#walker wank

[eisforeidolon]

Of course they don't, because they never cared about copaganda any more than they ever cared about LGBT+ representation - or whatever other causes they've tried to use as a cudgel to advance the shipping cause they actually care about.

If they just scream loud enough about ~*needing LGBT+ representation*~ they'll totes get canon D/C sooner or later, surely, it's so important of a cause! Of course none of the actual representation in SPN like Crowley, Charlie, God, two sets of cosplayers, the married hunters, at least a couple VotW characters, et cetera, count. It has to be a main character - but not Sam of course.

If they just scream loud enough about Jared's show being ~*copaganda*~ because his character was a cop, surely everyone will decide Jared is too ~*problematic*~ to be in a revival - but it will totally still happen without him! Surely if they just get Jared out of the way, Jensen will have no choice but to make out with Misha for them! So yeah, Jensen could play literally nothing but cop characters for the entire rest of his career and you'd rarely if ever hear a peep out of them about it (except perhaps immediately after another incident of him shooting their ship down again or as a reason he owes them to make their ship canon). They need Jensen to get their ship onscreen and they've convinced themselves if they can only get Jared/Sam out of the way it will have to happen. Which is fucking batshit, of course, but that's par for the course with that part of the fandom.

So funny about the way they get angry at Walker but now they have Countdown, I'm curious if they think what Jensen is doing is still copropaganda.

I don't remember them crying COPROPGANDA over Beau Arlen.

Jared haters only see what they want to see.

[walker-extended-universe]

I feel like some Cordell stans are forgetting that he really didn't have to miss August's big day.

He didn't have to check out the zoo right then. Multiple people told him to leave it for another day and Trey even reminded him of the boot camp graduation. He had ample warning and opportunity to NOT do something that would cause him to miss out on something so big.

And he chose to do that anyway. No on twisted his arm. He was the one who decided this was so important it had to be done right away based on pretty much zero evidence.

Liam is right to be upset with Cordell for him missing out on something so big. August is right to be disappointed that Cordell wasn't there.

Cordell is NOT right to brush Liam off with a "I'll make it up to him". Because missing a once-in-a-lifetime event isn't something you can easily make up.

Dark place or not, Cordell is a PARENT. He has a responsibility to August that's just as (and I would say more) important than his responsibility to his job.

TL;DR: It's okay for your fave to be in the wrong sometimes. You don't have to defend their every move.

[bvckbiter]

…???????

[captainwidowspring]

On Nico's Ability to Defend Himself

An often-overlooked aspect of Nico's death scene in TFATWS is that there was literally nothing preventing him from thwarting John's attempt to kill him, and keeping it from being a death scene; he just didn't so that there would be a reason for the Captain America title to be stripped from John and given back to Sam. I feel like a major reason why a lot of people don't pick up on this fact, and instead perceive Nico to be defenseless (aside, of course, from the shamelessly manipulative framing) is that in the Siberia incident, the incident Nico's death scene is frequently compared to, Tony, after he lost the upper hand, didn't really get a chance to do much before Steve disabled his suit. It thus didn't stick out too badly when Nico also didn't do much before John attacked him with the shield, even though there was a lot more he could have done. Therefore, let's examine the two situations to see how they are different.

This is how the shield incident played out in Siberia. Near the end of the battle, Tony had managed to gain the upper hand and inflict serious damage on Steve. After Steve refused to stop defending Bucky, Tony prepared to straight up blow Steve out of the bunker and down the mountain: but right before he got the repulsor shot off, Bucky grabbed his leg. Irritated, Tony turned and kicked Bucky in the head with his metal boot. Then, before Tony had the chance to do anything else, Steve grabbed Tony and hoisted him into the air; Tony tried to use the jet packs on his boots to get out of the situation, but too much damage had been inflicted on them at that point for them to be of use, and Steve threw him to the ground. Steve then immediately rushed on top of Tony and punched his face mask three times out of sheer fury, after which he broke the helmet by hitting it twice more with his shield and then tore it off. He subsequently raised the shield, which caused Tony to frantically raise his arms to cover his face, and this allowed Steve to have a clear shot at the arc reactor, which he brought his shield down on and broke.

Now, considering how thoroughly biased Civil War is against Steve, and how much it sought to act like he was the one in the wrong—even though the entire Siberia fight was literally just Tony having a temper tantrum and Steve and Bucky trying to survive it—the creative team certainly wouldn't have minded if Tony had cried out in fear like Nico did, as it would be quite useful for the propaganda efforts. Therefore, there is clearly some reason why he didn't.

And it appears that there are two main reasons for this. The first reason seems to be that everything simply happened too fast. Indeed, the entire incident, from Tony preparing to shoot Steve to Steve disabling the arc reactor, took place in the span of about fifteen seconds. And Tony totally wasn't expecting Steve to grab him; presumably, he assumed that Steve was injured enough that taking his attention off him for a few seconds in order to kick his friend in the head wasn't a big deal. He underestimated the strength that poured into Steve's limbs when he saw Tony so callously abusing Bucky, as well as the fact that Steve is a supersoldier, so he can move really fast when he wants to.

