drawn on it. At the time, Ford was immensely angry about everything changing and needed to vent, so he passed off Dipper's recordings as pointless diary entries and spent all night spilling his aggravations onto the pages.

Dipper and Mabel only had the journal a handful of times after that. Ford had asked Mabel to record what she had discovered about unicorns and then Ford gave all three of the journals to Dipper to "look after them" while he hunted down the Mothman for some money he owed him, when in actuality Ford wanted to thank the boy for his loyalty and understanding by letting him look at his recordings, completely forgetting the harsh judgment he had indirectly delivered to Dipper by saying that being a twin was the only thing they had in common. If Dipper hadn't read Ford's rant then he most definitely did when the journal was restored and found just before summer ended.

Obviously, things were different than that first night Ford was home. Dipper and Ford had grown to be very close and the old scientist saw just how similar they were. It was a shame that Dipper never had a chance to read what Ford had written about his nephew before they threw the book into the Bottomless Pit. Ford had taken the time to read Dipper's last passage and wrote his own farewell, which contained something that Ford had mistakenly never taken the time to tell the young man. Ford had hoped that the old feeling of needing to earn his approval had died months ago, but clearly Dipper still felt the need to prove himself worthy to his hero. Ford was determined to make sure that Dipper knew that his fears were unfounded.

"Dipper," Ford said softly and the thirteen-year-old looked up at him. "I… I am flattered that you think so highly of me, but please understand that I hold you in the highest regard. You are far wiser at thirteen than I was at thirty and have a bright future ahead of you. And, for what it's worth, I'm very proud of you and your work, and I'm glad you recorded it so I could see it."

Dipper pressed his lips together and Ford was uncertain if he was trying to hold back a squeal or tears. He somewhat got his answers when Dipper wiped his stinging eyes with his arm and cleared his throat. "Th-Thanks, Grunkle Ford."

Ford gave him an encouraging smile and turned back to the VCR when it ejected the tape. "Unfortunately, this is the last one. Shame really, I've really enjoyed Dipper's Guide to the Unexplained."

"Let's make another one!" Mabel cried out and turned to Dipper. "What do you say, Dipper? What anomaly number should we work on?"

Dipper opened his journal and turned to the latest page. "I think I have just the oddity…"

"Hello! I'm Dipper Pines, here with one of the greatest investigators of anomalies of all time and achiever of twelve PhDs, Dr. Stanford Pines!"

"Thanks for the introduction, Dipper."

"Hey, how come I don't get one?!"

"Mabel, you're so spontaneous that you don't need one."

"I'll take that as a compliment!"

"Today we're here to investigate Anomaly #168: the Mothman. He owes Grunkle Ford some money and has been avoiding him ever since."

"But today we're gonna make that creepy bug pay him back! No one cheats a Pines!"

"You are definitely Stanley's niece."

[forever-more-never-again]

In My Dreams (Scene Eleven/Fifteen)

Word Count: 1923

Pairing: Slow burn Dean Winchester X Reader

Summary: What happens when you wake up in the Supernatural Universe? And also happen to have a crush on one Dean Winchester! Will you make it back to your normal college life? Slow burn romance. Angsty Fluff.

Scene One / Scene Two / Scene Three / Scene Four / Scene Five / Scene Six / Scene Seven / Scene Eight  / Scene Nine / Scene Ten

Masterlist

Eventually two O’clock rolled around. Dean still nowhere in sight. I spent the whole afternoon pacing in the hotel room, Sam watching from the corner of his eyes as he tapped away on his laptop.

“Ready to go?” He stood up and pulled on his suit jacket.

I sighed, realizing that I wasn’t going to be able to apologize to Dean before the meeting, “Yeah, let me find something nice to wear.” I walked over to the duffel bag and shifted through the men’s clothes.

I pulled out a white dress shirt and holding it up, I caught a whiff of the heady, whiskey, woody smell that was oh so familiar. Dean.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply before ducking into the bathroom and slipping it on along with a pair of Dean’s jeans.

Walking out with Sam, I watched as he locked up the room and slid into the driver’s seat of Baby.

“Do you think he is okay? He’s been gone all day.” I couldn’t help but voice my worries. If I Knew the show Dean as well as I thought I did, he would be at a bar right now, getting shitfaced and flirting with anything with breasts.

Sam seemed to know which way my thoughts were drifting as he gripped my shoulder, his hand big enough to crush my head. A weak smile on his face, “He’ll be okay. He just needs to think things through. And he won’t blame you.”

I frowned, “But he should. I said some hurtful things,” I held up a finger to Sam as he opened his mouth to argue, keeping my eyes on the windshield, watching the town fly by, “and I know you said I should choose happiness for now, but I can’t turn off my brain. And it’s headache inducing trying to keep the two lives separate. Sometimes I wonder if I should just give in to this reality me and forget about the other one.”

The rumble of Baby cut off as Sam pulled into the parking lot of City hall, where various rusty trucks and mini Suvs were parked as well.

Before I could reach for the door handle, Sam spoke up, his voice soft and low, the tone of voice that I knew as him being sincere and hoping for a heart to heart.

“[Y/n]....I don’t think it’s a choice of choosing which one you want to be. I think it’s the choice of choosing to live in the moment. Who says the two realities of yourself are so different in their wants and desires? SUre, their pasts are different, but their future...your future, is right in front of you, right now, and you’re letting it slip away from you. Think on that.”

I sat, stunned, frozen, as Sam slowly unfolded himself from Baby’s driver’s seat. Shaking my head, I got out of the car and walked up to where Sam stood waiting before the doors.

Entering Ocean Shores City Hall, we found it to be quiet. The soft smell of seawater and mold tickled my nose. As we followed the signs to the meeting room, the low murmur of conversation grew louder.

Standing before a wide set of double doors near the back of the building, me and Sam stood for a minute to listen.

“The police are helpless, and they think we’re crazy!”

“Well, Donna, who wouldn’t. You went in their raving about mermaids and shouting that they were stupid! You ruined our chance at stopping more deaths.”

“Yeah right Carl, like you had a better plan.”

“Why don’t we ask Serena? After all, it’s her clan that is doing the killing.”

At that, Sam shot me a determined look.

Nodding back at him, we opened the doors and walked inside.

The room was white and empty, aside from a circle of metal chairs were five people sat, all staring at us in varying degrees of surprise and suspicion.

A big burly man with a wide, bright red handlebar mustache stood up and rested his hands on his wide hips, glaring at the pair of us, “And who might you two be? You ain’t from around here.” His tone was layered with distrust and his face was weathered and bore the look of extreme distrust.

A homely older woman with gray curly hair stood up and swatted the man on the back, “Oh you shush Carl!” Turning to us, she widened her smile and her hazy blue eyes sparkled, “We always welcome newcomers to the Mermaid Club! I’m Donna! The founder!”

Despite his girth, Carl seemed properly chastised by the grandmotherly elder, his countenance fading to chagrin. He took of his baseball cap and rubbed his balding head, “Sorry about that. Always been suspicious of strangers.”

I could feel that my mouth was open, watching the proceedings with something akin to disbelief and awe.

Luckily, Sam had experience, so he stepped up during my minor shock.

Sticking out a hand to Carl, and then to Donna, he gave an easy going grin, “Hello, I’m Charles Zeppelin and this is my Sister, Sarah Zeppelin. We’re moving in to town and saw your meeting flyer. Sarah here,” At this he placed a hand on my lower back and pushed me forward, jump starting my self-preservation as I smiled at Donna and shyly took her warm hand, “Swears she saw a mermaid last night by Pacific Beach and wanted to come to the meeting.” Sam let a slightly derisive laugh slip in, “Of course, I had to indulge her. Even though There’s no such thing.”

Carl glared at Sam while Donna gasped and whirled onto me, eyes wide with awe and wonder, “You saw a mermaid?”

I nodded, still play acting the shy younger sister.

Donna tugged my hand, pulling me into the circle where the other members still sat, watching the previous introductions.

She spun around, pointing out everyone, “The goth teenager,”

The fishnet, black eyeliner, bedhead teen glared through her bangs and hissed, “It’s Emo.”

“Is Emma. The Hippie looking blonde young man is Zack, and this here,” Donna dragged me to stand in front of a metal chair where a young woman, with shocking silver hair and porcelain skin sat, milky white eyes seeming to look through me, “Is Serena, our resident Mermaid.”

At this, Serena spoke, and my eyes widened as her voice flowed towards me. It was like windchimes, melodious, and soft and seemed to wrap around and trap me in it, “Could you describe what you saw?”

I shot a look over my shoulder to where Sam was stopped from entering the circle by a defensive Carl. He nodded at me, saying that it was okay, before he redirected his stare to Serena. I could see his hesitancy to believe Donna’s claim that the woman before me was a mermaid, she looked nothing like the thing we had seen last night.

I kept my voice meek as I described what I had seen, “There were big ripples in the water and then this blue person popped their head from the water. Their eyes were black as night and they had no hair. Their mouth was full of razor sharp teeth and they…” I stuttered for a moment, “They spoke to me.” I finished in a whisper, dropping my gaze to the dirty tan tiled floor.

A gasp from everyone, even Carl had turned around, taking his attention off Sam, while I told my encounter.

Serena stayed perfectly still and then she slowly raised a single hand. “What did they say?”

The words rolled off my tongue without my permission, “It’s not over.”

A musical sigh, Milky White eyes closing slowly as she breathed out. I took a moment and saw that her teeth seemed a little sharper than normal, but not as sharp as the creatures from last night.

“You have had an encounter with my Kin.”

A silence flooded the room. Stifling as if everyone held their breath waiting for Serena’s next words.

“You have no chance. If they have their sights on you, if they have shown themselves to you, you will die by their hands within the fortnight. Dragged to a watery grave where they will consume your flesh and laugh at your strangled cries for help.”

“Bullshit!” Sam’s angry, very loud exclamation startled me so badly, I yelped and fell to the ground, Donna’s hand slipping from mine as gravity took ahold.

Sam stormed up to where Serena sat, her white eyes open once again, settling in the direction of where Sam was.

He jabbed a finger at her, “How do you know? Why don’t you look like them and how are you walking around?”

Carl grunted as he moved to where Sam stood and barked at him, “Now! You listen here young man, you can’t just accuse-”

Serena interrupted him, “He is right to be cautious. After all, you are a hunter, are you not? Sam Winchester..”

I held my breath as I watched the blood drain from Sam’s face, a split second before he had the demon knife in hand and pressed up against Serena’s throat.

The group members screamed. The hippie Zack, running from the room. Donna leaping back and hanging off of Carl’s girthy frame, while Emma stared at the scene and smirked while whispering, “Finally something fun.”

A snarl ripped out of Sam, the sound so terrifying I forgot for a moment that it wasn’t targeted at me.

“How do you know who I am?”

Serena didn’t even flinch, her eyes staring through Sam, her creamy flesh pulsing against the knife as she breathed evenly, “I made a deal with a demon when I was still a younglin. I didn’t want to terrorize people. I wanted to walk amongst them and feel the love that my clan often spoke so callously about. They gave me legs and hair and skin to blend in, but they took away my sight. So that I could never see the beauty of Mankind. I heard about your kind from my Clan, and then when I was on land, I heard whispers as I wandered. Sam and Dean Winchester, the boy who lived and the demon boy king.”

She slowly rotated her head back to me, the blade that Sam held against her neck wavered as he took in her words.

“And [Y/n] [Y/l/n]...a ghost.”

I gathered my strength, and ignoring the excited whispers from the strange little emo teen and the frantic whispers from Donna dn Carl, I stepped forward and asked, “How do we kill them?”

Serena smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile, “Why?”

I cocked my head to the side in confusion, “What do you mean, ‘Why?’. They’re killing people! More people will die if we don’t stop them!”

Serena took in my passionate words, but then she spoke and shocked me again, I was starting to get irritated at her seemingly pleasant personality and her condescending attitude, “That is his reason,” She tilted her head to where Sam still stood bearing down on her with a frown, “But why do you care so much? What are you running from that has you so desperate to get away from this place?”

“I-I...wh-what? I-I..” My eyes flickered over to Sam, who wore a similar shocked expression.

I took a step backwards...and then another. And then I turned and ran.

“[Y/n]!” I heard Sam shout out in concern as the doors slammed shut behind me.

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[takecareofyourblessings]

Without Comment

The S2 is the so-called Avenue of the Presidents bus because its route is the handsome and seductive 16th Street corridor. The S2 travels from downtown Pennsylvania Avenue to Silver Spring, Maryland, a suburban town that borders D.C. at its northern edge.

     The ridership of the S2 is black, white, and variously ethnic. Hispanics, West Africans, and Caribbean passengers, as well as other nationals, diversify the sophisticated commuter ambiance. Newspapers, books, and quiet conversations are standard as the S2 speeds its way to Adams Morgan, Mt. Pleasant, the gold Coast, the end of the line, and back again. 

    Sixteenth Street-- lined with embassies, churches, respectable homes, and majestic trees swaying overhead from Lafayette Park to Silver Spring--this undulating, rolling hill climbs and descends with deceptive grace. At its side, in the middle of a Black gay ghetto called Homo heights, sits the once glorious, mystical park called Malcolm X by Black cultural nationalists, although its official name is Meridian Hill. At dusk it becomes a Black gay cruising ground, while during the day it serves as one of th city’s open air drug markets.

     Vandalism and graffiti now mar its classic beauty like brutal knife wounds that have become keloids. The shrubbery has been hacked down in an effort to prevent crimes that still occur. The once green grounds are bald and littered with used condoms and assorted trash. Decay and decline exist here. Gloom and danger are ever present in the piss-stained air, air that is often thick with marijuana smoke and always filled with the hawker’s cry of drug dealers. And although children romp and wrestle on these grounds, and soccer players kick the game ball back and forth, the men appear who cannot contain their loneliness till dusk. They are not zombies. Their eyes are luminous with enormous, living hungers, but no one seems to notice except those of their kind. FOr Black gay men, this park, elegantly appointed with gushing fountains, grand stairways, moonlit plazas, and statues of Dante and Joan of Arc--for Black men seeking the kisses of one another, Malcolm X/Meridian Hill Park is now nothing more than a tomb of sorrow.

    I remember taking the S2 home one evening, a Sunday, in fact. I had taken the X2 from H Street, N.E. to 14th and H downtown, where I transferred and waited for the S. From the corner of 14th and H you can view the warscape of AIDS and the remains of the casual sex zones reduced to rubble by the aggressive development of downtown. It is interesting to observe now, postmodern office buildings rise on soil where the seed of gay men was once spilled with reckless abandon.

     Ten years ago this corner was a sexual crossroads. On either side of 14th Street, from H to I, there once stood thriving porn shops, movie galleries, and nude dance clubs. A block east of 14th, on 13th Street, the raunchy Black gay club, the Brass Rail, was bulging out of its jockstrap. Drag queens ruled, B-boys chased giddy government workers, fast-talking hustlers worked the floor, while sugar daddies panted for attention in the shadows, offering free drinks and money to any friendly trade. Everybody was seeking a sex machine. White folks were sneaking in for their “Black-dick-fix.” Sometimes the dose was fatal:Robbery. Murder. The pulsing music always throbbed like an insatiate erection. 

     A block north of the Brass Rail, Franklin Park was a soft cruise spot primarily because it borders K Street, 14th and 13th Streets offering too much visibility for most. But east of its lower end, bordering I Street, on the 13th Street corner, stood the notorious Curiosity Bookshop, complete the back room, movie booths, garish red lights, gusts of heavy breathing, and the popping noise of greased dicks pumping in and out of tight holes. The creaking floorboards were aging with semen and sighs. Every now and then you’d hear a man hiss, “Work that pussy, bitch,” as clusters of panting men gathered to watch an ass being fucked. 

     At the most historic spot downtown, where, on the corner of 14th and H, one could watch the parade of flesh all summer long, the quest for the perfect abuse was keen. Now the area is almost desolate of nightlife, the players scattered, the seekers scared to venture out. 

  I wait for my bus. Shortly before it arrives, two Black men cruise by. They appear to be in their thirties-forties. The shorter, stockier, fair-skinned, clean-shaven Homeboy has his arm thrown around the shoulders of the slightly taller, slender, darker daddy. The tall man is obviously older, mustached, and somewhat attractive. Homeboy carries a hustler’s air about him. They swagger by, slightly drunk and horny. I am surprised when a few stops later they board the bus and sit at the back.

      The bus crosses K Street and continues up 16th without incident. The seats fill quickly. By the time we cross P Street standing room is all that’s available. A murmur begins to rise from the back of the bus. It explodes into a startling confrontation.

     “You my bitch!”

     “No! Uh Uh. We are bitches!”

    “No! You listen here. I ain’t wearing lipstick, you are! I ain’t no bitch! I fucked you! You my bitch!”

    This argument continues without resolution until we arrive at 16th and U Streets. The bus is packed with passengers, and as we approach the stop, I see ten more waiting to board. Just as the first person at the stop steps aboard, a strident, hysterical voice cuts loose from the back:

      “I’m a 45-year-old-Black-gay-man who en-joys taking dick in his rectum!” SNAP! “I’[m not your bitch!” SNAP! “Your bitch is at home with your kids!” SNAP! SNAP!

     We are entering the fifth dimension of our sexual consciousness. THe ride is rough. There is no jelly for this. The driver is trying to call the police on the bus phone. No one has said anything. No one else attempts to board. 

    The air is charged with tensions unleashed from an ancient box of sexual secrets. The older man abruptly leaves by the back door. Homeboy follows. They have violent words outside. The children sitting at the front are wide-eyed and speechless. All the homosexuals on the bus have frozen. So have I. The driver is frantically calling the police. The older man suddenly pushes aborad wielding a Flash Pass with Homeboy in hot pursuit. The driver drops the phone and jumps between them. Homeboy pulls out a knife and waves it toward his companion. 

     “You gonna pay for this dick!” he sneers.

     “I ain’t paying for that tame shit!”

     The children’s heads snap back and forth during the ensuing shouting match as though they are watching a Ping Pong tournament and not two grown Black men giving high drama. In a stern voice the driver orders Homeboy to leave the bus. He backs down the steps, waving his blade, threatening to catch the Black gay man on the street and make him pay dearly for the dick he got. Homeboy is last seen stalking east on U Street with his glinting knife clenched in hand. 

    The bus pulls off and begins to climb 16th Street. Every homosexual on the bus is still frozen. So am I. The police never arrived. The children are quiet for the reminder of their journeys. So am I. Occasionally, a very nervous, a very terrified schoolboy laughs out loud then subsides into silence. The 45-year-old-Black-gay-man who enjoys taking dick in his rectum rides the rest of the way without further incident. At the back of the bus he sits--his legs crossed at the knee.      

[antman-56]

The Long Night Pt. 1

Its a cold night in an ghetto urban area of Atlas. Qrow has just left his team to find a pub or anywhere that sold alcohol to anyone his age. After walking for what felt like hours he found a beat down bar with a neon sign saying "Bare".

Qrow : Can't even fucking spell. (He smirks) Perfect.

He enters the fine establishment and to his surprise its looked busy. Their were some shady characters in back of the room glaring at him, women twice his age taking his clothes off with their eyes and letting their imagination run around, and the bartender that has the look in his face that he doesn't care about what goes on in here.

Bartender (washing a cup) : Little young are we.

Qrow (seating down) : Maybe, but you gonna stop me.

Bartender (snorts) : No. Whats your poison?

Qrow : Strongest thing you have for 6 lien.

The bartender just looks at the kid.

Bt : You did see the sign right.

Qrow : Fine anything that 6 can afford.

The Bartender sighs and leaves to get him his drink.

Qrow just sits their contemplating what two missions will give him. Follow his mission that the chief gave him and Raven or to use this as a chance to get out of that life. Owl has done petty things even waste resources just to send a message. Is his freedom worth looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life? Maybe. He didn’t know.  He has nothing in the tribe but Raven and he is starting to think she has some feeling for stupid blonde. Can't say he blames her because some women have caught his attention. If he takes the chance, will the tribe care or will they send somebody.