So there was the element of surprise, and there was also the fact that Tony probably would have been a little stunned, both from the impact of being thrown to the ground, and from being hit in the head multiple times. It must, of course, be remembered that Tony was wearing a full-body metal suit, so no actual harm was inflicted upon him, but Steve is a supersoldier, so even with the layer of protection the impacts would certainly have been felt. These factors combined to produce the effect that, when Steve raised his shield, rather than take the time to yell anything, Tony simply prepared himself to face what was about to happen, which he thought would be Steve attempting to end him. But fortunately for him, he was wrong. Steve wasn't trying to kill Tony; Bucky was still alive, so Steve was able to contain his fury enough to refrain from a killing blow, and he hit the arc reactor instead.

Now, let's look at how Nico's death scene played out. After John pursued Nico for a bit, and managed to fend off a concrete trash can that Nico threw at him, he was able to hit Nico with the shield as Nico ran into a square. This forced Nico to stop to keep his balance, which allowed John to hit him again, and this finally knocked him over. Nico then tried to get back up twice; the first time John hit him with the shield again to keep him down, and the second time he put his foot on Nico's chest to pin him to the ground and stop his escape attempts. Then, since he couldn't try to get away anymore, Nico waved his hands and nervously insisted, "It wasn't me." He said this because, given the role he played in Lemar's death, he was well aware of why John might be mad at him specifically, for more than just being a friend of Karli. John, for his part, had been preparing to interrogate Nico about Karli's whereabouts, but this clear falsehood evidently filled him with rage, and he raised his shield in a fury. Rather than make an effort to block the imminent attack, Nico simply repeated, louder, "It wasn't me!" even though it was clear that John was not about to accept his garbage. And then, of course, since Nico wasn't about to actually do anything, the beating with the shield commenced.

Nico just lay there and was obediently killed, even though there was literally nothing stopping him from simply catching the shield and keeping it off his chest. His arms and hands were not at all restrained—indeed, he was waving them around—and unlike John, who had acquired a gash on his head, Nico was completely uninjured, so there wouldn't have been any pain distracting him either. And as we saw earlier, Nico is just as strong as John—he was able to restrain John so effectively that Karli would have been able to easily stab John if Lemar hadn't stopped her—and his evident fear would likely have given him enough strength to cancel out John's rage. So he would certainly have been able to keep the shield off his chest until Sam and Bucky, who appeared shortly afterwards, could save him if they wanted to.

Indeed, Nico didn't save himself even though, as evidenced by the fact that he did actually have a chance to cry out, he was dealing with a much less challenging situation than Tony was. For one thing, John bringing down the shield on Nico's chest was not at all a surprise. After John had pinned Nico to the ground, Nico had time to say, "It wasn't me" before John made any sort of move: and after John registered what Nico had said, he shifted his shield, which had been on his arm, into a two-handed grip, and then raised it. Nico clearly saw this coming; indeed, this is what caused him to shout "It wasn't me" a second time. And John's intentions at that point were obvious, so it's not like what happened with Tony where Tony thought that Steve was going to do one thing but he did another; it was pretty clear where John's shield was going, and this would have been plenty apparent to Nico since terror tends to make time slow down. So he had ample time to catch it.

Additionally, Nico would not have been stunned in the way that Tony was. Tony was slammed to the ground and then received five forceful rapid-fire close-range blows to the head, which is several hard impacts in a short span of time. Nico, by contrast, was hit once with the shield, then was knocked by John to the ground. This was a much shorter distance to fall than the overhead bench-press position that Tony was thrown from, and there were even stairs to break Nico's fall. Thereafter, Nico was hit with the shield again—and he hadn't gotten very far up, so he didn't fall very far back down—and then John thwarted Nico's final attempt to get up by pushing him down with his foot. In addition to the fact that the push was much gentler than getting hit with the shield again would have been, as before Nico hadn't gotten very far up, so he wouldn't have hit the ground that hard.

Therefore, in contrast to Tony, who received six sharp blows pretty much back to back, Nico received three fairly spread out blows—after the first hit with the shield, John had to close the distance between them and wind up again before hitting him a second time to knock him over, and then Nico fell to the ground and started to get back up before he was hit a third time—as well as a kind of shove. Nico thus did not receive nearly as harsh a pummeling as Tony did. And on top of that, he is a supersoldier: so even if his treatment had been rougher, Nico would have a much higher tolerance for pummeling than normal human Tony would.

Hence, Nico would not only have had plenty of time to see what John was doing, but he also would not have had to contend with the disorientation that Tony experienced. There is no excuse for why his only reaction to John's attack was yelling.