As he is in deep thought a beautiful white haired girl in an Atlas school uniform showed up with a well dressed man. She looked like his age and the man about his 40s. She looked shifted around uncomfortably because the majority of the bar had their eyes on them, especially on her. She could feel the eyes of the unsavory men undressing her and the women glaring at her for being younger. The man told her to sit up by the bar while he dose some business with another man. As she approached the bar she is immediately followed by a group of men. Each one eyeing a different part of her.

(A tall, white, skinny guy with shaggy dirt blonde hair. Looked like a pedophile to Qrow) Thug 1 : Hey babe how you doing?!

(A medium build guy, bald, dark skinned man that looks like he goes to those illegal fight clubs) Thug 2: Yeah whats a pretty face like you doing in a place like this?

(A short and fat man with a god awful mustache)Thug 3 : Nice ass!

Mystery girl continues walking to the bar all the while ignoring them.

She quickly goes to an immediate empty seat next to Qrow and in her rush she accidentally dropped her purse. That’s when the bartender placed Qrow his cheap drink in front of him.

Qrow leaned down to pick it up for her. As he gets up to give 

Qrow : Hey, you uh ... dropped this.

Mystery girl (frustrated) : Can I just be left alone?! Is that too much to ask for?!

Qrow (puts her purse on the bar table) : Sorry, thought you would want your purse.

Myster girl : Sorry its just that ...

Like a cliché the 3 thugs showed up and all of them seeing red.

Thug 1 : Hey kid stay away from the cutie.

Thug 2 come between both Qrow and the mystery girl.

Thug 2 : Yeah kid, you don't want to get into an accident. 

He flexes him biceps to look intimating.

Thug 3 : Yeah, get lost!

As the thug 3 said that he reached out his hand to grab mystery girl’s rear, who is now boxed in by thug 1 and 2. That is when thug 3 felt something tapping on his right shoulder.

Thug 3 quickly turned in announacnce.

Thug 3 : I said b-

He never finished that sentence when he felt a left sucker punch send him flying though the broken bar’s window.

Thug 1 and 2 : Charles!!

The patrons in the bar all ran out of the bar screaming and all. The women ran to avoid getting punched and the shady men ran in case the cops were called.

Qrow (cracking knuckles) : Oh so that’s the pervs name.

Thug 2 (clenched teeth) : You are going to regret that.

Thug 2 went after Qrow and started to throw a few punches. 

Thug 1 saw this as an opportunity to be alone with the girl. Unfortunately he was a slow thinker because he didn't even see her knee him in the groin. When he fell on his knees and winced in pain; mystery girl grabbed Qrow's drink and smashed over his head, knocking him out.

Qrow saw through Thug 2′s moves like an x-ray. After all Qrow was a huntsman in training and Thug 2 was a civilian. After letting Thug 2 tire himself out he just one punched; sending him through the wall.

Qrow (smirking) : Phew, that was fun.

All that could be heard were the groaning of the 3 thugs and the destruction of some of the furniture and walls of the bar.

He notices his drink was on the floor and in pieces; with the mystery girl holding the drinking part of the bottle. Who is looking at him in bewilderment.

Qrow (pointing his finger at her)  : You owe me a new bottle.

Mystery girl : What was all that. With the ... and the ..

She didn't get to finish that when the guy she came with came out of one of the room’s with a suitcase. (//well dressed man is (Wdm) ) and with a younger man in a leather jacket with a King Taijitus on the back and denim jeans.

Wdm : What did you do?!

Mystery girl : I ...

Other man : Deals off you said they could play with her and look at what This. 

He quickly and forcibly took the briefcase away from Wdm and ran out the door.

Wdm stared at the door then quickly turned his attention on the girl.

Wdm (angry) : You stupid bitch! Do you know how much lien you just costed me?! What you’ve done?!

She stood their not knowing if she could move. She looked down, clenched her fists and closed her eyes, waiting for a strike that never came. After a few seconds she opened her eyes to see the hand of Wdm's caught by Qrow.

Qrow in rage took out Harbinger from his back and put it at Wdm's throat.

Qrow (angry) : Listen here, because I am not repeating myself! You can walk away and never turn back or your blood is the thing I am going to be cleaning off my clothes. Choice is yours. Blink once for death or twice for life.

He blinks frantically and is shoved violently away and runs straight to the door not even looking back. He could plot revenge later on the young red eyed teen, but right now he wants to live.

Mystery girl looks in amazement but slowly sinks back into the sad truth that is her reality.

Mystery girl : you idiot. Do you know what you just did? What you just ruined?

Qrow : Well, that’s a weird way to say thank you.

Mystery girl : He is my fiancé and he is the son of one of the most powerful businesses in Atlas.

Qrow : Whoa whoa woad! Just who the hell are you?!

Mystery girl : My name is Willow. Willow Schnee.

[thesaltoforion]

Biding

[Written for @onetrickdiana after I got an interesting idea regarding Diana’s lore]

[Part 1]

A bell jingled as the door to Conner’s Carpet Conundrums swung open.

"You're the last one to show up." Conner Rennoc tutted from the counter.

"I don't want to hear it." Diana snapped. She stalked around the racks of thick, hanging rugs. She brushed the snow from her tiny black hat as she reached the counter.

"I smell like garlic and the damn weather is out to get me." She muttered and pinned the decorative hat back. The mesh vale covered her face and blurred her features. "The only good thing that came out of today was that I had to act like a fresh widow. Everyone was so polite in the streets."

“I’m sorry to hear about it. Your dagger, please.”

“Of course.” She dug an ornate dagger from her black skirts. The handle had delicate engravings of ancient characters. Gold plated the handle and the hilt, indicative of her status within the club. The thin, sterling silver blade had the serial code D352. Every member of the Order of the Exalted Lion had a dagger similar to Diana's. Every dagger had a code, unique to the member. The symbols warded away magic and monsters so that they couldn't be stolen. Each member had to present their dagger before they could enter club meetings. Conner showed her his own dagger. The handle was made of copper and the blade had the serial number C368.

"Still at gold, are we?" Conner commented as he opened the back door.

Diana hid the weapon again, “Sometimes the promotions don’t happen as fast as we’d like.”

"Amen to that. Say hello to the lads for me.”

“You’ll get your chance soon enough." She swished past him and into the back room. Her dark boots tapped down the wooden stairs. She hauled open the large, wooden door. The scent of burning pine embraced her. She padded along the thick rugs that sprawled across the cement floor.

"Diana, what a surprise. We thought the storm took you." A slim man greeted in a Scottish lilt. He sat at the head of a large table. His chiseled Grey beard contrasted his blue eyes neatly. A lavender ascot tied around his neck. Diana thought it looked smart against his silver waistcoat. 

"Please pardon my tardy appearance, Master Mordex. The weather outside is horrid." Diana hung her overcoat on the rack and took her seat at the large table. On her left sat Horton Timis. He was a burly man with a sharp mustache. He lost three fingers in a fight against a warlock. He thought it was a fair price for victory. To her right sat Richard Lormuex. Everyone called him Tickety. Lormuex was a balding Frenchman. His eyes darted apprehensively between the members of the table. Occasionally, he wrung his hands and wet his lips.

Mordex smiled, "It's good to see that you made it safely. I'll be expecting your task report next week. I take it your mission went well?"

"One of my best yet." She grinned.

"Good. Anything else to report?”

“Conner says hello.”

“We’ll return the favour on our way out, tonight. Let's move on, now that we're all present. We'll skip the Oath today since we started late."

"With all due respect, Master Mordex,” Lormuex quipped, “but the Oath is a sacred practice – we can’t just skip it because her highness Diana waltzed in on behalf of the horrid weather.” He braced his hands on the table, “After all, the rest of the Quarter managed to make it on time. I don’t understand why you’re always so soft on – ahk!”

Diana spiked her dagger between his bony fingers. It stood, lodged in the table. "I have been around vampires all day, Richard. I have worn these stupid, disabling skirts all day. I reek of garlic, my boots are killing my feet and the weather outside is, frankly, unbearable. I had to bury a vampire in a blizzard, for God’s sake!" She wrenched the blade from the table and concealed back in her skirts. "What did you do today?"

Lormuex sank into his chair.

"That's what I thought. Shut up and stop wasting time."

The Quartermaster cleared his throat, amused, "Mr. Lormuex please stick around after tonight's meeting. Now, let us discuss the plans for the raid this weekend." He reached under the table and produced a stack of papers. "The scribes worked hard on these mission packages. They're expecting a generous thanks. A box will be passed around at the end of today's meeting for your contributions." 

Each package was tied together with garden twine.

"Right," he began, once the pages circled back to him, "I've decided to give the position of mission leader to Diana." 

"Uh, M-Master Mordex," Lormuex said, "How come it says my name then, in the package - under mission leader?"

Diana glared at him.

"I'm not an unreasonable man. But, sometimes, I just sort of… change my mind. Business owners tend to get used to such a luxury." Mordex winked at Diana. She smirked.

They discussed the plan for Saturday and everybody dropped a few pounds in the contribution box for the scribes.

Diana braved the storm as she headed back to her townhouse. The sad, little structure looked like it might blow over in the wind. She turned on the radiators and the cast-iron stove. She washed away the garlic and the grime of the day shoved her frozen toes into a pair of slippers. Quickly, she shimmied out of her gown and dawned some flannel pajamas. She studied herself in the bathroom mirror. Scowling at the sight of her unruly black hair, she dug out a pair of scissors from under the sink. She hadn't cut it in months and the locks started to stray past her chin. Carefully, she cut it just below her earlobes. Satisfied, she closed the lights and crawled into bed. She wedged her dagger between the headboard and the side of the mattress.

Diana fell fast into unconsciousness.

 [~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]

Sunlight scattered across Diana's eyelids. She cracked them open and gazed at the fluttering, sheer curtains. A warm breeze floated through the room. She frowned at the floral wallpaper and bolted upright. Automatically, she grabbed her dagger from beneath her pillow. The satin sheets rubbed nicely at her bare skin. The room she gazed upon looked roomier than her bedroom. A Persian rug decorated the hardwood floor. She’s never been able to afford such a luxury. She sat in a canopied, four poster bed. She noted the rocking chair in the corner. Her hunting gear rested on the upholstered seat and her satchel hung from the chair’s back.

Diana’s toes curled into the carpet as she approached the chair. She paused by the large mirror on the wardrobe. It showed her an odd mark on her shoulder. She was hit by a magic spell. As she assembled her armour, Diana tried to recall how she ended up naked in a strange bed. She searched her satchel for clues and found some folded papers. She unfurled the pages and skimmed the neat text.

She was supposed to be an extermination mission. She had no idea where the rest of her team went. She hoped they didn’t get captured with her. She grabbed her weapons from the wardrobe and set off.

She stepped into a corridor.  There was a banister on one side and closed doors on the other. If she leaned against the banister, she could look across and see the other side of the floor. The hall ran in a circular shape. If she looked down, she could see all the way to the main hall downstairs. An elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling and descended down, just past the top floor. She crept down the stairs, her hand trailing over the fat railing. Through the expanse of marble floors and elegant statues, Diana’s shoes clipped against the tiles. Eventually, she made it to the foyer where she slinked out through the double doors. 

Warm sun hit her face and fields of green stretched as far as she could see. Wildflowers of all sizes and colors poked out from the grass. A cobblestone path snaked out from the patio in front of the doors. She spotted a farm on a hill and made out vaguely human shapes in the distance. Someone approached her from the stone path. He had long, silver hair pulled into a half bun. The soft features on his face offset a sharp jaw and jagged nose. Diana didn't miss the way his ears ended in points. A large set of transparent wings extended from his back and cast colourful shadows on the ground.

Diana shot a loaded arrow at him. She watched it slow down and halt in front of the fairy. He side stepped the frozen arrow like it was an inconvenience.

"We see the Lady has awoken. Sorry nobody was around to greet you. Some of your friends are trying to get through the defenses." he gave a deep bow, "Our name is Sunflower. Welcome to Our manor. "

“How did I get here?" Diana demanded.

"You gave yourself up - willingly, We might add."

"I'd never do such a thing."

"Mn, on the contrary, that's exactly what you did. You stepped through the fairy ring. Metaphorically, you signed Our contract - you belong to Us now."

"Damn it. How? I don't remember anything!"

"A side effect. You won't remember anything from the past ninety-six hours. That's just how the magic works. Sorry!"

"What kind of idiot leaves their captor completely alone - and doesn't bother to take her weapons away?" Diana complained, slinging her bow across her back.

"You saw what happened to your arrow."

"How do I leave?"

"So soon? We must insist you stay for dinner." He fluttered his eyelashes, playfully.

"Stop playing games, Sunflower."

"You can't leave." He scowled as his wings flexed straighter.

"Yes, I can! There's always a way with you lot. A deal or something?"

Sunflower smiled, and his teeth flashed against the sun. "You've done your research. We’re not impressed, per say, but We can make you a deal. Give Us your most valued possession and We will set you free."

"Most of my valuables are in my house. How do you expect me to -"

"Nonsense, Diana. Your most valuable possession is right here, with you. Until you can cough it up, We suggest you make yourself at home. Dinner starts when the sun sets. The wardrobe in your bedroom will give you any outfit you desire. Wear something nice this evening - you'll be meeting the rest of the family. "

"Wonderful. Anything else?"

"Ah…. Yes. Every night, before you turn in, We'll be at your door, expecting a payment. If you don't have anything to satisfy the agreement, We will leave and you can try again the next night."

"Fine. I'll see you at dinner."

"Excellent! We'll be off." Sunflower started in the same direction he came from. Diana watched his form slip beyond the hill. She decided to head westward. The manor soon disappeared behind a thicket of trees. She crossed a small stream and ended up in a cleaning. It took longer than she'd like but Diana ended up at the edge of the property. A row of mushrooms marked the end of the fairy ring. She pulled the papers from her pocket and read them. Master Mordex always made sure to be explicit and meticulous in his plans.

We are looking for a ring of mushrooms. The largest diameter it can be is approximately 5 meters. The smallest is 2 meters. Do not be fooled - this small ring of fungi holds powerful magic many of us can't fathom to understand. Under no circumstances are you to set foot in this circle.

So it’s a transporter of sorts? Diana wondered, pocketing the papers. Well, She reasoned as she backed up from the boarder, if things can come in… she loaded an arrow, it should stand to reason… that things can go out. The arrow snapped free and soared.

Once, during a goblin raid, Diana took out five goblins before something knocked her out from behind. When she woke up, the dust had settled, and the goblins were done for. She found the rest of the team as they counted up the bodies. One of the members tried to claim Diana's kills as his own. Diana had no way to prove that the arrows sticking out of the dead creatures were hers. Master Mordex seemed to be on her side but it was hard to quell the controversy amongst the other men. Since then, Diana died the feathers of her arrows a custom shade of blue – so as to leave out any room for potential confusion in the future.

She watched the arrow race to the boundary. It collided solidly against the air and exploded in a shower of sparks.

"So much for that." She grumbled, putting the weapon away. “They did say the barrier was magical.” Diana rubbed at her face and dug through the contents of her satchel. From the depths of the bag, she retrieved several packages of salt and other herbs. She removed led and silver bullets, her wallet and an Azul eye amulet. The leather cord dangled down from her hand. The gleaming blue eye winked against the sunlight. To ward away evil curses and the common jinx. She remembered. It seemed anti-magical enough.

With a grunt, she hurled the amulet at the barrier. The leather cord streamed after the blue eye like a tail. It hit the wall with a thunk and plummeted to the ground. Diana retrieved the amulet and sighed at the crack that ran down the center. She put it alongside the herbs and the wallet and the bullets. Once more, she dove into the depths of her bag. Her fingers curled around the cold hand of her dagger. She liked the way the engraved handle scratched the surface of her palm. It gleamed in the canopied sun and Diana took another look at the invisible barrier.

“Dearest brethren of the Quarter, please forgive my actions.” She swallowed. She chucked the knife as hard as she could at the barrier. The engravings lit up a bright, scarlet red as it sank beyond the barrier and out of sight. She stared after it.

A breeze picked up around her and the river bubbled distantly. She headed back through the forest and formulated a new plan. The Quarter could take all the time they needed.

She had some fairies to exterminate, after all. 

[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]

Quartermaster Octavius Mordex owned a very successful scribing business. Anyone would describe him as quiet and just a little bit terrifying. Very few people could actually describe a time where the Quartermaster displayed a fit of anger.

Richard Lormuex was a balding, timid man of French descent. Most wondered why he bothered to join the monster hunters - considering his constant state of apprehension. Hardly anybody calls him by his real name. After several months of service, he earned the nick-name Rickety-Tickety. Sometimes his worries get the best of him and things around him, including Richard himself, seem to reach their last tick.

"Richard Lormuex!" Mordex bellowed. The frosty wind whipped his black coat wayward. The other hunting members watched silently as Mordex allowed his quaint demeanor to slip away into something feral.

"I hereby order you to relinquish your status from the Order of the Exalted Lion." Mordex took large strides into Lormuex 's personal space. “Please,” He swallowed, “hand over your dagger.”

The balding man trembled, "Don't I at least get a trial?"

"You could have killed one of our finest warriors." Mordex growled. He addressed the rest of the Order, "All those in favor of Richard Lormuex 's exile from the monster hunting society, say 'aye'!"

"Aye." Barked the men. Their agreement shook the forest to its core.

Lormuex looked on in betrayal. "But, Master Mordex, please, you can't do this. Not when I'm so close to -"

"Your dagger, now Mr. Lormuex." He murmured quietly, "we don't have all day."

Lormuex placed his silver dagger in Mordex's upturned glove.

"Dismissed. We thank you for your service." Mordex whispered a prayer at the base of the dagger. His eyes fluttered closed as he held it against his mouth.

"Thank you for your service." The team repeated.

Lormuex took one last look and fled the forest.

Mordex sighed and stored the dagger in his jacket. "We should head back to the town. From there, we’ll regroup and plan a rescue mission.”

“What – and just leave her in there?” Horton scoffed, “They could be doing a whole manor of things to her. Besides, what’s in the village that we don’t have right here?”

“There are more men in town. We’ll be ambushed if we decide to attack now. Diana is fine, trust me.

“Actually,” Charlie said, “If it’s lads you need, I can just ride into town while you lot come up with a plan. I’ll’ve returned with the other Order members by the time you’re ready.

“There’s a lad, Charlie!” Horton goaded. The other members murmured in agreement.

“What will it be, Quartermaster?” Horton asked.

Mordex sighed, “Fine. Charlie retrieves more resources. Dunkin, you’re in charge of setting up camp – tents, firewood, you know what to do. Jackson and Lard will help me create a new plan. We regroup in two hours. We don’t have time to waste!”  

[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]

Diana stood in her borrowed room and paced in her under-armour. 

"I want something sleek but classy." She listed at the wardrobe, " I want to feel confident and look unsuspecting. And I need somewhere clever to hide my guns and bullets. Hopefully, that isn’t too complicated for you.”

The wardrobe thumped twice.

Diana opened the oak doors and inspected the gown inside. The three-quarter sleeves were made of dark green lace. The lace came up to the base of the neck and covered the shoulders and clavicle. It stopped at a red, satin, V-shaped neckline. The satin parted high at the waist as it draped into a modest skirt. White pleats ran down the center of the skirt. Green stitching hemmed the bottom of each pleat. Dizzying green and gold swirls embroidered the red satin. She frowned at the corset tie in the back.

"I'll need help with that. " She noted and rang the service bell by the bed. In her home, back in London, Diana had a wooden machine that tightened her dresses with a crank – no help required. Someone knocked on the door immediately. Diana let them in.

A lady with fine lines around her eyes stepped in. Her hair streaked Grey in some places and she stood much shorter than Diana.

"I understand you need help, miss?" Her eyes darted wryly around the room and back at Diana.

"Yes, I can’t tie the dress on my own… have we met before?" Diana recognized her bulging eyes and the apprehensive twist of her thin lips.

"Oh, certainly not. I'd remember a lady like you."

"You aren't a fairy." Diana noted as she slipped into the dress.

"Ah, no, miss. I'm like you, I suppose. I got trapped -" She grunted as she tugged on the lace, "- in a stupid ring of mushrooms. There you go, all tied up and pretty.

"Thank you."

"Give us a twirl, yeah?"

Diana spun half-heartedly.

"Oh, you're stunning. What's your name, love?"

"Diana… Flintlock." Diana shook the lady's clammy hands.

"Pleasure to meet ya. I'm Michelle Lormuex. We can be friends, if you'd like. It can't hurt to have a friend in a place like this."

Diana nearly stuttered, "You don't happen to have a brother, do you?"

"I do! You've met little Richey?"

"Yep." She sighed.

"Oh,” her face fell, “he's upset you, hasn't he. Tell me - what's he done this time?"

"That's the problem: I lost my memory of the past few days. I don't know what it is but whenever I think of your brother… I get the strongest feeling of discontent. "

"Well, I'm sorry for whatever he's done. Mom tried her best and I looked out for him when she couldn't but he's always so terribly nervous - sometimes he just… well,"

"Snaps?"

"Occasionally, yeah. He’s incredibly bright, I tell you. He went away to America for engineering!"

"Mm. Will I see you at dinner?”

“Of course! Oh – I should probably get ready! I’ll see you in a few.” She bustled out and closed the door.

Diana turned back to the wardrobe and inspected the accessories that were left on the shelf. She found two lacey garters, leather boots and a beaded purse. Upon closer inspection, the dark red garters had pouches stitched to the side.

“It’s like a holster made of lace and satin.” She murmured. She slipped them on under the gown, all the way up her thighs. She wrestled with the belts until they clung gently to her skin. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said to her reflection, “the dress is stunning, and the garters are very clever things but I don’t understand how to access my guns. I mean, I can – I’ve managed dresses before. But I figured you’d have an easier solution..?”

The mirror on the wardrobe decided to do something very odd. In that moment, Diana’s reflection slid its hands down the sides of the dress. Its hands disappeared inside the thick inlays of satin gown and retrieved the guns. The refection winked as it twirled the guns. Diana looked down at her waist and felt around the soft skirt. Her fingers slipped between two slits and she laughed.

“Oh you are gorgeous – pockets! Who could’ve thought?” She shoved her hands deeper and felt a metallic zipper at the bottom of the pockets. Curious, she tugged open the zippers and dug deeper through the skirts. She went all the way until she could feel the holsters around her legs. “I could get used to a wardrobe like you. Perhaps I’ll take you home with me.” She loaded bullets into the barrels of her guns and slipped them into the garters.

Next, she inspected the boots. Golden buckles complimented the emerald-green leather. A short heal jutted out of the bottom. She noticed golden zippers along the sides of the boots and stored extra bullets in the small pouches. Each boot held five bullets.

Finally, she grabbed the purse. It had red and gold beading held together by a golden clasp. She filled it with bullets and packets of salt.

Diana took a few minutes to pin a golden rose buckle in the side of her short hair. Then, smeared on some lipstick, spritzed a bit of perfume and went down for dinner.

[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]

The remaining members of the Order sat around a fire, surrounded by newly pitched tents.

“We’re going to need everyone’s warding herbs – every last speck.” The Quartermaster explained, “We have to establish a bridge between here and whatever lies beyond that ring. I need to cross over, find the hostage and return safely. Now, the other thing is…” Mordex frowned, “What was that?”

The small ring of mushrooms rustled. They sounded like tiny bells as their caps knocked against themselves. The Order leaned closer to get a better look. Something sharp and shiny whizzed past their heads. Silver and gold gleamed under the bleak, winter sky. It landed a few meters away from their camp.

“I’ve got it.” Horton said. He lumbered into the thickets and returned a moment later with a blade in his hand. Everyone in the Order recognized the shape and design of the dagger. They had to – after all, each had a similar weapon concealed in their coats.

Mordex took the dagger. It felt warm, even through his gloved hands. “D352 – isn’t that something…”

“That’s Diana’s number.” Horton noted.

“Aye.”

“She … threw away her dagger? That’s not right.”

“No. I don’t blame her – given the circumstances. The enchantments on the daggers make them impervious to magic. It’s her way of letting us know she’s safe – and she intends on a swift return.”

“That certainly sounds like the Diana we know. I hope Charlie returns soon.”

“He’ll get here, eventually. Now, let’s start with the warding herbs and then we can complete the second part of our rescue mission.”

[~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~]

The magnificent dining room was everything one would expect out of a lord’s mansion. The staff had set the grand table in pristine cloth, porcelain plates and crystal glasses for a whole slew of beverages.

“Please, find your place cards and get comfortable.” Sunflower gestured from the head of the table.

Diana found her place next to Sunflower.

“Huntress.” She murmured, reading her card. The script was gold and paper reflected iridescently under the chandelier.  “It’s fitting, I suppose.” She set it back down and admired the many utensils that lay beside her plate.

“We knew you’d like it! You’re the biggest name in the Underground, you know. Well, besides Octavius Mordex – but he’s the Quartermaster of an organization bent on killing otherworldly creatures.”

“And yet, you’ve invited me to dinner?”

“Of course, We did! You are a guest in Our home.” He looked scandalized.

“Is Michelle a guest too? Or did you decide to turn her into a house maid?”

“Usually my staff answer the service bell, but Michelle insisted to visit you first – she wanted to make sure you settled in. The nerve that you even asked Us such a thing! Honestly, Our dear.” Sunflower shook their head, “Michelle is free to do what she pleases. Oh, look, there she comes.”

“Hello, Sunflower.” Michelle took the empty seat next to Diana, “I like what you did with those roses – they match your complexion.” She gestured at the woven crown in Sunflower’s hair.

“Why, thank you, Michelle.” He cleared their throat, “Thank you all for joining Us today. I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of Our household – Diana the huntress. Do be careful, Our dears, she bites. If you’ll turn your place cards over, you’ll find tonight’s menu on the back. Cheers, loves.”

The footmen filed through the huge doors and started serving the first course. Diana recognized some of roots and berries, and the spices had a familiar zing to them. The leaves looked a little strange, but they tasted like arugula and spinach. Around her, the fairies spoke to each other in different tongues. She only understood Sunflower – who seemed to be the only fairy at the table who spoke in English – and Michelle. Diana conversed automatically when it seemed appropriate and paid no attention to the subject matter.

The second course was served. The squash soup felt creamy upon her tongue. Diana counted twelve elves at the table and five waitstaff. She tried to estimate how many maids were in the scullery, how many chefs were in the kitchen and how many groundskeepers were out in the fields.

The staff served the third course. On the plate sat a sweet potato pate, garnished with chestnuts and parsley. Diana estimated that about thirty fairies lived on this property. She knew they outnumbered her.

Course number four was a thick slice of bear. The meat felt softer than beef but it tasted sweeter, somehow. If she took out Sunflower first, the estate would go into chaos. Diana chewed sternly and slipped a hand beneath the table. Concealed by the table cloth, she pulled a gun from her thick skirts.

“Diana, Our dear,” Sunflower said, “We’re assuming you’ve never tried bear before.”

“It’s not very common, where I’m from. But I could get used to it.” She smiled easily.

Diana took several more bites. On the seventh bite, she revealed her gun and opened fire. Michelle shrieked and ducked under the table. Her bullets disappeared as soon as they blasted from her gun. The fairies seemed mildly disappointed, their lips turned downward. Sunflower gasped, clutched at his shoulder and screwed his eyes shut.

“Oh for the love of everything that is celestial and eternal – We’ve been shot! Oh how will We ever cope with the pain, the agony, the suffering.” He whined, “Oh great mistress Diana, huntress of divine beasts – how could you do this to Us?” His mouth twisted into an unsettling smile. Slowly, he rose from his seat and his mighty wings fanned out behind him. They cast the whole room in scattered pieces of coloured light. “While We think your production was enticing in every aspect, the rest of the dinner party does not share Our opinion. You may stay, Diana, and finish dinner with us. We’re afraid you’ve ruined the mood. Unfortunately, food is not a commodity to waste. All of your weapons and armour shall be confiscated this evening. We will give them back when you leave.”

Diana fell back in her chair and scowled. Michelle – pale-faced and trembling – crawled back out from under the table and brushed herself off.

[oscopelabs]

War Starts At Midnight: The Three Wartime Visions of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger by Josh Spiegel

Few filmmakers have made films as thematically rich as those from writers/directors Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger in the 1940s. From 1943 to 1949, Powell and Pressburger, better known as the Archers, made seven superlative films that leapfrog genres with heedless abandon, from wartime epic to fantastical romance to psychosexual thriller to ballet drama. Thanks largely to cinephilic champions such as Martin Scorsese and his longtime editor Thelma Schoonmaker (who married Powell in 1984), as well as home-media ventures like The Criterion Collection, the Archers’ films have received a vital and necessary second life.

While the Archers’ 1940s-era septet have recognizable throughlines as well as a reliable stable of performers, three of those films are cut from the same cloth, despite telling radically different stories with varying tones. The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, A Canterbury Tale, and A Matter of Life and Death all take place, at least in part, during World War II, and all three films depict a nation at war, as much with other countries as with itself. When we think of British culture, we think of the stiff-upper-lip mentality depicted in popular culture for decades, typified by how Brits acted and reacted in World War II. But the Archers, in this wartime trio, debated the validity of fighting a war with that old-fashioned mentality, offering up films designed to be propagandistic enough to be approved for release but that also asked what it meant to be British in seemingly perpetual wartime.

* * *

“But war starts at midnight!” -- Clive Wynne-Candy

“Oh, yes, you say war starts at midnight. How do you know the enemy says so too?” -- Spud Wilson

The nuance of The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp was likely always going to make it a sore spot for the British government. Colonel Blimp was not original to The Archers; he was a comic-strip character created by David Low in the 1930s, meant to skewer puffed-up elder statesmen of the British military. The stereotype of a fatheaded, pompous fool had pervaded the national consciousness so much that Winston Churchill feared the Archers’ adaptation would revive the public’s critical perception of the military when support was needed the most. But while the title invokes Colonel Blimp, the lead character is never referred to as Blimp, and is much less foolish than he may seem when initially seen attacking a young British soldier in a Turkish bath. Powell and Pressburger used the character and the staid, fusty old notions of British militarism as a jumping-off point for a detailed, poignant character study.

Set over four decades, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp begins near its finale, as Great Britain struggles to gain a foothold over the Nazis. We first see our Colonel Blimp, the portly, bald, and mustachioed Clive Wynne-Candy (Roger Livesey), beset upon by younger soldiers in the club where he now lives as part of a training exercise. Clive is infuriated because they’ve started hours earlier than planned; before the smug young soldier leading the charge can explain himself, the two get into a tussle that speaks to why Powell and Pressburger wanted to tell this story. In the production of their previous film, One of Our Aircraft is Missing, the directors removed a scene where an elderly character tells a younger one, “You don’t know what it’s like to be old.” (The idea that this could serve as the thematic backbone to an entire feature was provided by the Archers’ then-editor, David Lean.) Clive’s rage at being taken off-guard leads him to thrash young Spud Wilson and teach him a lesson: “You laugh at my big belly, but you don’t know how I got it! You laugh at my mustache, but you don’t know why I grew it!”

And so, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp flashes back 40 years, a rare instance where a movie indulging in the now-hoary in medias res technique pays dramatic dividends. The rest of the film focuses on three points in the life of the man known first as Clive Candy: his time in the Boer War, the devastating World War I, and his twilight years of service as World War II ramps up. For a war film, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp offers exceedingly little bloodshed. Powell and Pressburger’s film examines how such gruesome action informs men like Clive away from the battlefield, instead of depicting that action in full. Each section of Blimp shows how his noble efforts make him hardened and intractable over time, even against the tide of a truly tyrannical force. At first, Clive’s militaristic mantra is honorable: “Right is might.” But as the film reaches its third hour, he learns that his theory, one embodied by his nation, has been so cruelly disproven by the Nazi scourge that he and Britain must change their ways.  

In the earliest section, Clive steps to the aid of Edith Hunter (a young Deborah Kerr), a British governess in Berlin who’s concerned about a German soldier spreading anti-British lies regarding their treatment of South African women and children in the Boer War. In so doing, and after insulting high-ranking German officers, Clive must duel with a German soldier chosen by lot, Theo Kretschmar-Schuldorff (Anton Walbrook). Watching a Brit face off with a German soldier might’ve felt appropriate, at least to the watchful eye of the British government. But Powell and Pressburger shrewdly show us the build-up to the duel itself, not the actual fight; instead, we see the aftermath, as Clive and Theo both convalesce in the same hospital, become close friends, and fall in love with Edith. Only Theo is lucky enough to win her heart; though Edith has as much love in her heart for Clive as for Theo, Clive only grasps his feelings once she’s left his life.

Portraying Theo, the film’s major German character, as surprisingly decent is one significant way in which the Archers brought nuance to what might have been another propagandistic WWII-era film. His innate humanity becomes heartbreaking as the film progresses. In the second section, Theo is a prisoner of war who’s initially too proud to admit his previous connection to Clive, before they reunite briefly. In the final section, Theo is older and much wiser than his friend, yet no luckier. He’s seen in a British immigration office, attempting to leave Germany on his own: his two sons have become Nazis and Edith has passed away. (“None of my sons came to her funeral. Heil Hitler,” Theo says grimly.) Theo then explains what drew him back to the UK, in a measured yet passionate soliloquy. No matter how many faults Theo sees in the Brits—after he reconnects with Clive post-WWI, Theo tries to point out that regular citizens “can’t be adjusted from war to peace as easily as you”—it is still a far kinder place to live than Germany. That the film’s most impassioned speech, expressing fondness for the British way of life, comes from a German is one of its many welcome surprises.

The film’s most haunting twist revolves around the women in Clive’s life. When Edith joins Theo in Germany, Clive is so shaped by her memory that when he settles down and marries the charming Barbara Wynne, she just so happens to look like Edith’s twin. Barbara, like Edith, passes away before World War II begins, but though Clive has aged, he hasn’t changed; his driver, Angela “Johnny” Cannon, looks just like Barbara and Edith, to the point where he introduces Johnny to Theo, fully aware that both men spot the similarity. Kerr, thus, is playing three strong-willed women, all of whom feel like perfect fits with the men of the film.

Clive, like his country, stays firmly and proudly rooted in the past, much to his detriment. When Theo, as an older man, reasons with Clive about how his way of waging war is outdated, it falls on deaf ears despite being a darkly accurate portrait of how WWII could have been lost: “If you let yourself be defeated by them just because you are too fair to hit back the same way they hit at you, there won’t be any methods but Nazi methods.” Only after Spud Wilson’s gambit to throw oldsters like Clive off their game in the training exercise does Clive begrudgingly realize that time has passed him by. The old-fashioned sportsmanship of battle could no longer apply for the Clive Candys of the world; at least this one realized it.

The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp ends wistfully, as Clive surveys the literal waterlogged wreckage of his life, having lost his house in the Blitz. He, Theo, and Johnny stand by the debris, and he recalls Barbara’s long-ago declaration: “You’ll stay just as you are till the floods come.” As he looks at where his house once lay, he says to himself, “Now here is the lake and I still haven’t changed.” Livesey, one of the very best actors to work with the Archers, imbues that line with a fine blend of pride and heartache, as he does with the salute he gives to the passing, much younger army of his native land. This elder statesman isn’t quite Colonel Blimp, only grasping Theo’s warnings about the Nazis after it’s too late, but he can see complexities of his life where others might not.

It took The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, like the other films explored here, years to fully get its due in the U.S. While Churchill didn’t bar Blimp from release in the United Kingdom, he enforced an export ban on the feature because he saw it as a less-than-helpful presentation of the military at such a dire period. (Or, as some have wondered, he may well have seen the older Clive Candy as a critique of him. Of course, Churchill reportedly never saw this film, because that would have been too challenging.) A shortened version was released in U.S. theaters in 1945, cutting out the flashback structure. The truncated TV version, which runs just 90 minutes—the original is 163 minutes— was still able to excite a young Scorsese, who helped fund a restoration in 2013 for this classic.

The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp was, perhaps, doomed for failure; its treatment of people perceived as the enemy could gain resonance only with distance from WWII. The British War Office and Churchill stated their antipathy to the production even before it began filming, refusing the Archers’ request to release Laurence Olivier from service to star as Candy. (Livesey, to note, is wonderful in the film, so the Archers’ loss is our gain.) But Clive Candy was able to weather attacks, and so too was Blimp, the beginning of a seven-year period where the Archers upended expectations, strove to break cinematic ground, and stayed true to their artistic principles. Here is the lake, and still, this movie hasn’t changed. It only grows with age.

* * *

“It’s a great thing to sit back in an armchair and watch the world go by in front of you.” – Sgt. Bob Johnson

“The drawback is…that people may get used to looking at life from the sitting position.” – Thomas Colpeper

Fourteen months after The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, Powell and Pressburger released another film set during World War II, which presented both the natural wonder and beauty of England while calmly displaying the ways in which the war had devastated some of its history. A Canterbury Tale wasn’t a hit with critics or audiences in the late summer of 1944; by the time it was released in the United States, the year was 1949, and a movie about three young strangers who journey towards Canterbury Cathedral in the waning months of World War II needed new, American-focused framing scenes to entice audiences.

Over 70 years after its initial release, what can we make of A Canterbury Tale? The allure of this low-key drama is, like its setting, ineffable and mysterious. The three leads, waylaid in the small English town of Chillingbourne while they wait for another train to Canterbury, ostensibly try to solve a mystery whose solution isn’t that mysterious. Some aspects of this film—whose three protagonists were all newcomers—feel less like drama and more like the Archers trying to make UK citizens turn away from the dark days of World War II and remind them of their land’s own beauty. From the vantage point of the 21st century, A Canterbury Tale is an utterly fascinating and serene look at how small towns tried to maintain a community-wide calm in the midst of terror.

Bob Johnson (Sgt. John Sweet) is an American soldier on his way to Canterbury Cathedral to meet a fellow Yank and do right by his mother back home in Three Sisters Falls, Oregon. Peter Gibbs (Dennis Price) is a British soldier who seems outwardly as arrogant as Blimp’s Spud Wilson, even though his true passion is playing the organ. While he plays it at cinemas back home, he’d rather play the kind of organ in the handsomely appointed Canterbury Cathedral. Alison Smith (Sheila Sim) has been conscripted into the Women’s Land Army; assigned to a farm in Chillingbourne, she has personal memories from her time near Canterbury that she can’t help but unearth. These strangers are brought together one dark Friday night by happenstance: Bob misheard the station stop and got off early, but he and Peter end up helping Alison after she’s beset upon by a mysterious figure who puts, of all things, glue in her hair. Strangest of all, this isn’t the first time a young woman was attacked by “the glue man” in Chillingbourne.

In a more predictable film, this inciting incident would lead our trio down some dark paths in Chillingbourne, a name that portends something terrifying. But while there’s an unquestionably disturbing subtext to a man placing “sticky stuff,” as Alison describes it, in young women’s hair, there’s little in the way of conventional twists in A Canterbury Tale. When our heroes meet Thomas Colpeper (Eric Portman), the magistrate of Chillingbourne who’s coincidentally the farmer to whom Alison has been assigned, it’s immediately obvious that he’s the glue man. Our heroes use the summer weekend, as they wait for the next train to Canterbury, to build up evidence, but as the weekend progresses, Bob and Alison (and eventually Peter) lose interest in solving the case as they fall in love with the British countryside.

Unlike Blimp, A Canterbury Tale has an ensemble of disparate characters who mostly have never seen serious battle. So many of them are average people conscripted into action, trying not to admit how terrified they feel. A Canterbury Tale features no bloodshed, but Powell and Pressburger stuck to the notion of making the film feel like a document of regular civilians by casting few recognizable actors. Portman worked with the Archers on the earlier film 49th Parallel and was, at the time, this film’s most well-known actor. Sweet, on the other end of the spectrum, was the least well-known; this was his first and only role in a film.

Recently, much was made about how Clint Eastwood’s The 15:17 to Paris, in which three young men who foiled a real-life attack, feature those three men playing themselves. When Powell and Pressburger cast their American character, they didn’t change his name to match the actor’s, but they might as well have: John Sweet was an Army Sergeant at the time, and his first-time performing style is always evident. Unlike the performances in The 15:17 to Paris, however, Sweet’s work is oddly charming. Watching him interact with the ensemble allows for the understandable awkwardness of his performance to take on a double meaning; Sweet is the outsider as much because he’s untrained as because he’s American. Bob Johnson is incurably curious and inquisitive, having so little awareness of British traditions, making his languorous journey through Chillingbourne all the more compelling.

By the close of A Canterbury Tale, all three of our heroes receive a blessing in the style of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. For Bob, it’s a revival of a romance he presumes is finished. His paramour, who he figured had moved on, has instead joined the Women’s Army Corps in Australia and has responded to the letters he thought had been ignored. Even before that, the people Bob meets in Chillingbourne, from the boys playing soldier to the local mechanics and a fellow military man from Seven Sisters in England, serve as a kind of blessing. When we first meet Bob, he’s all too happy to get his visit to Canterbury out of the way; before the movie ends, he’s taken to running down the sloping hills of Chillingbourne with his new friends, an overgrown boy at play. Stopping in Chillingbourne brings him joy even before his love life is given a new chance.

Alison, too, becomes closer to nature as she explores Chillingbourne. Of all people, she finds herself associating with Colpeper, even after she’s correct in presuming that he’s the culprit. Her blessing arises from memories she has of spending a summer outside Chillingbourne in a caravan with her fiancé, now presumed dead. But before she can receive the happy news that her fiancé is alive and well, she has to almost commune with the Earth to try and move on. By the second half, Alison is so in touch with nature that she hears the sounds of music and voices in the hills, akin to the centuries-old pilgrims Chaucer wrote about.

Alison’s connection is validated and shared by Colpeper, with whom she’s convening in those same hills Bob runs down. Even after Alison confirms Colpeper’s nighttime habits, she admits, “I was very mistaken about you.” Their connection is more emotional than anything else; Colpeper tells her that hearing voices as she does only works “when you believe strongly in something.” Colpeper’s strong belief in respecting Britain’s history is how he became the glue man. After his historical lectures were met with boredom and few attendees, he made it so British soldiers had little choice but to listen about their homeland’s history. By giving the soldiers a bad name (other townspeople, including the young women, presume one of them is the glue man), Colpeper assumed he could make a small encouragement to the British military to learn about the land it defended. As he explains to Peter on the train to Canterbury, “There’s no sin in being a savage, but a missionary who doesn’t try to do his duty is a bad missionary.”

Though Portman’s enigmatic performance turns Colpeper frosty even here, the magistrate receives a blessing from an unlikely source: Peter. Though Peter is the most gung-ho of the three young people to find the glue man, he chooses not to give Colpeper away to the authorities after he receives his blessing: the chance to play the Canterbury Cathedral organ. But Peter’s decision to let Colpeper walk is portended in one of the wonderful flourishes thrown in by the Archers in the film’s lush black-and-white cinematography. While on the train to Canterbury, Peter scoffs in response to the magistrate asking him if he is an instrument of judgment and says, “I’ll believe that when I get a halo over my head.” Cue the train light creating a halo effect over him.

There is no action-heavy setpiece in A Canterbury Tale, which instead features plenty of images of the main characters taking in the beauty of Chillingbourne. Through Colpeper, we see how hard it is for regular people to both support the military in wartime and forgive soldiers their vices. Through Peter, we see how soldiers didn’t quite grasp that their presence in small towns threw other people’s lives into upheaval. You could argue that very little happens to the characters in A Canterbury Tale; all that does happen is that Powell and Pressburger let the audience watch these people’s unremarkable yet compelling lives, and that they each secretly want to find some purpose when they arrive in Canterbury. The heroes appreciate what it meant to be British in decades gone by, and reflect on how that impacts their actions in the present. A Canterbury Tale was a love letter to England, made as gorgeous by its rolling hills as by its people. Though it didn’t hit big originally, and additional footage featuring Bob reconnecting with his girlfriend (Kim Hunter, about whom more very shortly) didn’t help it translate in America, A Canterbury Tale is a truly entrancing story of how badly people needed their unique burdens eased in such a horrific time of history.

* * *

“This is the universe. Big, isn’t it?” – Narrator

It’s hard to decide which is the best Archers film. Black Narcissus and The Red Shoes, perhaps their most broadly appreciated films in America, are remarkable leaps forward for Technicolor cinematography, while showcasing incredible performances, breathtaking set designs, and more. They are gorgeous films, featuring some of the most jaw-dropping images in the Archers’ filmography. But the film released the year before, suggesting the possibilities of what the Archers would do next, is just a touch greater. It is a film that was well-received initially, despite receiving a new title for its U.S. release; a film that’s only getting its first Region 1 Blu-ray release this summer although it offers some of the richest, most colorful images in Three-Strip Technicolor; a film that’s influenced everything from The Simpsons to Harry Potter. It is A Matter of Life and Death.

What if someone was supposed to die, but got misplaced? What if that person, with their extra time, fell in love before they were found by their bringer of death? This, in effect, is the concept of A Matter of Life and Death, in which Peter Carter (David Niven), a cheerful RAF pilot, is meant to die when he escapes his damaged plane without a parachute. Before Peter jumps, he contacts June, a winsome young American radio operator (Hunter), to share what he presumes are his last thoughts in the strangest Meet Cute ever. Peter jumps from quoting Walter Raleigh to brazenly declaring, “I love you, June. You’re life, and I’m leaving you.” But once Peter exits the plane, the damnedest thing happens: he wakes up on the beaches of England very much alive, after which he meets June in person, officially starting their relationship.

The whimsy of A Matter of Life and Death is clarified when we learn why Peter was apparently able to cheat death: his French conductor (Marius Goring, who co-stars in The Red Shoes) couldn’t locate Peter in the thick English fog. Peter is dismayed to learn that his permanent eternal presence is requested in the Other World, taking him away from June. She, of course, is concerned that her new boyfriend might be going mad; kindly local doctor Frank Reeves (Livesey again) believes Peter might be suffering from a brain injury. The perpetually unanswered question is just that: is Peter hallucinating the Other World because his mind is going, or is he really at death’s stairway?

Powell and Pressburger don’t answer the question, providing just enough medical details, down to the smell Peter notices when he speaks to his Conductor, that it might just be a mental malady. (I submit that Peter isn’t hallucinating the Other World because the film never answers one question: how the hell did he survive that fall from the plane?) The closing moments of the film suggest that either option is possible, when it’s revealed that the judge of the Other World’s court of appeals and the surgeon operating on Peter are played by the same actor.

But the mystery of Peter’s circumstances is not what makes A Matter of Life and Death so special. This is one of the most ambitious films the Archers ever made. It is a buoyant, bursting-with-emotion romance between two star-crossed lovers whose connection is straight out of a fairy tale. It is a film designed to help bridge divides between the British and the Americans in the immediate aftermath of World War II. (The story begins just six days before the European section of WWII concluded.) And it is, above all else by the finale, meant as a rousing and spirited defense of the British people. When the Other World allows Peter to appeal his case, he chooses the firm, well-spoken Reeves—who dies tragically in a motorcycle accident before Peter’s surgery—to plead Peter’s case, passionately arguing in favor of his client’s basic humanity.

In these spectral, spiritual moments, Reeves goes head-to-head with Abraham Farlan (Raymond Massey), the first American felled by a British bullet in the Revolutionary War, in arguing for Peter’s clemency. But it becomes clear that Reeves and Farlan are not arguing over Peter’s right to live longer than originally planned: they are debating what it means to be British and to be American. Farlan doesn’t think much of the romance between Peter and June, seeing it as another case of two people ruining relationships back home because they’re thrown into unexpected circumstances abroad: “Men and women thousands of miles away from the love they left behind. Minute sparks, instead of scorching flames.”

This is the Archers’ irreverent way of presenting the British and American states of mind post-WWII. It’s also a sign of their empathy as filmmakers: when Reeves argues that the current jury—all men from different countries around the world impacted by England’s imperialist rule at varying points of history—is unfairly biased, he asks for six American citizens. The reveal is powerful in 2018 as much as it may have been in 1946: the six American citizens are all immigrants, French to African to Irish. There is no one type of American citizen, as there is no one type of British citizen: this film is a dissertation on what it is to be human.

Visually, A Matter of Life and Death is unparalleled in the Archers’ work; the cinematography shifts from Technicolor (in the real world) to black-and-white (in the Other World), and the design of the Other World creates a series of gasp-inducing images. There is the impossibly wide shot of the attendees of Peter’s appeal, in a vast auditorium that reveals itself to be the size of an entire galaxy; there is the design of the literal stairway to heaven (hence its American title, Stairway to Heaven), which seems appropriately infinite without being terrifying; there is the moment when Peter’s fellow RAF pilot, waiting for him in the Other World, peers down to the vast center where files on all people from Earth are kept, and we see his silhouette from far above. The sense of scope and scale in moments like these should be teachable moments for anyone crafting some big-budget spectacle; this film’s moments of wonder were accomplished with a meager budget.

The grandness of A Matter of Life and Death—a movie that begins with the camera panning through the vast universe and closes with lovers reuniting happily—is coupled by its creators’ aims, to emphasize the humanity in people of different creeds and cultures. Peter Carter seems almost carefree in his opening scene, throwing slang left and right to the woman who he’ll fall for even as he expects to die. By the end, Peter and June are united by what Reeves deems the most powerful force on Earth: love. It’s a declaration that manages to be corny and life-affirming at the same time, much in the same way as Powell and Pressburger attempt to emphasize the universal qualities of mankind throughout the spiritual-court climax. In this film, as in The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp and A Canterbury Tale, to be British is to be human.

* * *

Unlike some of their British cohorts, such as David Lean and Alfred Hitchcock, most of the Archers’ films didn’t immediately hit big in America. Powell’s 1960 horror film Peeping Tom didn’t exactly end his career (he kept making films after that disturbing effort), but it garnered fiercely negative criticism. Over the last couple of decades, the Archers’ films have received well-deserved revivals. Last year, A Matter of Life and Death received a 4K restoration overseen by Scorsese and Schoonmaker, which is translating to the film soon receiving a Region 1 Blu-ray from the Criterion Collection. (It is painfully overdue.) Before that, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp and the operatic The Tales of Hoffman both received restorations, hopefully introducing more people to the wonder of these filmmakers.

The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, A Canterbury Tale (which also deserves the Blu-ray treatment), and A Matter of Life and Death are the product of fertile creative minds who used the backdrop of World War II to explore vastly different worlds that all happen to exist in Great Britain. This trio runs the gamut of genres and emotions, all while showcasing the kind of soldiers who protected the United Kingdom throughout the first half of the 20th century. The raffish romantic lead of A Matter of Life and Death could easily have been the same kind of soldier to surprise the elderly Clive Candy in the opening of Blimp, or he could have just as easily stumbled across Chillingbourne’s glue man. He could have even been the young Clive Candy. These characters are distinct enough to exist within their own stories as they are to represent attitudes and personalities across all of the Archers’ films. These films encompass a vast universe, one that offers new wonders to cinephiles. Just as the pilgrims came to Canterbury for blessings, so too do true cinephiles receive blessings when they make the pilgrimage to watch Powell and Pressburger’s films.

[filmstruck]

A Technicolor Confection: Powell and Pressburger’s THE LIFE AND DEATH OF COLONEL BLIMP (’43) by Jill Blake

One of the more remarkable things about film is its advancements in technology, storytelling and acting styles. In the course of a mere century or so, film, in all its various forms, and those who create it, have remained at the forefront of innovation. Some of that innovation merely laid the foundation for other improvements, and as such has fallen into the dreaded “dated” category. For example, much of the original CGI used in film throughout the 1990s and early 2000s hasn’t been treated kindly by viewers accustomed to the more complex visuals that are enjoyed today. But there are some advancements in film from long ago that are just as fresh and impressive as the day they were created: Busby Berkeley’s unique choreography; Alfred Hitchcock’s manipulation of scale for dramatic tension; William Wyler and Gregg Toland’s use of deep focus; John Ford’s remarkable photography of sweeping landscapes; and Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s surreal fairy tales filmed in vibrant Technicolor.

Sure, many filmmakers have used Technicolor in their movies, saturating the screen with beautiful images for their audiences, but Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger took the medium to new heights, and few filmmakers have been able to replicate their mastery of this technology. They set the standard for Technicolor with their use of lighting, brilliantly colored costumes and make-up, to bring a vision to the screen that is—for lack of a better word—dreamlike. A vision like you’re experiencing the clearest and brightest day, one where you aren’t sure if anything is real because it’s so perfect; an out-of-body experience, combined with the feeling of Déjà vu. A rare, memorable, indescribable feeling we’ve all had at some point in our lives, and somehow Powell and Pressburger found a way to encapsulate it for the screen.

In their long and impressive collaboration, which includes BLACK NARCISSUS (’47), THE RED SHOES (’48) and the recently rediscovered THE TALES OF HOFFMAN (’51), Powell and Pressburger continually improved upon their craft, creating iconic images, entrancing audiences then and now. Of all their films, including the three previously mentioned, I believe their greatest achievement to be the 1943 Technicolor masterpiece, THE LIFE AND DEATH OF COLONEL BLIMP, starring Archers’ regulars Anton Walbrook, Deborah Kerr and Roger Livesey (a personal favorite of mine).

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF COLONEL BLIMP is one of those films that feels like it’s about nothing, at least at first. And yet, upon further reflection and revisitation, it’s a film that is about everything that happens in one man’s long, adventure-filled life. It’s about being young and growing old; love and loss; stubbornness; social convention; friends and enemies; patriotism and honor. And the story of this remarkable man’s life is told in a most unique and unconventional way that is trademark Powell and Pressburger. Broken up into distinct sections, THE LIFE AND DEATH OF COLONEL BLIMP introduces us to Major-General Clive Wynne-Candy (Roger Livesey) in present day, as he relaxes in the steamy bathing room at the British club where he’s long been a member and now resides. As commander of the Home Guard at the start of World War II, Candy has ordered his men to engage in a training exercise, which isn’t due to start until midnight. His much-younger subordinates, well-versed in the unfair, dirty tactics of the enemy in modern warfare, have decided to initiate the training exercise early, with many of the older military leadership, including Candy, bellowing, “But war doesn’t start till midnight!” (This repetitive and comical bit is very reminiscent of Cary Grant’s David Huxley frantically shouting, “I’ll be with you in a minute, Mr. Peabody!”) Candy is older—past retirement age—with a pot belly, bald head and a big walrus mustache. His appearance and bombastic personality make him look like a walking caricature, and as such, his leading subordinate officer shows a distinct lack of respect toward his authority. To him, Candy is an old dinosaur, completely out of touch with the reality of the current military and social environment. And while Candy is certainly set in his ways, disregarding a man’s entire career and life experience just because of his age is shameful. Of course, Candy refuses to go along with the premature training exercise, which in turn is a broad refusal of the modernization of the military and warfare in favor of a simpler and more dignified era—at least in Candy’s view. He and his officer engage in a fist fight, falling into one of the pools in the spa. We see a subtle time-lapse and a much younger, physically fit and handsome Clive Wynne-Candy emerges, in a clever use of flashback. It’s the turn of the century, at the end of the Boer War, and Candy has established himself as a well-respected, charismatic fixture of the British Army. A man who has chosen a life of dedication and service to the military and his country.

Throughout this flashback, we learn all about Clive Wynne-Candy’s life and career, spanning three different wars, leading up to the moment where we first meet him in the men’s club in present day. We see that Candy wasn’t always the blustering and curmudgeonly figure. Affectionately nicknamed “Sugar,” “Sugar Candy” and “Shuggie” by his close friends (no one in present day would ever believe a man like Candy befitting of such an endearing nickname), Candy was well-loved by those close to him and proved himself to be a man of deep intellect and emotion, fiercely devoted to his friends and to his country. His pot belly and age are well-earned, as is his mustache—grown to conceal a particularly nasty injury suffered in a duel (an event brought on by a quite humorous moment, and introducing Candy to an unexpected and most unlikely friend).

The story of Clive Wynne-Candy’s life is remarkable and entertaining. But it’s the luscious Technicolor photography that makes this film so special. The colors are so vibrant, there are times when you feel as if you could reach into the screen and feel the fabric of Deborah Kerr’s dress or touch the grass where Anton Walbrook sits as he and his fellow prisoners of war listen to music. Not to mention the superb physical transformation of a thirty-seven-year-old Roger Livesey as his Clive Wynne-Candy ages—a truly ingenious use of both makeup and Livesey’s incredible acting talents. Powell and Pressburger not only knew how to tell interesting, multi-layered stories, but they also understood the power of visuals in that storytelling. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF COLONEL BLIMP remains not only one of the finest uses of Technicolor, but stands as proof that a good story, no matter how simple it may be, is invaluable and timeless.

[100yearoldcomics]

April 5, 1922 There's at Least One in Every Office by Clare Briggs

[ID: A portly man with blushing red cheeks holds up a small love letter. He walks up to a thin, weedy man wearing a green cashier's visor. /end] Herman: I got a swell letter here from MY GIRL, Rufus. Listen to this start. "My own darlingest baby sweetness." She thinks a lot of me, Rufe.

[ID: He shoves the letter into Rufus's unblinking, unsmiling face. /end] Herman: Smell it. Ain't that the class? I'm crazy about her, Rufus. She's MY GIRL.

[ID: Herman walks up to a gruff man with a thick mustache who reads the paper while smoking a cigar. He takes the man's paper and pushes it aside to get his attention. /end] Herman: I want you to listen to this, Nelson. It's from MY GIRL. "Oh my precious darling, how I wish I could hear your wonderful voice and gaze into those dear eyes. I love you, Hermie, more than ever."

[ID: Herman sticks the letter into Nelson's face, too. /end] Herman: Smell that perfumed stationery. Ain't it the goods!? MY GIRL! Going to see her tonight.

[ID: Herman walks up behind a glum-looking balding man with spectacles and hands him the letter, pointing to his favorite parts. /end] Herman: Look at the way she ends the letter. It's from MY GIRL, Charlie. "Oodles of kisses from your honey bunch." Those little cross marks mean kissses. Great, eh?

[ID: Herman is menaced by an angry mob of coworkers. Nelson points a pistol at him, Charlie is ready to beat him over the head with a club. /end] Rufus: Marry the girl and give us a rest. Nelson: Marry her for the love of Mike and get down to work. Charlie: Promise you'll quit those mush letters.

[thewingedmanart]

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The Gorka

Traversing northeast, following along the banks of the white capped Koda River. Three soldiers from EastVale adorned in chainmail with large wooden triangular shields drudge slowly in the brisk morning air. They’ve been tasked with a routine scouting mission of the region. Following a well beaten trail that leads them through large conifers that dominate the base of the Gorka Mountains, the lead soldier picks up his pace to a run. The suns rays fight to shine through dense blue firs and deep green pines. Struggling to keep pace, the two soldiers come around a large blue spruce to a clearing. The trees have opened up to expose peaks as the sun sets the mountainside ablaze in a beautiful golden red. Both soldiers squinting and adjusting their eyes from the sun to see the third soldier as they begin to approach him.

Slightly out of breathe, a slender dark complexioned man with light green eyes says “what gives lieutenant?”

Snapping quickly, a slightly shorter man with dirty blonde hair and a scar halfway across his forehead says “Private Meldon, don’t address the lieutenant that way.”

“At ease men,” Lieutenant Yardley says in a calm voice. “This is what its all about.” lifting his arms out wide, still looking at the mountainside as he absorbs the suns early rays upon his face. Seconds drift by as he remains completely still. Turning to face the other two soldiers. Lieutenant Yardley’s grizzled looking face brightens as his thick black mustache raises with a smile. His blue eyes soften in the expression, as the stocky bald headed man says “men, this can be a cruel world. So when you find beauty, please take time to soak it in.” With that, he splits between the two lower ranking soldiers back toward the beaten path and continues northeast.

Arriving at a fork in the trailhead, the Koda River bends northwest as the beaten path continues to follow its ascent deeper into the mountains. A smaller, less used path breaks off east disappearing into the foliage of the conifers.

“So, Meldon. Where would you like to go?” Lieutenant Yardley asks as the privates eyes become wide.

Private James Meldon looks back and forth from trail to trail. Not giving much time for a response, the brown eyes of the sergeant narrows, as the scar on his forehead moves closer to his dirty blonde brows.

Sergeant Sutcliff snaps out “The lieutenant asked you a question, private!”

Before Meldon could muster a response, Yardley says “Damn! Sutcliff. Are you gonna berate Meldon all day? That and remind him of his rank too? Because I remember when you were a private.” A smile forms under his bushy mustache, “those were some ugly times.”

“This is his first mission, outside of the tower Lieutenant.” Sergeant Sutcliff apologetically responds. “I figured I would keep him on his toes? So he knows how serious these scouting missions are.”

“I’m sure he knows Sutcliff. Growing up in EastVale, we have all heard the stories of the Gorka. But those are kids stories, meant to keep us from running too far away.” Yardley proclaims jovially. “So, shall we take the common path that you will walk for the next couple years while stationed here? Or walk into the Gorka Mountains that has been used to frighten you as a child?”

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Pausing, to look at both the higher ranking members, Meldon knows this to be some sort of a test. Not wanting to look weak in front of his superiors Meldon strides confidently by them. Following the lightly beaten path, Meldon leads his superiors into the Gorka Mountains.

With the stories from his youth swirling within his mind, Meldon moves forward nervously. Fear sinking deeper in his heart with any noise he hears if he can’t immediately rationalize why it was made. Adding to his fear is the large conifers. Their limbs stretch out as they fight each other for sunlight. Some have grown so far that they have begun to embed themselves into the neighboring trees. Making a living wall, that is hampering his sight while increasing his heart rate. Realizing now his pace has quickened, he turns around in a panic. Not seeing his fellow scouting members brings a shiver up his spine. He quickly begins back tracking in hopes of finding them.

Coming around a cypress that has forced the trail to bend around it, Private Meldon begins to hear a slight mumbling of voices. As the mumblings turn to laughter and the laughter into broken conversations, James begins to calm himself knowing he’s no longer alone. While waiting on his fellow soldiers, snapping and breaking of limbs can be heard north of the trail. Just beyond the tree line that forms a green and blue barrier wall. His heart spiking, he knows he must do his duty and investigate. With a deep breathe the Private calms his nerves. Courage of knowing his fellow scouts to be within an earshot, he approaches the dense tree line and peers through in an attempt to see what could be scurrying about. Striding along the tree line to keep pace with what is causing all the noise. Meldon lifts his military issued shield and forces his way through the many low hanging branches. He tucks his slender frame in behind the wider triangular shield. His progress becomes quicker as the limbs give way to flow around his shoulders. Suddenly, he loses his balance from a low branch, catching his ankle. Stumbling and falling face down, Meldon quickly pushes himself up to his feet to see the back of a black bear walking on its hind legs through the thick pines due north of him. Startled by the sight of the bear—but in no immediate danger—Meldon takes in the beauty of seeing his first bear. As he takes in the sight, he notices something strange about the bear. A sinking feeling sets in as he realizes this black bear doesn’t appear to have legs of its own. Rather, it’s being supported by two thick red armored legs. Crashing back through the low limbs, Meldon frantically runs to find his superiors.

Out of breathe and frantically trying to explain what he saw moments ago. Meldon can’t complete a sentence and is cut off by Sutcliff…

“What are you saying Private Meldon?”

“We can’t understand you?”

Sutcliff glancing at Yardley, “Lieutenant, this boy has frightened himself dumb!”

“Sutcliff!! You’re making this worse. Give Meldon some room.” Yardley approaches the private slowly. Placing a hand on Meldon’s shoulder, in a calm voice looking into his frightened eyes, he asks “Take a deep breathe Meldon. Now tell me exactly what you saw?”

Not leaving any details out. Meldon tells Sutcliff and the Lieutenant everything that has transpired. Even his thoughts during the encounter. Sutcliff laughs multiples times while Meldon recites his feelings. Those laughs become harder while hearing about the crashing and falling through the trees. The fear on Meldon’s face while explaining the encounter with the black bear almost had Sutcliff fall over with laughter. Meanwhile, Yardley’s face never changes. He listens intently to every part and detail the

3 / 9

frightened Private says. Watching his every hand movement and facial expression. Only cutting James story short after hearing about the thick red armored legs.

The description of the red legs abruptly stops Sutcliff’s laughing as Yardley turns to face him. “Are you sure Private Meldon? Is that what you really saw? Sutcliff, unconvinced by the story continues to question the young private.

Yardley in a clear and direct tone says “Sutcliff. You heard him as clear as I did. You can see the fear in his face. I know you remember the first time you laid eyes on one. I assure you Meldon is telling the truth. He saw a Gorka.”

After hearing the name Gorka, Meldon quickly spits out “What now? Do we go back and report?”

Sutcliff begins laughing as Yardley stares down Meldon with a very serious look on his grizzled face to say “We hunt it down and we kill it.”

Walking through the dense forest on the trail of the Gorka, the soldiers easily make their way through the already pushed and broken low laying limbs. Suddenly they all freeze, as Yardley raises his right hand. Bringing it down half way in a fist, he points forward as they all kneel and begin advancing slowly toward a clearing of the forest. Kneeling down between two large outstretched conifers in meter high grass at the edge of the clearing. They lay eyes on four Gorka. Their inside arms extended, hands placed on the shoulder of the one standing in front. Completing a square in a small open plain. Beyond the Gorka, the plain ends as a large cave entrance has been carved into the deep red rocks of the escarpment.

“Why are they standing that way?” A confused James Meldon says in a low voice.

Yardley responds “We believe that’s how they communicate. We don’t have any reports of hearing them talk.”

“So what’s the plan? Sutcliff interjects, as he begins to stand. His eyes fixed on the Gorka, Sutcliff drops his shield to replace it with a short sword on his right hip. With the right hand pulling a long sword from the sheathe on his back.

“like I already said. We kill them all.” Yardley’s voice becomes grim as a look of focus crosses his mustached face. “Men, ready yourselves. And if they try to flee. DO NOT let them reach their cave!”

Walking out of the tall grass and into the clearing of the plain. Lieutenant Yardley is focused with a calm look upon his grizzled face with a long sword and a large triangular shield. Sergeant Sutcliff and Private Meldon are flanking his position as they close the distance to ten meters. The Gorka begin to break from their trance like state and turn to face the soldiers. Holding their ground, two Gorka holding clubs in both hands that resemble branches of trees nearby. One Gorka with a large mace and the last holding a spear. Closing to within five meters now. Meldon can feel his heart pounding in his chest as if it’s trying to escape through his chainmail. Thinking of the stories from his youth of Gorka being three meters tall and two meters wide. As he approaches, seeing now they are barely half that height, he calms his mind. Still, these foes are much thicker than his lean build.

Almost within striking distance Meldon takes a quick look over his right shoulder to his fellow soldiers as a loud “thud” makes his heart skip a beat. A rock ricochets off of Yardley’s wooden shield. With the

4 / 9

breaking of silence, Yardley explodes forward. Coming through the center, Lieutenant Yardley splits the Gorka into two groups. Taking a mace hit to his large shield, he forces that Gorka out wide and singles out a club wielding Gorka. Fainting an overhead swing, Yardley with years of training thrusts straight out to bury the tip of his long sword into the Gorka’s right shoulder. But before he can retreat, the Gorka retaliates by slamming the tree limbed club into the shoulder of his long sword arm. Side stepping with the blow, Yardley’s eyes widen as a wooden spear tip crosses right before his face. Watching the spear retract, Yardley has to grip his shield tight as a blow crashes into his shield to leave his shoulder aching in pain…

Meldon watching Yardley split the Gorka knows he needs to move. Battle has started and this is when he needs to trust the training the EastVale military has given him. Shadowing the Lieutenants movements, Meldon measures up the off balanced Gorka that has been pushed backwards by Yardley’s shield. He scores a hit as the Gorka’s thick naturally armored body absorbs the blow. Pulling out and back, Meldon stabs quickly to puncture through the thick red plate like armor. Unfazed by the privates strike, the mace wielding Gorka slams his weapon heavy into Yardley’s shield…

Parrying a club swing with the short sword in his off hand, the duel wielding Sutcliff pushes a blow wide. He follow’s with a precision thrust of his long sword that pierces through a lower plate of the belly. Stepping back to measure his opponent, Sutcliff side steps to get the Gorka to move then stabs a slow long sword swing to measure the Gorka’s defenses. But before he could lunge in a spear stabs through the chainmail covering his left thigh. Stunned and before he can react a one meter branch lands heavy into his chest knocking him to the ground…

With the mace wielding Gorka’s focus still on the lieutenant, Meldon takes a large stride forward, dropping his weight down with a heavy overhead swing as his long sword slices through the black bear cape. The blow crashes through the thick plates of the right shoulder of the Gorka. Reversing the momentum, Meldon thrusts upward, but the attack is deflected away by the Gorka’s heavily armored right arm. Two quick steps brings the Gorka around to face Meldon as the bear cape falls to the ground. Before the private can step back, a large mace hits him solidly on his right shoulder. Stumbling as he tries not to fall, Meldon sticks the bottom tip of his triangular shield into the ground to help aid him from falling. Quickly pivoting off the shield, the private twists his body around as his feet follow beneath him, all before the Gorka could strike at him again…

Quickly peering over his shield, Yardley notices the mace wielding Gorka turn away from him. So he brings his attention to the club wielding Gorka in front and the Gorka with the spear, that’s just out of range to his right. Pushing the center, Yardley knows he has tactfully split the battlefield and put his men in a better chance to survive. But holding this position, the veteran lieutenant knows it will put him in the most danger. On comes the Gorka with a two handed shoulder high swing of the club, that Yardley absorbs into his shield. He quickly counter thrusts and slices above the Gorka’s large left eye. The slice leaves a stream of blood dripping off of the Gorka’s face. Twisting and pushing the shield out wide, he parries the club and forces the Gorka to pivot. Yardley stabs down and through the exoskeleton armor protecting the Gorka’s thick thigh as a heavy backhand whips Yardley’s head as far to the right as it can go…

Dazed and laying on his back, Sergeant Sutcliff is down but doesn’t panic. Gripping both his swords tight he brings them up to defend his body. Seeing the Gorka with the spear to his left advance forward, he rolls to his right as a club collides in the ground where he was just laying. Quickly sitting up while the

5 / 9

Gorka is pulling the club from the ground, Sutcliff stabs out with his short sword. The thrust pierces through the heavily armored left calf, dropping the Gorka to its knees. The Gorka places its left hand on the ground in an attempt to getup. Sutcliff, from a seated position, leans back lifting his legs and spins on his butt—rotating himself counterclockwise. As Sutcliff’s feet line up with the Gorka, his long sword trails behind in a full swing. The swing slices the Gorka’s forearm cleanly off just below the joint of the elbow. The Gorka writhes in pain and drops to the ground face down. Just as the sergeant tries to catch his breath, a bloody tipped spear thrust comes over the back of the downed Gorka forcing Sutcliff on his back once more…

Happy that the pivot off the shield was successful, Meldon poises himself as the Gorka squares up to him. Realizing he’s too far away now for help, the private takes a deep breath and an unsteady swallow. The Gorka comes in hard with an overhead swing that Meldon steps into to block with his shield. The impact of the blow stops Meldon in his tracks, and doesn’t allow for a counter attack. So the private waits for the Gorka to attack again. This time a waist high swing that stings as it bounces off of Meldon’s shield. A second waist high swing forces Meldon to take a couple steps sideways. Knowing the Gorka has to close the distance after those couple of steps, Meldon feels he has the Gorka’s timing down. Pausing long enough for the two steps, Meldon circles to his right as the anticipated blow barely misses. Thrusting in a two stab combination, low then high, both Meldon’s counterstrikes register hits. Meldon continues to circle, gaining the back of the humanoid. His eyes light up in delight to deliver another well practiced combo, curtesy of his military training…

The young privates delight turns to ash in his stomach in an instant as he notices he’s not the one with the upper hand—it’s the Gorka who’s timed Meldon’s movements. He realizes too late that the Gorka wasn’t spinning with him or trying to keep up. The Gorka had baited the private and spun the opposite direction. Trailing behind the Gorka’s spin, Meldon sees his large mace in a two handed full strength swing. All Meldon can do is hold fast his shield as he watches the mace getting closer…

Spitting out a mouth full of blood, Yardley notices the Gorka doesn’t advance. Just holding the makeshift club, standing very still. Yardley faints in and stops to watch a weak counter swing from the Gorka as it can’t plant to add any strength. Attempting to balance on a single leg, the momentum of the swing causes the Gorka to rotate sideways. Yardley seizes the opportunity. Taking a quick step forward to stab under the left arm and into the unprotected armpit. The lieutenant doesn’t stop pushing his blade until the Gorka’s body goes limp and crumbles to the grassy plain. Yardley retracts his sword from the lifeless body, blood coating the length of the blade. He then turns and runs in one fluid movement…

Seeing his own blood drip from the tip of the wooden spear only millimeters above his face, Sutcliff knows he can’t stay on his back long. His assailant now over top of the face downed Gorka, the Sergeant can’t get to his feet before the Gorka skewers him. As the spear tip closes in, Sutcliff attempts to parry the blow wide of his body with his longsword. Immense pain takes hold of Sutcliff as the spear pierces through his left bicep, pinning his arm to the ground. He screams out in agony as the Gorka grinds the spear head into his arm. Waves of pain shoot throughout the entirety of his body. Gritting through the pain, Sutcliff feels blindly through the grass on his right side, looking for the longsword he dropped seconds ago. Watching the Gorka step over him. Stopping at his waist, they lock eyes. In the gaze, Sutcliff can see the squirming of his own reflection in the deep blackness of the large protruding eyes. Pain begins to subside as the silence becomes the calm. The Gorka pulls the spear from the ground,

6 / 9

releasing his arm to raise it above his chest. No fear crossing the sergeants mind—only clarity—knowing he has lost and this will soon end…

Laying on his back with ringing in his ears from the blow of the mace. Meldon peers through a cracked piece of the shield to see the Gorka bring down another vicious mace swing. The swing splinters further down the center of the shield to the straps of his left arm. Searching to his right for his long sword, Meldon reaches out as a third blow forces his left forearm down, into his chest stealing the air within his lungs. Gasping for oxygen another blow slams down as pain streaks from his left forearm. Bracing his right hand against the back of the shield, yet another blow slams the shield down, forcing his hand and the shield into his forehead. Blinking and squinting, Private Meldon’s vision becomes blurred as streams of blood flow down from a large cut on his forehead. All sound is muffled as pain begins to register throughout his body. No longer able to keep his arms up, Meldon drops the splintered and broken shield to his chest. Watching the Gorka through blood stained eyes creep toward the top part of his body. He struggles with every agonizing breath as any movement strikes pain through his battered body. The thought of crying out crosses his mind but the lack of oxygen in his lungs and the weight of the chainmail and shield bearing down on his chest becomes to much. All he can do is watch the deep red of the semi circular mountain stone, that has been affixed on a shaft, lift high above his face, as the Gorka lines up to end this skirmish between Human and Gorka…

Waiting for the spear head to enter his body, Sutcliff begins to close his eyes. Choosing the blackness of the backs of his eyelids over the face of this Gorka as the last thing he sees before leaving the lands of KorsVale. An extremely loud “smack” forces his eyelids open. Seeing a blur of Lieutenant Yardley pass over him as the Gorka with the spear seems to be affixed to his shield. All sounds and movements are slow to return, until a familiar voice can be heard.

“TRENT, MOVE YOUR ASS!!!” Yardley shouts to his belabored sergeant.

With Yardley’s voice resonating through his mind, Sutcliff is brought back to the sounds of battle all around him. Watching the Gorka slide across the ground with Yardley in quick pursuit. Sutcliff quickly looks to his left, seeing his short sword just beyond the fingers of his left hand. Reaching for it, only pain registers as no movement comes from his left arm. Feeling a strong hand grip completely around the calf of his right leg, Sutcliff looks to his feet as he’s drug a short distance. Looking up, now in front of the one armed Gorka. Pausing for an instant at the sight of the Gorka, Sutcliff watches as it lifts itself to one knee and reaches out for the club. Rolling to his left side the sergeant kicks at the club then scrambles on his belly looking for any of his weapons. Grabbing the short sword in his right hand Sutcliff rolls to his back as the Gorka comes over him with the club outstretched above his head. His eyes widen, and Trent forces himself from the ground to thrust his short sword into the lower abdomen of the Gorka. The thrust stops the attack as the club falls to the ground. With life fading, the Gorka drops to its knees then falls to its face, pinning Sutcliff’s legs under the immense armored weight of its body…

Before the Gorka finishes sliding on its back, Yardley is above the creature swinging down heavily. The Gorka without its spear can only put its hands up in defense. With each hack cracking the thick exoskeleton armor around its forearms. Yardley begins to smile wickedly seeing progress. Splintering large pieces of the natural armor, the lieutenant becomes energized with each swing. Until the blade embeds deep into the forearms, causing the tip of the long sword to break and fly off. Unrelenting in the assault, Yardley pulls back quickly and thrusts under the defending arms to stab into the throat of the Gorka. Burying the broken blade until the tip is stopped by the ground beneath the creature.

7 / 9

Loud thuds ring in the air as Yardley turns to see Meldon struggling to defend as a Gorka pummels his shield. Dropping the shield and leaving the broken sword, Yardley sprints as fast as he can to try and aid his private. Scooping up the spear laying next to Sutcliff, he closes the distance as the Gorka positions itself to lay one last ending blow to Private Meldon…

Slowly raising his right hand out in front of his face, Meldon knows he won’t be able to stop the blow from killing him. But it’s all he can muster to at least try to save his life. In motion to deliver the death blow, the Gorka is suddenly thrust forward as a spear head shoots from its chest. Taking one last gasp the creature stumbles then falls out of Meldon’s sight. Lieutenant Yardley now standing over him, extends an arm. Helping Meldon to his feet and looking him over, Yardley says “You will live. Now help Sutcliff and tend to your wounds. We need to get out of here.”

Yardley immediately begins searching the bodies of the Gorka. With each passing second he becomes more irritated and can be heard mumbling slurs. Searching the last Gorka and the furthest from the group, Yardley pauses staring at the entrance of the cave beyond the plain. Then quickly turns to face his soldiers with a visible strain on his grizzled face. Walking toward the two beaten and battered subordinates, Yardley shakes his head multiple times.

“Meldon. Take your armor off. I have a task for you that I would prefer to do myself, but im gonna need to carry Sutcliff…”

Sutcliff interrupts to say “I can walk Lieutenant. I’m fine.”

In a calm direct voice, Yardley say “Sutcliff. I know you’re a proud and strong man, and those wounds will heal, but this is not the time for you to argue.”

They hastily strip off their chainmail, Meldon assists Sutcliff out of his. Yardley informs Meldon of the task that he needs him to do before departing with Sutcliff positioned on his shoulders.

Using a large pine as cover, Private Meldon can no longer hear his fellow soldiers making their way through the forest to his rear. Peering around a large pine tree to see the blood-soaked battlefield, he replays the carnage in his mind as a shiver runs up his spine. As moments pass without any movement the private begins to think this task pointless, like so many the EastVale military has given him over the past year. Lieutenant Yardley never told him how long to wait, just stay and observe, until heading down to rejoin them at the river. Meldon wonders if they made it back to the lightly beaten trail. “How can Gorka track humans so easily?” He thinks to himself. “Why must I stay behind before rejoining them at Koda River?” None of this would have happened if he would have chosen the path next to the river.

Then, movement from the cave entrance catches Meldon’s eyes. As a Gorka comes running out, spending only a second at the battlefield, then returns to the cave. Seconds pass as it reemerges from the cave to stand and point out into the field, where the battle took place and in perfect line to Meldon—still hiding amongst the trees. He watches curiously as the Gorka stands and holds its arm out. A movement in the shadows beyond the Gorka becomes visible as another with a shield comes into view. As it passes the first Gorka holding its arm out, without breaking stride it reaches out to place its hand on its shoulder and slides down the outstretched arm to end at the fingers. The interaction is odd but vaguely similar to what the soldiers witnessed earlier.

8 / 9

This Gorka seems different from the one it passed as Meldon continues to hold his position. He watches the creature close in to the armor, weapons, and carnage of bodies laid out from the battle. Meldon begins to see obvious differences as this Gorka reaches the first of its kin. The red is much deeper, especially across the armored exoskeleton and face. But what’s truly alarming is the sheer size. This one seems much thicker than the others laying on the ground. As it crosses the battlefield, it stops to pick up the privates broken shield. That’s when Meldon’s heart sinks. His splintered shield half the size of the shield the larger Gorka carries. It would barely be considered a buckler for this creature. Fear begins to spread his body. He sees now that the stories of his youth were true. Watching the Gorka turn to place its back to him, Meldon begins to slowly back peddle deeper into the woods. When the Gorka pulls out what seems to be a large stick with three circular balls. Watching them fall and dangle from three massive chains. That is when Meldon sees the largest flail the young private has ever laid eyes on and turns to flee.

Thrashing in a full sprint through the low brush and limbs of the dense forest floor. Meldon crashes through the wall of tree limbs dividing the forest and a slight clearing of the lightly beaten path. He gains speed as his unencumbered, tall and lean frame is no longer slowed from uneven terrain and low hanging tree limbs. He comes around a bend of the trail to lay eyes on his fellow comrades. Slowing as he passes, taking in deep breathes to gather himself, Meldon keeps pace as he back peddles to see Yardley in full perspiration. He’s baring the weight of a hobbling slow walk of the battered Sutcliff. Gathering himself, Meldon explains what he saw in detail from the moment they left until just now seeing them on the trail. Both his superiors share a chuckle through they’re straining faces as the private stares at them with a look of confusion.

“Well done private” Yardley exclaims, as the laughter subsides to be replaced by a serious look.

Meldon quickly responds “I outran the Gorka sir. There’s no way that Gorka could track me and get to us before we reach the river.”

Yardley completely calm and in a composed voice looks at Meldon to say “this Gorka you saw, is not just a Gorka. It’s a Gorkai…a creature that will hunt us down and kill us. We only killed the basic members of their colony. Now we have an elite soldier that will track us down and easily kill us.”

Meldon begins to say “But I outran it and…”

But Lieutenant Yardley interrupts him to say “Private. It doesn’t matter. What you don’t know is that fighting the Gorka, they leave a scent on you. That the Gorkai can track anywhere. Only the river can save us now.” Private Meldon runs his fingers through his short dark hair, giving his superiors a confused look. Digesting what he was told he’s unsure why they seem so calm with the advent of impending doom.

Coming around the bend and into clear sight, Meldon’s eyes light up as fear strikes him. The Gorkai emerges in a jog, a good distance away, with his massive shield and huge flail. The Gorkai picks up from a jog to a sprint. Unable to say anything Meldon just points. But both Yardley and Sutcliff already know.

“Give me your sword private” Yardley demands as he helps Sutcliff to stand and places a short sword in the only usable hand of the sergeant.

9 / 9

“This is not the time to disobey orders private” Sutcliff says trying to balance mostly on his right leg.

“I have one last order of you private.” Yardley says turning to face the fear stricken young man. Reaching out and sliding the long sword from the sheath that Meldon is holding. “You must run to the river. The current will take you downstream. Don’t leave the river until you either reach our tower or you no longer see the Gorkai.” With Private Meldon staring at him wide eyed and frozen, he yells “GO NOW!!!”

Meldon blinks twice as he watches Yardley walk toward the rushing Gorkai with a long sword in each hand. As an unstable Sutcliff readies himself with a short sword. The private then turns and runs as commanded.

Hearing the river, Meldon slows to a stop. Taking deep breaths through his aching lungs, the private tries to compose himself. But every breath brings pain to his battered body. Looking down the path from which he came, he sees nothing. Not knowing if his superiors are alive or dead, he begins to pace. Finally in an act of defiance, Meldon throws his arms up as extreme pain, then numbness, consumes his left arm. Forgetting about the limb during the run, the pain reminds him now. Holding the arm close to his body Meldon begins to examine the limb. Starting with the fingers, then the wrist, the private has soreness but no apparent breaks. But unable to lift the elbow above the shoulder, Meldon believes it to be dislocated. Removing his belt to use as a sling, the private begins to back track in hopes of finding his fellow soldiers.

Surprised and frozen in fear at the sight of the Gorkai in a full sprint coming at him. Running crosses his mind but Meldon’s body won’t listen. Unable to move, the Gorkai closes in. As panic replaces fear, Meldon screams out “EEEAAAHHH.” The screaming brings life back to his legs as the private turns and runs. Seeing the river and the fork of the path, gives Meldon hope that he may survive this day. Through his own panting breaths the private can hear the Gorkai’s heavy steps close behind. Knowing now that his comrades are dead, Meldon must survive and report what has transpired this day. Coming to the high banks of the Koda River, Meldon in a full sprint, launches himself into the air and down into the quick flowing waters. Being tossed and spun in the unrelenting flow, Meldon struggles to keep his head above the surface. Wading with one arm down the river, white caps splashing into his face, Private Meldon gasps for air while looking to the banks for any signs that the Gorkai could still be stalking him.

About the Author

William Jackson is a writer, a Dungeons and Dragons enthusiast, lumberjack, gym goer and Judoka. He’s an old school gamer, lover of medieval history and ancient mythology, and enjoys high-fantasy storytelling.

About the Artist

Deric Albright is an illustrator, web designer, and Air Force Veteran. He enjoys drawing in a dark fantasy art style. He gains inspiration from artists like Frank Frazetta, Mike Ploog, Jim Lee, and many others.

[libraribear]

Dadd Cadash: A Prologue

I wrote a prologue for my Dragon Age: Inquisition character while trying to capture his voice. I’m not quite sure I succeeded, and it’s certainly rough around the edges as I haven’t written any fiction in a LONG time. Still, I can only let this one percolate and tweak it for so long.

It was midnight, and the guards were out in the city - one of many that dotted Thedas. Most of the city was already asleep, but one storefront was only now closing up shop. Locals referred to it as Jorgen’s Stop, but everyone who worked there referred to it as “the Castle”. Had anyone been paying close attention, they would have seen a peculiar trio of customers enter shortly before closing time. Two could only be dwarves, given their short, thick profiles, and the third would have been unrecognizable due to the black hood covering his eyes - but was probably a human, or perhaps an elf. The third figure was being supported by the other two.

It was local tradition that any building where the Carta primarily conducted business was referred to as the “Castle” or “Stronghold” or “Fortress”, essentially any word other than “run-down, nondescript building”, which was normal type of place the organization frequented on the surface.

At the entrance, a kind-looking, unscarred dwarven merchant was closing up shop for the night. It had been a slow day, with only a few general goods, one well-sharpened dagger, and two or three silk-lined burlap bags sold. The bags in particular were a specialty of the seamstresses that provisioned this particular shop - their inner linings had a peculiar way of securing Lyrium Dust As the storekeep swept the last of the day’s grime back onto the street, he peeked out the window, as he would normally do at least six times each day. He looked left, looked right, and, satisfied the street was clear, rapped his left heel against a very particular spot on the floor three times in quick succession.

The store was closing, but with the night’s patrol having gone past the store and not due back for at least four hours, it was time for real work to begin.

---

Following the signal, the two dwarves had gone to work in a small, torchlit room which was three floors deep in the earth. The only entry was a well-hidden trap door in one corner of the room’s ceiling. The room was sparsely furnished, save for a now three-legged chair, a rough-hewn table, and a foul-smelling elf. The elf was bound to the chair by the legs, waist, and neck, his hands shackled to the table. His unusually fine (for an elf) clothing was marred by blood, dirt, and sweat, and normally fine, shoulder length golden locks were plastered to the side of his face. The first dwarf, the one who had been carefully giving the elf most of the night’s attention, wrinkled his nose at the stench. The second had heard, seen, and smelled it all before, though he couldn’t help but chuckle slightly at his companion’s misgivings.

They had been able to mask the screams so deep beneath the earth, but they had been unable to do anything about the smell after the elf had wet himself with fear. The unfortunate soul had passed out, not in blissful slumber but in the grim sleep that one turns to only when their body can take no more pain - though repeated blows from a chair leg had contributed. If the elf awoke, he would have a tremendous headache.

The two dwarves observed the elf, one leaning forward and admiring his handiwork, the other with his arms crossed, guarding the door. The first dwarf had been working on the elf for hours, cajoling, encouraging, leering at, threatening, and finally beating him, but was now enjoying the silence. It had been a long night, and though they had not let on during the interrogation, the man’s will had indeed been strong in spite of his fear.

The first dwarf was exhausted - the second dwarf merely tired of waiting and watching. For a few more moments they stood, listening to the ragged gasps of the unconscious elf. There would be no rest until they had made their report to their superiors - but their superiors didn’t need to know the elf had passed out - yet.

The first dwarf, the one closest to the elf, had braided blonde-hair, fair skin, and deep-set green eyes that shined with his youth. He also possessed the beginning of what might one day be a grand beard. His fine black leathers were stained with a bit of the elf’s blood, but he leaned forward anyway, admiring his handiwork. If he had been afraid to get dirty, he would have found a longer club than the chair-leg he now held in his left hand - or perhaps another profession.

Though the welts on the sides of the elf’s head were painful, the youth was particularly proud of the elf’s hands, which were now a nasty combination of black, blue, and green, the majority of the unfortunate being’s slender fingers pointing in directions that nature had clearly not intended. It was the youth’s first interrogation.

“Virgin no more.” The youth murmured, trembling. He looked back at his dwarven counterpart, searching for approval, but the second dwarf’s face was a mask of calm. He turned back to the elf. “Didn’t I tell you I’d beat you bloody with part of your own chair if you didn’t tell me what we wanted to hear?”

Behind the youth, the second dwarf’s face gave way to an exaggerated roll of his blue-grey eyes. This dwarf was older, his face bearing the scars and marks of over three hard decades on the surface. Close-cut, dark brown hair made a ring around his otherwise bald head, before giving way to the full beard and mustache that occupied the lower half of his face. His left eye, though still quite functional, was marred by a deep, reddish-brown scar above and below his eye, and a faint tattoo of blocks and bars rested on his right cheek. If one was appropriately versed in the many markings of the many different guilds of the Carta, one would have recognized that this met he was an experienced hand in his guildhall, which belonged to a former thug named Sordri the Savage.

Unlike his youthful accomplice, the second dwarf’s leather was unmarred, and he was clad chiefly in an earth-brown cloak and loose-fitting, dark green breeches that had seen their share of the weather. Two daggers rested within easy reach at his sides, though several more were secured in the folds of his baggy sleeves, the pockets of his cloak, in tall boots that rose above his ankles, and affixed to his wrist in small sheaths.

He rested the palm of his left hand on his temple, bored with the whole affair, and traced a small scar that rested in front of his left ear. In his youth, it had served as a reminder of the perils of opening his mouth, but in his role as supervisor of his younger accomplice, he felt free to do so. Age and rank carried their privileges, after all.

“You SURE told him, Rinn. Breaking his fingers won’t get us paid.”

Rinn turned to him and grinned. “C’mon, Dadd. The boss won’t like it if you openly question his methods and motives. He always reminded me that physicality might be the best way to get someone to talk. How else do you think he got the name ‘the Savage?’”

“Might. In this case it didn’t. Remember he keeps me around ‘cause I’m the only one with the stones to question standard motives or methods, lad.” Dadd shrugged. “That, and because I’m good at keeping an eye on whelps like you. Physicality has its place, but you didn’t apply it correctly. Besides, he and I came up with ‘the Savage’ together over brews. Sordri Ternadirican was too much of a mouthful, but he didn’t want to be confused with that Sordri Aeducan fellow.”

Now the younger dwarf’s eyes rolled. “As if I needed keeping an eye on, ‘specially from an oldie like you. You saw - I did everything right, just like the boss taught. I tried it nice, I tried it mean, I went through the usual threats - even invented a few. Nothing could get him to talk.”

Dadd ignored the age crack. In reality, he was only ten years the youth’s senior - but in what was a very dangerous profession serving the Carta, ten years service might well have been forty.

“That’s because you didn’t give him enough time to think about whether or not his hidden coins were worth the array of promises you offered him. You just stacked them all on top of each other, one after the other.” Dadd explained. “When you start getting physical, you need to give him time to consider whether or not the pain he’s feeling is worth his information…  you also need to give him time to stop screaming before you break another finger, or you won’t get anything out of him. Treat your interrogations the way you’d treat a fine lover… Use patience. Savor these kinds of things… especially when you’re trying to accomplish a goal.”

“Didn’t need no savoring to accomplish my last few goals…” Rinn muttered.

Dadd didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah well, when you’re patient they might let you pay less to have your goals met.” He winked. “Don’t forget this lesson. Interrogation is about anticipation… and patience.”

“But boss wanted it done by midnight!” Rinn retorted, stubbornly eager to get the better of the discussion.

“Yeah, but you got yourself wrapped up on midnight, and that wasn’t the most important part of his statement. The most important part was that…” Dadd’s voice trailed off, and he crossed his arms while staring at Rinn expectantly.

The lad groaned. “...that Boss wanted it done. Maker’s arse.”

For the first time that night, Dadd allowed himself a smile. “Let’s not bring the Maker into your screw-up. These things happen, especially to greenies like you. Let’s go fetch some healing potions and we’ll let you try again tomorrow night - though those healing potions are coming out of your take today, you know.”

At the mention of his take, Rinn’s eyes darkened dangerously.

“Idiot.” Dadd thought to himself. “You forgot this one is all about the money.”

“My cut!” He hissed. “You greedy arse! The Boss said this interrogation was both of ours! IT should come out of your share as much as it should mine! Why, I oughta-” The younger dwarf brandished his club, and for a moment, Dadd admired the speed with which Rinn had snatched up his weapon as the youth stepped menacingly toward him. It reminded Dadd why he was so enamored with the kid’s potential in the first place - if only something could be done about that temper.

“Wait!” Dadd barked sharply. To his great surprise, Rinn did, a fact for which the elder dwarf was grateful - because he hated killing stupid when it had potential to grow. “Did I tell you to break his fingers?”

“No, but you could have stopped me! You should still pay some of your share as well.” Rinn took another step forward. Acting as if he was taken aback, Dadd took a step back and casually hooked his thumbs through his belt, though in the same motion he also disengaged the clasps on his wrist sheathes.

“We’ll have to work on those skills of observation too.” Dadd mentally noted. His voice trembled slightly, though it was still an act. “You feel really strongly about this, don’t you?”

“I do!” Rinn growled.

“Well, I-,” Dadd paused, and looked past the angry dwarf. “Oh look, the elf’s awake.”

“He is?” Rinn spun around, but found only confusion. The elf remained slumped over on the table, still unconscious.

Dadd’s first thrown dagger took Rinn in the right palm, and the club clattered to the floor. His second pinned Rinn’s left foot to the earth, and the youth’s voice, so menacing before, became a high-pitched shriek. Dadd lunged forward and stepped on the youth’s right foot, so that the youth’s only choice was to attempt to throw Dadd aside or tear his left foot away from the dagger. He did try just that, but the older dwarf grabbed the younger’s wrists. He leaned in close enough for Rinn to smell the ale and onions they’d had a scant few hours before on his breath.

Dadd’s voice was low and even, nearly a whisper. “Rule one. Never take your eyes off someone you’re threatening if they can still act.”

He ground his boot-heel into Rinn’s foot, eliciting a gasp of pain. He maintained the pressure as tears begain to rim Rinn’s eyes, then lifted his foot slightly and let go of Rinn’s bad hand.

“Get three potions, two for the elf, one for you.” He produced a few gold coins and pressed them into Rinn’s good hand. “Your take won’t cover them, so have some of mine. We’ll try again with this elf tomorrow, and if you ever threaten your superior again, I won’t be aiming for your hands or your feet. Got it?”

Rinn nodded meekly.

“Good. Now, hold still.” Dadd bent and retrieved his second dagger from Rinn’s foot, but he kept his eyes locked on Rinn’s the whole time. He was sorely tempted to give it an additional twist, but decided that the point had been made. Briefly, he regarded his first dagger, as Rinn tried to staunch the bleeding. He grabbed Rinn’s wrist. “Here. Hurts less if you don’t look at it.” He removed the dagger and took a few steps backward, continuing to stare at Rinn.

“Now, go get your potion and get yourself cleaned up.” He stepped aside, and Rinn began to hobble out of the room, clutching at his wounded limb.

“One more thing!” Dadd barked, and Rinn froze in the doorway. The elder dwarf took two confident steps forward and used the edge of Rinn’s black cloak to wipe the blood off his daggers. “These black clothes won’t do. Find something more casual. If you see someone dressed all in black on the city streets, you can’t help but look at him - and the richest purses to cut walk the streets during the day.” He clapped the youth on the shoulder, hard. “Now go.”

Rinn limped the rest of the way out of the room, and Dadd replaced his daggers in their sheathes. The youth glanced back at him once, as Dadd bore a hole through him with his gaze. When Rinn was finally out of his vision, Dadd brought one scarred hand to squeeze at his eyes, before taking a breath to calm himself. Hopefully this one would live long enough not to resent him for it, but to realize how swiftly he would have been killed had he drawn his weapon on anyone else.

A dwarf could dream. Steadying himself, Dadd left to give his report to their master. He had defused one situation. Now it would be time to defuse another. He hoped he wouldn’t need to draw his daggers to defuse this one, because if he did, he would probably be dead. He left to seek an audience with the Castle’s grandmaster.

---

Grandmaster Sordi wasn’t mad - Grandmaster Sordri was furious. Dadd had thought it might be so. He had told him about the failed interrogation, but not any of the other parts.

“Rinnium is a failure. It’s clear to me- why isn’t it clear to you, Daddarin? I told you that we needed an example, and to kill him if he didn’t get the elf to talk - this is his fourth foul-up.” He steepled his two bejeweled hands together. “Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t kill him in front of all the other initiates tomorrow.”

Dadd put his hands on his hips, unswayed by his superior’s bluster. “I’ll give you three. One, the elf was weaker than we expected - you can’t pin that on young Rinn. If he were made of hardier stuff, he’d have stayed conscious long enough to tell us what we needed to know. Two, you and I both know we lost eight to the guard in that last Lyrium raid - you can GKKKKHHHH,” Dadd paused, drawing a finger across his neck for emphasis, “the lad if you want, but that still leaves you three in the hole for the next shipment.” He paused, letting his master wait expectantly for the third reason. The moment was necessary, Dadd reminded himself. Give him time to think through his rage for a moment and he would see that everything that Dadd had said was true.

“I thought you said there were three.”

Dadd allowed himself a small smile. “You’re right, I did. The lad offered up his share of the day’s take because he didn’t get the elf under control as quickly as you’d asked him to.” He had removed the pouch from Rinn’s belt when he had cleaned his daggers, and he tossed the pouch, which jingled as it whistled through the air, into Sordri’s lap. Sordri paused, picked up the pouch, and shook it slightly next to his ear. If there was anything that could get him to stop and think, it was the prospect of more riches.

“Thirty gold coins.” The grandmaster’s ear was impeccable. “Not an insignificant amount. He really offered up all this?”

“Sure did, boss.” Dadd lied smoothly. ”You’re focused on his foul-ups, but I’m focused on his talent. And I tell you true, he’s got the swiftest fingers and the quietest feet this side of Thedas. You keep him alive and let him, er, marinate a bit more, and you’ll have one of the finest thieves ever. He just needs experience.”

“Experience.” Sordri scowled. “Maybe all I’ll get is another talented thief that questions my orders and talks back to me. Is that what I really want?”

Dadd grinned. “I don’t know who you could possibly be talking about, but if I may - a question of my own. Do you like money?”

“Of course I like money.”

It was Dadd’s most common defense, and it always swayed his master because his master could look at the books and see very clearly how much more money had crossed his operation since Dadd had joined the organization.

“Then let him live. You’re pissing away money if you kill him just because you’re impatient or because he’s dumb. Piss too much of it away and you’ll be back down here with me living with the dogs instead of encrusting yourself with jewels.

Sordri let out a bored sigh, and his furious expression all but vanished. “Maybe I miss living down there with you and the rest of the dogs. I was Sordri the Savage, then. Clawing my way to the top.”

“Beating elves, dodging guards, extorting coin, handling lyrium, parrying halberds with knives, killing those in front of you to get to the top - what’s not to miss?” Dadd murmured. He could have gone on, but any more and he might just have revealed how truly dissatisfied he was with his current life, one which saw him doing most of those things on a weekly basis - when he wasn’t beating up on the trainees, of course.

Sordri remained silent.

“Thought so.” Dadd bowed slightly. “I’m going to go check on the lad and get to wor-”

“No. Wait here, Daddarin Cadash. Now I have three things to tell you.”

Dadd had been turning to leave, but stiffened as he realized Sordri had used his full name. In ten years of serving as Sordri’s second, his defense had never failed, and for a moment he wondered if it had. Some of the younger dwarves had long spread rumors that Sordri only used your full name when he was about to kill you, and though Dadd had seen Sordri kill plenty of people without addressing them by their full name, this was nonetheless a unique occasion. He turned his blue-grey eyes on the jewel-covered dwarf.

“First- if anyone below you ever draws their weapon on you again, you are to kill them. We cannot afford even a hint of disloyalty. Do you understand?”

“How did you-”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I could hear his scream four floors away. You seldom raise your daggers unless it is in self-defense or a paid assassination. When a whimpering dwarf walked past my door still wringing his wounded hand, it was easy to guess what had happened.” He paused, giving Dadd a mocking grin.

“Do you understand?” This time, the question had little to do with the understanding of the first rule, and Daddarin knew it.

“Yes, guildmaster.” He murmured, feeling like a green thief again.

“The second thing relates to the first - don’t disobey me again. I know how much you value flexibility, but it pays to be inflexible in some things.”

Dadd remained expressionless, but inside he was furious. Sordri’s inflexibilities usually led to needless loss of life, or wastes of resources.

“The third thing. Your numbers were wrong. If you or I were to kill that lad, we wouldn’t have been down three hands, we’d be down four.”

“Four? I don’t understand.” Dadd narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Did we lose another on the raid, or did someone defect?”

“Four. I need you to undertake a very special mission for me, Daddarin. You’re the only one I can trust with this and, truth be told, perhaps the only one we have with the experience to pull this off. Sending you away in light of this incident will do nicely - it’ll keep people from asking questions. Go get what you need for a long journey, and pack plenty of parchment and quills to send messages - not to mention your cipher.”

“Don’t need no cipher. I have our codes memorized. But if you want me to write in codes, then that can only mean...”

“Yes. You’re going to be a spy. One of the other cells requested the most reliable man I knew, and believe it or not, that’s you. So go pack and I’ll tell you the rest of the details tomorrow before you leave.”

“Do I even get a hint?” It was this kind of backtalk that had originally led to Sordri nearly taking his eye several years ago, but that was before his loyalty had been unquestioned.

Sordri’s lips curled wickedly. “Let’s just say you’re going to find religion.”

END

[jawllines]

OKAY SO HERE IS WHAT I HAVE OF THE ONE SHOT I THINK IT WAS GOING TO BE FRIENDS TO LOVES (IF THE SAVE NAME FRIENDKN SOT LVO WAS ANYTHING TO GO BY) I JUST NEED TO KNOW WHERE YALL WOULD WANT ME TO TAKE IT :) 

i.

Y/N was annoyed.

Her feet ached, the pinafore dress she wore had kept levitating with the wind and threatening everyone a glimpse of her panties, the song blaring through the speakers was some weird mix between EDM and Indie music, and she was surrounded by loads of inebriated people, when she herself couldn't justify getting drunk tonight. There was a time and a place to let yourself go, she thinks, and at a makeshift club in New York in someone's backyard you aren't familiar with in a more weird part of town, was not one of them. Especially when entrusted with an affable (and indeed sozzled) pop star, who was feeling an adrenalin high from performing and being the center of attention in the room.

The leathery bar seats are sticking to her sweaty thighs while she sips from a glass of iced tap water, even though Harry had given her free range on his card, she couldn't convince herself four dollars for a water bottle was worth it. Mosquitos were trying to test her as she batted them away, wondering why rich people wouldn't just rent out a club instead of using their backyard. Admittedly it was nifty -- with it's own bar, a pool with crystal blue water, and it's own class A chef and a cute little snack line, accompanied with a DJ and an overly large sound system -- but with all that money spent, they couldn't invest in netting to keep the bugs out? She already feels a bump on her thigh that'll itch to no end which is making her resent the new curl sprouting boy floating his way through the crowd that she was watching over, somewhat closely.

Jeff hadn't told her to stalk him or anything -- her and Harry were friends, so he just asked if she would tag along with him while Jeff went back to his hotel. Asking Y/N to tag along was his subtle way of requesting that she keep an eye on him, mostly, because Harry is smart -- definitely a genius when it comes to public appearances, but drunk Harry has less inhibitions and is more likely to make a spectacle of himself. While sober Harry tries his best to carefully think out his words before saying them, Harry with some vodka cranberries in him will start openly discussing album related topics (more specifically, who each song is about) and if he's really gone for, the size of his prick.

Trust her, she's all for helping Jeff out -- once he'd brought her a burger while she was left waiting for Harry in the lobby of Columbia Records office, enduring meeting after meeting just so they could hang out like he'd promised, and ever since she's felt in debt to him. It's just out of all nights to need her, he had to pick the muggiest, grossest, most aggravating night of all. And don't get her wrong, she was still jittery and happy from Harry's performances and how well he did and how lovely everything sounds live, but that's something she wants to share with Harry. Not with Harry and a group of however many other's he's entertaining at the moment. . . just Harry.

So she's reserving her encouragements and awe for the car ride home, to tell him just how fantastic it was and how much she loves his songs, but in that time she's become increasingly pissy. A grumpy feeling settling in her stomach as she watches him swing his arm around two girls while he leans forward, speaking to another group. It was a friendly gesture, sure, but she looks away before she thinks too hard about it.

Y/N and Harry met a little while back, when she'd accidentally opened her umbrella in front of him and it shot out with the force of a bullet, hitting him in the gut. She'd panicked, feeling terrible and a little star struck she stumbled over her words and ended up telling him to stay put before scampering away, buying him a bag of peas and a candy bar as her apology. It was night time so there wasn't a lot of hustle and bustle, and after he'd reassured her it was alright, they started talking some. Casual as Harry is, he made it seem like they were old pals and like her umbrella didn't just slam him in the stomach.

And from there on, somehow they'd managed to become what they are now. Y/N would dare say Harry is one of her best friends and she thinks he'd say the same, given he takes her on trips with him all the time. Like this one, right now. It's obvious Jeff believes she's one of his besties too, if he's willing to leave a drunk Harry into her hands for the night.

They hadn't said she needed to be antisocial when it comes down to it, but Y/N keeps to herself anyways, only speaking when spoken to. It's not like she wasn't friendly or up for a chat, it's just she had a throbbing headache and didn't feel like being questioned why she was here. For the most part her and Harry stay out of magazines, besides once when they had mistaken her for his girlfriend, but she squashed that real quick. Tweeted out about why every girl he's seen with has to be fucking him, and while his bosses hadn't been happy with her choice words, it did dismiss said rumors for the time being. So unless they'd seen all that, nobody knows who she is and she's fine with it. Sinks into the bar like a chameleon, having been waiting patiently for Harry to finish.  

Though her patience is ephemeral about now; four hours in and he didn't seem even remotely finished, so she spins on the bar stool and starts counting back from 1000, since her phone's battery was down to 30% and she was worried it'd run out before the night was through. It's apparent, however, that she must've seemed bored out of her wits (which she was) as when she's spun towards the crowd again a boy is standing, waiting for her. Y/N squeaked when her foot caught onto his leg and it slung her to a stop, and he reaches out to keep her from slipping off the seat (though she doesn't think her thighs would allow it at this point, they'd been basically adhered to the leather), "Whoa there," he laughs, "Sorry to startle you, just thought you looked a little lonely o'er here. Care if I sit?"

"Be my guest," she tells him, gesturing towards the empty stool besides her, "Y'know I was starting to think I looked like a decrepit witch or something to ward people off, that seats been empty since I sat down."

The boy is -- well, fuck he's pretty cute. Standard blond with blue eyes and a friendly smile, holding a beer by the nozzle, and his fingers are nice. . .Y/N thinks you can tell a lot about a boy by his fingers, "Nah, people just don't wanna be shown up by the prettiest one here."

She snorts, grinning wide, "You're cheesy."

"Yeah, I didn't realize how it sounded till I said it," he laughs at himself, leaning his elbow up against the bar, "It was either that or "tell me what a beautiful girl like you is doing here all alone?" and even I know that's too much."

Scrunching her face up, she chokes a little on a laugh, "You're right, too much, I much preferred the first. Had you said the second I would've wondered if we were in an early 2000s movie or not."

"Shit, well you're about to feel like that for the next few minutes, 'cos early 2000s movies are where I get all my flirting tips." He holds out his hand, "I'm Johnathan."

With a smile, she begins to lift up her hand up to him, opening her mouth to respond but a very loud call of, "Y/N!" makes her jump out of her skin. In the following moments she feels a familiar hand come in contact with her back, sliding over to her shoulder, digging little wrinkles into the fabric, the entirety of their weight being leant into her body until she's leaning against the bar, the hand she was reaching out for Johnathan now slipping around what she knows his Harry's waist to keep him stood up, "Where've ya been all night, Love? Missed you."

"Been here, Dummy," she shifts beneath his weight, keeping a wary eye on the drink he's sloshing around, "Where I told you I'd be."

It seems Harry hadn't cared much for her response, as he'd turned his head towards Johnathan a bit more, with his arm still hooked around her shoulders and it feels a little possessive, almost. Even more so when his fingers dig in a little tighter, "Oi Johnny, Krystal is lookin' for yeh 'round back. Something about your dinner reservations tomorrow night."

A sly jab, but a jab nonetheless as Y/N realizes that the boy she almost allowed herself to woo over had the potential of being a cheating asshole, but before she has time to comment on it, Johnathan is slipping from the stool in defeat and slinking his way through the crowd of people. Harry doesn't let up his hold on her, instead giving a sure tug that would tear her away from the chair and makes her stumble forward, more into his body. Her nose is pressed up to his skin, where the buttons didn't meet on his shirt, and she gasps trying to pull back but he keeps her nestled close as he repositions the both of them. Harry smells like sweat and the faint remnants of Burberry cologne, and it tickles her nose.

"Ready to leave?" Y/N asks him, feeling a little low. The one boy who'd finally started showing interest in her was with someone else and she was almost stupid enough to fall for his cheesy attempt at reeling her in.

Harry nods, "Been ready to leave for ages," he groans, knuckling at his eyes, "Could sleep for just 'bout 7 years, I think. Be up for a cuddle jus' you n' me?"

"Only if you promise not to drool on me again."

"No, no, no, no," Harry starts up, slinking back into the mass of people to say his goodbyes, "Yeh've gon' n' drooled on me thousands of times and I don' say anythin'! I drool once, and i's a catastrophe innit?"

Y/N only laughs, pivoting on her heel to skip away and around the tiki poles to get out front towards where his driver waits for them. Richie always stays and waits -- entertains himself with his tablet and movies while Harry does his thing. He was a short man, bald with a graying mustache, skin decorated with laugh lines. A riot when he wants to be, if you get him going, so it's easy to see why Harry keeps him around.

"You two finished?" He asks her as she crawls into the back of the car, shuffling in by the window.

"I've been finished since we walked out of the car," she admits, "Harry'll be around in a minute. Are you watching The Proposal? Ryan Gosling is really cute in that movie."

Richie laughs, "Y'know m'a sucker for romantic comedies Y/N, I've got me a collection of them. My wife and I pick one every Tuesday night to watch, granted Harry isn't making me drive him 'round town."

"That's precious." She tells him, as Harry slides his leg in first, calls something back to whoever had trailed out after him before slipping the rest of the way in, "Next Tuesday watch Sixteen Candles, that's a cute one."

His answer is lost in Harry settling himself into his side, buckling up and shuffling around trying to get himself comfortable and folding his suit jacket up.  A hefty sigh as he relaxes into the leather seating, leaning his head back and letting it lull around to face towards Y/N, eyes looking at her in a drunk moony way, "Coming to stay with me for the night, aren't you?"

"Don't have much of a choice in that matter, do I?" She teases and Harry pouts, reaching out for the hand that lay at her side. His spidery long fingers tangling up in hers easily, giving her a squeeze, "Have you still got banana nut muffins or did you eat the last one this morning?"

Harry hums his response, beginning to fiddle with the ring on her index finger, "Course, I know how much y'like them. Wouldn't eat the last one." His eyes flicker shut, breathing out a long, heavy sigh before relishing in the calm and quiet of the car. No wonder he's so exhausted, not only having just preformed solo (he's got no breaks now, to let the others go off while he needs a breather) or the fact he'd been stretched taut as a bow throughout the week making appearances, but now -- finally, when it's just him and her, he can relax. There's nobody surrounding him like he's an exhibit and he's not answering questions left and right about his album, and he doesn't have to think of responses too hard. Just sits silently with Y/N, who stares out the window, letting the murmur of the engine lull her own mind to ease.

The ride isn't a long one, but Harry's held onto her hand for the majority of it. There's something about getting a few drinks in him that makes him clingier than usual -- more touchy feely than he was normally. Y/N can't say she hated it. . .if she's honest, because his hands are big and warm and smell like cinnamon hand soap a lot of the time, which she finds nice. She'd bet if she lifted his hand to her face in the car it'd smell like it -- he carries around a few bottles during trips, since it's his favorite.

"Tired, Pet?" He asks her as they turn onto the street of his New York home, finally letting his fingers slip from hers as he gathers up the suit of his jacket. Y/N nods slowly, mustering up a big yawn as if to punctuate it. "No sleepin' on the couch t'night. G'na mess up your back if you keep on doin' that."

"Okay, Mom, I'll sleep on the floor." Y/N teases.

"No," Harry answers seriously, "You'll sleep with me."

She scoffs, "Last time I slept in a bed with you, you kept tooting all night Harry, dunno' if I want to experience that again."

"Now, hold on a mo'! To be fair we had fajitas, those make me gassy and you know tha'." He grumbles, "'sides, m'not even gassy t'night so it should be fine. Just washed my sheets with that island breeze stuff -- smells lovely, think you'll like it."

The first few steps into Harry's home consists of the usual; both of them kick off their shoes with their hand against the wall keeping them steady, Y/N fixes the picture that is slightly askew near his door while Harry treks to the living room, sitting with a huff on the couch and tossing his suit jacket to the side. Y/N goes to get them water from his fridge, and while she's at it, grabs two paracetamol for the headache creeping around the edges of her brain. A click signifies Harry is turning on the TV and a heavy sigh means his hand is on his tummy as he sinks into the couch. Both of them yawn -- Harry first, loud and borderline obnoxious before she catches it, and her mouth opens wide around one herself.

She plops down besides him, holding out the cold sweating water bottle out until his fingers wrap around the base of it. Naturally she sinks deeper into the couch along side him, noting the warmth emanating from his body which comforts her greatly. Y/N spends a majority of nights cold and lonely, not really by any choice of her own, and it stinks because she very much is fueled by touch. Loves being within close proximity of someone whose company she enjoys, which is why Y/N is down for a cuddle from boys and girls alike. This also means a lot of nose go's at movie nights of who is going to let her flop on top of them and probably fall asleep.

Harry isn't much like her in that sense -- sometimes he is, like right now, as he throws his arm over her shoulder and draws her down nearer to him. When she gets the most Harry cuddles is when he's been gone for a little while, such as when he'd gotten back from filming Dunkirk, the first time they'd seen each other Y/N was smothered in hugs and premeditated snuggles. Could barely sit down next to him without gentle fingers encircling around her bicep and giving her tug over into him.

Y/N blames moves like that for giving her false premonition of his feelings for her.

She tries not to think about it too often -- when she'd overheard him speaking with Niall a while on back. It makes her stomach get all squidgy and sad, her heartbeat falter into a sad metronome, and her eyes sting with tears she's warded away time and time again. All she'd been doing was coming to get Golden Grahams after she'd woken up that morning, having fallen asleep on Harry's couch in the midst of British Bake Off and a leisure game of Scrabble they had kept leaving and coming back to. His floorboards aren't creaky so she's able to sneak up on him easier, walking light as a feather, though that wasn't her intent at the time.

"Yeah, I'll be 'round after I drop Y/N off home." He'd said, clinking dishes into the sink. Despite Niall's often loud voice she couldn't hear him on the other side, only Harry chuckling, "No we aren't dating -- I could never be with her." And she should have left then. . .should've slunk back into his living room, but of course she only tuned her ears in further, because through a laugh he grumbles, "Yeah, dunno it wouldn't work out -- not my typ --"

She busted in after that just to spook him a little bit, and also so she wouldn't have to hear him finish his sentence.

It fucked her up for some time after that, and all hope that there was something beyond friendship between them had withered away like petals in autumn. Y/N avoided Harry for a good period of time, just so she could wait until it didn't sting so badly, but eventually Harry just showed up at her house anyways with a movie and a bag of food. "Haven't seen you in a hot minute, Pet." He told her before pushing his way in, because boundaries didn't exist really, between the two.

That'd been a little over a year ago, around the time he'd been gallivanting on a yacht with a model, which was another jab at Y/N's self esteem but she'd persevered through it. Pushed it to the back of her mind -- not the healthiest route, but a route that keeps her sane -- and pretends like nothing is wrong. Like each time he does something remotely couple-like doesn't reach into her emotions and try to make them quake beneath the pressure.

"Why're you thinkin' so hard, Pet?" Harry draws her from the small reverie she'd been in, back to the present, where he turns his face into the side of her head and pressing a kiss at her temple, "Don' like when ya get in your head. Get all distant and whatnot."

"Sorry," Y/N shuffles slightly in his hold, blinking a few times to drag herself back into reality, "M'fine."

Harry pouts at her, "Don' believe that for a second." He tells her, but when she offers no more information, he makes incorrect inferences instead, "That guy at the party -- Johnathan -- he was. . .well, he's a bit of a player. Hope you don't think I was trying to sabotage you t'night."

Y/N shakes her head, because that's what she wishes he'd been trying to do, mustering the biggest smile she's able to, "That's not it, promise. Just worried about a Chem test, is all."  

Eying her for a moment, Harry looks as if he might drop the subject all together, but if only life could be so easy. Instead of turning back to the TV, he pokes at her side -- grinning wide when she squeaks and tries shuffling away, though he only tightens his grip. Fingertips digging dips into the warm skin of her arm, other hand darting back for a spot just between her belly and hip that tears a giggle from her throat, "Harry, no!"

"Oh, are you ticklish?" He teases like he doesn't already know, "So when I wiggle my fingers right here. . ." he starts up closer to her armpits and Y/N is struggling to get from beneath him, but Harry is strong and unmoving, and she cackles out a cry, "Tha's the ticket!"

"I'll pee!" She threatens, "Harry, I swear t'god I'll piss all over your nice couch if you don' --"

"And how do we know I'm not into that?" He continues, gleaming and she chokes on another laugh before thrusting her hips up and trying to throw him off her, which is to no use. Once again, he's relentless, as he always is when it comes to a tickle fight. There's something about tickling Y/N that really just got Harry's rocks off, she supposes, as when he starts he won't stop for a while, and the amount of pure joy he gets from seeing her squirm and giggle is borderline sadistic. She thinks Harry could have a tickling fetish that hadn't been outed by late night margaritas yet.

Once Y/N curls herself into a ball, it's apparent that it makes it more difficult to get her very ticklish spots, but it doesn't stop him. He reaches in to the hole from her arm and side and goes for her belly, a few times accidentally slipping up and touching her boob, which was all fine and good until he'd unintentionally gave her a full on grope. Then he pauses and Y/N's giggles die out to small huffs through her nose, "Jesus, Pet, you weren't wearing a bra?"

Feeling her cheeks heat, she shakes her head, staring up at him, "No -- didn't think I needed it, honestly."

"Should've told me, I would've been more careful. Your nips are sensitive, even I know that."

"Oi," Y/N maneuvers her hands so she can cup both of them, the flesh squishy beneath her fingers, "Don't talk about the girls like they aren't right here listening."

Harry laughs, pulling himself off of her.

"You're a trip, you know that?"

                                                                                      .                      .                       .

Y/N wakes up the next morning, with Harry's face pressed into her stomach and his arms encircled around her waist as she laid slumped on the arm of the couch. A spot of drool on the hem of her shirt.

So much for his island breeze sheets.

                                                                                  .                       .                    .

[arosesthorne-blog]

the crew of the Bloodied Thorn (pt. 2)

(Continued from part 1, here)

Papa: This rugged, ragged old lalafel is likely, within only moments of engaging in conversation, to make repeated note of his title of ‘the strongest lalafel in Hydaelyn!’ It’s a mystery to the crew which officiating body sanctioned Papa’s use of this title, if any, and how exactly he came about gaining said title. Worse yet, when a storm whips furiously at the Thorn’s rigging and she begs for a strong arm to keep her steady, Papa can often conveniently be found cowering in a corner, failing to put his claims to the test. In fact, if this leathery old man has any suitable claim on any title of supremacy in all Hydaelyn, it’s mostly like biggest coward. Papa’s much bigger than the average lalafel, a point of personal pride for him; he uses it as justification to bully and tease the other lalafel crewmates, but he’s quick to cower and mumble deferential apologies whenever Conner shoots a glare his way. With a hide tanned from years in the sun and sunken brown eyes, Papa does have one exceptional feature which no doubt inspires the envy of countless men - a hell of a mustache, big and white and thick, twirled up at its ends flawlessly, its majesty emphasized all the more on account of Papa’s shiny bald head. Papa’s one of the Thorn’s oldest crew members, with a history onboard the ship that predates Kina’s legendary ‘hostile takeover’; she’s never been very enamored with the old bastard, and isn’t afraid to smack him around if he annoys her. Still, she keeps him around because he does make her laugh once in a while - usually because of how quickly he shifts from ‘strongest lalafel in Hydaelyn’ to ‘simpering wimp’ at the bark of her voice.

Polly: Every good pirate crew needs a squawking bird, right? Right?? That’s Kina’s philosophy, anyway; she remembers all the good pirate stories she used to indulge in secretly as a kid featured smart-alecky avians. Insisting that her crew have much of the same, she recruited.. well, something a little different. A runaway ixali, the crew would probably know a lot more about Polly if they could understand his squawks, bawks, screeches and shrieks. After years of listening to him crow and ca-caw in terror, anger and frustration, the crew have started to piece together some things about the outcast. Beast tribes naturally have their own appreciable share of criminals, and these societies are.. decidedly less compassionate about how thieves are punished. Not wanting his hands (or head) chopped off, Pahualemuc (that’s what the crew thinks his full name is, anyway,) took off across the Shroud after stealing.. something, important, but no one’s quite sure what. and wound up running into Gridania like a chicken with its head chopped off (which he had indeed been close to becoming.) He probably would’ve ended up gutted by a Wood Wailer if not for Kina’s timely intervention; he’s been a part of the crew ever since. Having worked as an herbalist, botanist and alchemist with his tribe, Polly has three main jobs on the Thorn - preparing medicinal herbs and pastes, brewing up the grog, and running around shrieking, terrified, during battle. Polly is terrible in combat and even the faintest sign of danger will have him screeching uncontrollably, flailing and running for the hills. (or the stairs below decks, if he can help it.)

Haversham: Sometimes you need a few maniacs on your side. Okay, maybe you don’t, but when one happens to be a tiny woman with a massive inferiority complex in charge of a dangerous pirate crew, one would certainly have use of a psycho, wouldn’t one? Especially one who.. well, who really likes fire. Boats, being made mostly of wood, tend to fold quite quickly if one happens to employ a psycho with a pyro streak wide as the Garlean Empire. Haversham really. REALLY likes fire. Thrown out of the Thaumaturgist’s guild, and every other conceivable school, association and club for black magic across all of Eorzea, nothing has stopped him from doing what he wants to do - mainly, string up as many living beings as possible and roast them like pigs on a spit. A short, spindly, scraggly little midlander, Haversham’s body has withered to almost skeletal proportions, and the only hints of color on his pale complexion are the swathes of reddened scar tissue and burn marks that litter his flesh. Eyes always wide with sadistic wonder, Haversham talks in a rattled, manic tone, his words always throbbing with paranoia. He looks like he’s perpetually on something, though the only high he rides is his addiction to pyromania.

Ogglepot: Any pirate crew needs a good appraiser; an expert in antiques, jewels, gems, and riches capable of finding the ‘good stuff’ and making sure the crew get top-tier coin for top-tier treasures. In her search for a new appraisal expert, Kina didn’t precisely endeavor to find the greediest, stingiest, rudest goblin in all of Eorzea - but that’s certainly what she found. Ogglepot hails from a small goblin band from La Noscea, but he always knew he needed more. More gold, more coins, more jewels, more more. The simple life of a trader or a hunter wasn’t enough for him. He haggled and bartered for his tribe for years, but he never got to use any of the wealth they acquired - something he fiercely resented. One night he shamelessly robbed the band’s treasury and lugged bags-upon-bags of gold to Limsa, looking for more, more. Ogglepot always had a good eye for value, but it was in seedy alleyways and dark corners of the Limsan markets, trading in black-market riches, that he really made a name for himself. A ruthless businessman like Ogglepot, however, is bound to make enemies - and he did, many of them. One powerful rival, an unscrupulous trade-baron named Mischk, wanted Ogglepot done for, and his business destroyed, in case anyone tried to move in and take over the goblin’s shipping company. Through his underworld contacts Mischk tipped off Kina and her crew that a wealthy, dangerous marauder would be sailing Kina’s routes - and that he wouldn’t give up without a fight. Kina and her crew ransacked the ship, but quite at-odds with what they’d heard, they found rude, grumpy old Ogglepot in charge. Kina took the goblin prisoner, but with his help, she soon realized she had been duped. Ogglepot happily offered to help her get her revenge, and.. suffice to say, Mischk isn’t a player in the Limsan black-market anymore. Seeing the opportunity he was always looking for, for more, more, Ogglepot offered his services to Kina, and has been sailing with the Queen since, helping her with finances and his broad array of underworld contacts.

More to come laaater~

[iamwhelmed]

For Whom the Bell Tolls: Chapter 12

After last night’s update, I was SO INCREDIBLY PUMPED TO EDIT THIS CHAPTER. Seriously, this is all I’ve wanted the entirety of Chapter 5!!! And it looks like we’re finally getting it!

Anyway, this is also on AO3 and Fanfiction.net!

Summary: When monsters start to invade Mayview, the morality of the connection between a medium and their spirit comes into question. Is killing a spirit any different from taking the life of another human? Relationships between club members become strained, and if Max thought the club was coming apart before, it certainly is now.

"So.. son. Light of my life. My cherished child. My namesake. My-"

"Yeah, could we… cut on that?"

"Oh, right. Sorry." Cough cough. "What did you want to talk about?"

Max hummed and chewed on his bottom lip, twiddling his thumbs and looking anywhere but right in front of him. "I wanted to talk about…"

"Yes?"

"I wanted… to talk about…" He sighed. "I wanted to talk about… mom? And you dating again?"

"Yes, mine loinfruit?"

"Stop that. Look, I just wanted to talk about mom."

"Swell woman she was, love of my life. Bearer of my children! My sweet, sensual temptress-!"

"Yeah. Uh, I just wanted to say that, um, maybe…" Max tugged at the collar of his shirt, clearing his throat. "Maybe it's too… early? Yeah, maybe it's too early to be dating other women, ya know? I just think-?" He grunted and ran a hand over his face. "All right, Pj, this isn't working."

Pj sat across from him, blinking behind Lefty, who was posing as his mustache- even if his dad didn't have a mustache. "It's not?"

"No. You're really, really bad at being a father figure," Max paused and blinked into the hand at his forehead. "Which is ironic because my dad is also really, really bad at being a father figure." He squinted at Pj. "Where did you learn the word 'sensual'?"

Pj shrugged. "When your dad fell asleep with the movie station on, another movie came on called-"

"You know what? I just decided I don't wanna know."

There were three quiet knocks at the door, and they both turned their attention as it slid open. Zoe stood on the other side, raising an eyebrow at Max as she took her first steps into the room. "Are you talking to yourself?"

Max snuck a look in Pj's direction, then leaned forward, one elbow resting on his crossed legs. "No. What's up?"

She scrunched her nose and blew air into one of her cheeks, gaze falling to the side as she slipped entirely into his bedroom and shut the door behind her. "I just wanted to ask, since you seem so cool with this and everything." Zoe raised a finger to twist a strand of hair, playing with it, watching it go round and round and round until she couldn't anymore- it'd become too tangled. "How are you okay with Dad moving on? I mean, I really want to be but…" She paused, then tugged at the strand instead. "Every time I think about it, I just get so mad!" He could have sworn she was going to tear a lock of hair straight off her head. Zoe bit down on the inside of her cheek. "So… what's your secret?"

Max frowned and looked at the floor, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. "The truth is," he sighed and turned his eyes in the other direction, looking to his bedroom window instead of Pj, who sat patiently still, watching the conversation that could potentially strengthen his sibling bond with Zoe or, well, not. He sighed. "I'm not okay with it, Zoe. It bothers me- a lot, but if it makes Dad happy, especially after all he's done for us, then I'll just keep my mouth shut about it."

"But," She tilted her head, brows furrowing in uncharacteristic concern. "Won't you hate Dad?"

He blinked and turned to face her. "Huh?"

"If you let your feelings bottle up, and you never tell him, aren't you gonna start to hate Dad for not considering how you're feeling?"

He took a moment to think that over. Logically? That wouldn't have made any sense- he'd told Dad he was fine with it, so it wouldn't really be Dad's fault, right? But Max knew as well as the next guy that emotions didn't always make sense, didn't follow logic the way everything else did- he'd feel what he'd feel, regardless of how he should have been feeling. If he kept lying and brushing it all off, would it really blow up? Would he do something stupid and lose his cool? Keeping his feelings to himself, waiting to see if Dad noticed them on his own- that wouldn't really work, and he knew that. He wanted to spare Dad the grief, but...

The thought of causing more harm than good left a sour taste on his mouth. There was something familiar about the situation he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Max hummed. "You're annoyingly right."

Zoe stuck her tongue out, but he could see the beginnings of a smile, for the first time in two weeks, inching across her pursed lips. He grinned back at her and stood up, subtly waving to Pj, who nodded and faded through the floor. "Let's go play a game together or something. Up for Super Smash Sis?"

Thursday

"Guys, seriously. I'm fine."

"You have a chunk out the side of your head, dude! You are not fine!"

"See?" Isabel hoisted Ed's arm further into hers, intertwining them so that he couldn't pull away again. "Max is worried, too."

Ed groaned and threw back his head, momentarily making his body slack in their clutches so that they'd have a harder time dragging him to school. They both yelped and tugged at either arm with more force. "I'm fiiine~! I am perfectly capable of walking on my own!"

"You say as" Max grunted and wrenched him further up the hill "you play the limp noodle game. C'mon man, you're gonna hurt yourself. Straighten up."

He sighed and did as asked, adjusting to walk like a normal human being again- well, as normal as he could get with a slight (very slight) limp. Zarei had done a masterful job on him; he'd have to thank her later. He hardly felt a single bite mark, aside from the slight indents where the teeth had sunken in. Isabel told him it was normal, that it'd be regular skin again in another week. He didn't much mind it, of course, he got to walk away with all his limbs and all of his brain, not to mention the sweet satisfactory of winning a fight with what had to have been the most ferocious, terrifying thing he'd ever seen in his life. He would have taken Master Guerra over that monster in a heartbeat had he been given the choice.

"So, what was that thing like?" Max mumbled the question, like he was pondering asking even as the words left his mouth. Ed felt a familiar shiver running down his spine. "I didn't really get a chance to see the other one Mister Spender took down."

"Uh, it was pretty creepy." Creepy was an understatement. He wouldn't get the image of that thing out of his head for at least five years. "Scary, actually. Horrifying. I'm still not sure how I managed to land a hit." He frowned and leaned further into Isabel, who read his shift in weight and squeezed his arm with a small smile. "I guess I just kept my mind on something else… it had, like, twenty pairs of teeth, and the biggest mouth, the one that actually looked like a human's? Its teeth were chattering, all the time, never stopped, except to, uh, scream." The screaming was another thing, even through the fight he'd heard the man's voice echoing in his ears, begging with him, pleading for help he couldn't give, not from the mercy of three different tentacles holding him in the air as they chomped at his body. His eye twitched. "Yeah it uh, it screamed. It screamed a lot. It sounded like a man. He kept" Max readjusted so that his ear was closer to Ed's face. He must have gotten quieter on accident. "He kept asking me to help him, but I couldn't. It, um, it wasn't… it wasn't great."

Isabel's thumb traced one of the indents in his skin, running soothing circles into the marred flesh. "Ed," her voice was softer than usual. "You know they're not human anymore, right? There was nothing you could've done-?"

"Yeah, Izzy, I know." But still…

They arrived at school, then, treading as smoothly up the hill as they could with Ed's (he swore it was slight) limp. "How exactly are you going to make it through a day of school like this?"

Ed turned to look at Max, face destitute of emotion.

"I'm going to crawl around the hallways and hope somebody has mercy on my poor mangled body."

"Guys!"

The three turned to the top of the hill where Dimitri, of all people, stood. From the distance, he almost looked… frantic? Ed quirked an eyebrow. He came rushing down the hill toward them, moving so fast his heels hardly even met the ground with each step. His eyes were wide and panicked, hands moving so spastically it was hard to follow either one- Ed tried. "Turn back! Turn back now!"

"What? Why?"

"Don't ask, just go!" He slowed to stand in front of them, bending over and heaving for air, wincing back at them as they stood glancing at each other. "Go before-!"

"Dimitri Danger?" He swallowed hard and turned around to look at the trail he'd just taken.

Two men in dark suits stood at the top of the hill, looking laughably like the ones from the Men in Black movies. One stood with his hands behind his back, gray hair combed back neatly so that it didn't fall in his eyes. The other one held a clipboard and a pen, marking off something, Ed couldn't tell. Dimitri seemed to take a moment to collect himself, slowly straightening his posture, clenched hands slipping almost casually into his pockets. He turned around with a tightened gaze, voice low and cool with a dangerous undertone Ed was positive only they could hear. "Yeah?"

"You'll be coming with us." The other man, the one holding the clipboard, turned his shade-covered eyes on the three of them, voice oddly similar to Will Smith's. Where the other man had a head full of grey hair, he was bald. "You three are…?"

"Um," Max went to shrug, then remembered Ed around his arm and huffed. "I'm Maxwell Puckett."

"Ed Burger?"

"Isabel Guerra?"

"Right." The gray-haired man, who actually didn't look remotely old enough to have gray hair, once Ed looked a little closer, nodded. "You'll be coming with us, as well."

There were caution tapes bordering the front entrance to the school, mobs of students lined up on the other side, watching and chattering. They'd almost thought it was because of the obvious unusual men escorting them to a large black van, but on second glance, each student held what appeared to be a school newspaper, more than any of them had ever seen Suzy sell. The other kids fell into a hushed silence as they looked up, the crowd's eyes falling on the four of them as they came up the hill. Some whispered when they saw them, and some backed away slowly. Caution and fear swept the student body in varying forms, and every student that fell victim to it as they passed left the foursome with a twisted suspicion forming in their heavy stomachs. It took the men a few moments, directing curious student after unsettled student to stand behind the tape- or else, but eventually they lead them over to the van. Spender and Isaac were already there, Spender looking pensive, Isaac looking anxious. Upon arrival, they were all stripped of their bags, more importantly their tools, each discarded somewhere into the front of the vehicle.

Isabel had only just began to ask what was going on when a pair of cold handcuffs slipped around her wrists. She jumped and turned around, but not fast enough to escape the shackles cutting into her skin. The other man in black went to working handcuffs onto Spender, as well, while the other one slapped some onto Ed. "What is the meaning of this!" Spender moved so that he stood between one man and the rest of his students. "Uncuff us! We've done nothing wrong!"

"Nothing aside from harbor mutant powers." The man with the clean-shaven head frowned and brushed by Spender, locking cuffs on Max just as his partner locked a set on Dimitri.

Spender's voice dropped, anger fading to timid disbelief. "What?" They all looked to each other, eyes wide, hearts stopping, faces collapsing as the world around them followed suit. Spender growled and dug his heels into the ground, not that it would help them now. "Who has been spreading such lies about us!"

Dimitri's eyes fell to the side, sharp and murderous. His nails dug into his own palms with such sheer resentment that he broke skin. In a voice thick with death-dealing intent, he hissed: "Look at the mess you've made."

The rest of the club followed his line of vision, breaths hitched, until their eyes finally fell upon one of their own.

They fell upon Isaac.

He'd been glancing away,hands shoved in his pockets, lips thin and eyes distant. He looked up when Dimitri spoke, met their gazes with uncertainty. He seemed contemplative before settling on one emotion. His face turned dark, flushed of all color, leaving only skin as cold as his freezing eyes, so pale and blue he might as well have been dead. The circles under his eyes were darker than his lashes, and his body shivered at their gaze, but he stood taller than before, a scowl on his lips. His voice was hoarse, and slick with indifference, each word as icy as the frozen blue sleet in his eyes.

"You wanted a traitor? You got one."

One by one, reality hit each of them. Max and Ed and Spender fell slack with grief, shoulders falling as far as their faces. Isabel's face grew vicious, bloodthirsty, lips curled in a snarl. "You-!"

The two men began roughly escorting them into the truck, one turning to look at Isaac as he shoved the last person, Max, behind the shutting doors. "I wouldn't be too happy if I were you, mutant. The only reason you're allowed to walk is because your little friend pulled some strings." As he said this, the other man shivered.

"How could a little girl be so… scary?"

Isaac nodded and turned away, intent on shoving the unfathomable guilt fighting for control of his body into the deepest pits of himself.

They won. They got to watch from the third floor of the school as the van rolled away, presumably never to be seen again. She should have been jumping for joy, but all Suzy could manage was a hand against the window, other tucked at her heart. Collin stood beside her, as always. Him. Her one comfort. He'd been good to her- too good, and she knew it. He didn't deserve the share the weight on her shoulders this time, and still, he did. She swallowed hard and rested her head against the glass near her palm, letting the tips of her nails slide as her worst enemies drove down the hill of Mayview, out of sight, but not out of mind.

"Collin?"

He took a moment to respond. "Yeah?"

"Did we…" she licked her lips. She'd never thought she'd question anything she'd do in the name of the truth, in the name of her dream, but there she was, wondering if she was even cut out to be a journalist if she was so heavy with guilt. "Did we do the right thing?"

He didn't respond right away. Instead he fell silent, shoulder brushing against hers as he shifted his weight. Collin sighed, and from the side, she could see him shake his head.

"I don't know, Suzy. I really, honestly don't know."

"How could you be so careless?" Doorman's voice had risen higher than Isaac had ever imagined it might go. He took a step back, but forced himself to stay put. Doorman was his friend. "Not only have you committed several acts of needless violence, no matter how provoked, but you've betrayed your friends-!"

Isaac bit back. "They're not my friends!"

"Teammates, then! Isaac," he bent lower so that their faces were inches apart. Isaac saw his face reflected back at him, and for the first time, he could see how utterly lifeless he looked, how pale his eyes were, how white his skin was, and how his dull hair sat lifeless atop his head. He glanced away. "Do you not see what you have done? You have hurt Richard Spender and your peers once again, the very opposite of the redemption you seek!"

"Well maybe I don't care about redemption anymore!"

"You do."

Isaac flinched.

Doorman continued, folding his hands politely, as if trying to make up for the way he'd lost his temper, though he truly had nothing to be sorry for. "I know you. You are a remoresful, caring person with a heart larger than most people could dream of. You tend to love with every inch of it, Young Master Isaac." Doorman kept his attention locked on him, but he'd long since decided he wouldn't be looking back. "So it is painful for you when others do not reflect that love." He paused, and once again bent down to Isaac's level, hands setting gently, kindly, upon his shoulders. "That is why the club pains you so."

Isaac winced, fists tightening enough to draw blood.

"It is not too late to fix things, Isaac."

"Well I don't want to!" With a light, pleading push to Doorman's chest, Isaac turned on his heel and sped for the door, slamming it open so harshly that it came apart from the moldy wall. As soon as the first foot hit the ground, he was off running. He pushed past twigs and branches and ignored the cuts each passing tree left on him, as though pleading with him to turn around- go back; but he couldn't.

They deserved it! They deserved what they got! He wouldn't raise a finger to help them, not when they'd left him high and dry, left him to figure things out and nearly die trying every single day. They'd leave me there, wouldn't they? So they can stay there! They can stay there and die for all I care!

He just needed to get home.