And here's what makes the fact that Nico didn't try to defend himself even more ridiculous. Even though Steve's attack was much more rapid, forceful, and unpredictable than John's was, Tony STILL did the logical thing and was ready to try to catch Steve's shield. Indeed, you can actually see a bit of strategy in his response to Steve raising the shield. Tony knew he wasn't strong enough to entirely keep the shield off his face since his suit was failing, so rather than try to stop it from hitting him, he was instead planning to try to grab the shield during its descent in order to slow it down and cushion the blow. As Steve brings the shield down, you can even see Tony open his fingers as he expects to encounter the shield. Nico did not do anything of the sort, he just aimlessly shouted as he passively lay there and waited for John to kill him. But come on! If Tony, who was just a normal human encased in a suit of rapidly failing metal, and who had been completely taken by surprise with a harsh walloping, could make an attempt to stop Steve from killing him (even though, as it turned out, he didn't need to), then Nico, who was a supersoldier, and who had received far less of a thrashing, could definitely have tried (and succeeded) to stop John from killing him. Especially since, unlike Tony, he actually would have been able to completely stop the shield from hitting him.

There is another difference between the two situations that is very interesting, however. Tony, for his part, was well aware that he was acting dishonorably. For instance, a little after Tony began his assault, when Bucky was trying to run away and Tony was intent on pursuit, Steve stood in front of him and said, "It wasn't him, Tony. Hydra had control of his mind." But Tony already knew this, so he simply responded "Move," in a way that clearly indicated that he didn't care and didn't want to hear it. And a short time later, when Tony prevented Bucky from escaping, Steve tried again to get through to him and said, "This isn't gonna change what happened," but Tony replied, "I don't care, he killed my mom." Tony knew that Bucky wasn't to blame for his parents' deaths, and that killing him would not help anything: but since he was angry with Steve for refusing to accept the Accords and all their rights-violations, he saw the revelation as an excuse to attack both Bucky because he knew it would hurt Steve, and Steve himself because Tony knew that Steve would not just stand by while Bucky was being assaulted. He ignored Steve's attempts to reason with him because he figured that he had enough power to be able to do whatever he wanted, and he also correctly guessed that Steve and Bucky would continuously hold back against him, even though they shouldn't have. And because of these things, before Bucky's intervention, Tony had been about to do something that could have quite possibly ended Steve's life. So when Steve regained the upper hand and Tony was at his mercy, Tony was aware that he had no right to ask Steve to spare him, because when he had been in Steve's position, he had been ready to potentially end Steve's life without a second thought. Therefore, he said nothing; his only response was to see if he had enough strength left to hold off Steve.

So Tony, in the face of Steve's attack, didn't yell anything because he knew that what he had done was indefensible: and it is due in part to this modicum of contrition that Steve was able to contain his rage enough to spare him. Nico, meanwhile, had been doing something similarly heinous. He had been actively engaged in trying to kill John because John was Captain America, and when Lemar frustrated the attempt on John's life, Nico was also the reason why John was unable to protect Lemar from Karli's subsequent death-blow. And just like Tony, Nico had been relying on his strength to protect him from repercussions. So what he had done was just as indefensible as what Tony did: but instead of taking the smallest bit of ownership of this, he tried to completely absolve himself of responsibility for what had happened, and this resulted in his downfall. For while John had clearly been intending to just interrogate Nico, the fact that the person who had held him helpless while his best friend was murdered was trying to act like he was not at all responsible for what had happened caused him to lose it, and this resulted in the shield incident. Now, Nico definitely should have made it clear that he was surrendering if he intended to, and even apologized if he genuinely regretted what had happened to Lemar: and again, when the attack did happen he could have easily fended it off. But if he had simply recognized the fact that he was not worthy of John's mercy since he had not been prepared to show mercy to John, and remained silent like Tony did, the shield-attack would never have happened in the first place.

But in any case, as mentioned above, Nico didn't try to defend himself because John needed to kill him, so that the show would have an excuse to take the Captain America mantle from John and give it back to Sam without it seeming too dubious. (Though considering that the incident ended up resulting in Sam and Bucky attacking John for the shield a very short time after he literally lost his best friend, the show completely failed at that.) Not to mention, if Nico had put up a fight, this would have highlighted how much he was still capable of threatening John, and put lie to the show's attempt to act like he was helpless. Particularly since, again, if he had tried to save himself there is no reason why he would not have been successful.

Now, it is important to also remember that Nico was definitely not surrendering, the other widespread misconception about his death scene. He kept trying to fight John until he literally couldn't—he threw a concrete trash can at John while he was running away, and tried to get back up twice after John initially knocked him over, which is not something someone who wanted to surrender would do—and then after John had him pinned, all he did was try to disingenuously absolve himself of responsibility for Lemar's death, rather than trying to apologize or making it clear that he was surrendering. But on top of the fact that Nico wasn't trying to surrender, and refused to own up to what he had done, he was perfectly capable of surviving John's attack when it happened. These things make his death scene, as well as the subsequent reaction to it, completely ridiculous and utterly nonsensical.

[white-shadow25]

I just imagined, that if Allen, Kanda, Komui and Tyki (I doubt that Noah can reproduce, but this imagine is for funnies) have a child and the minute the father isn't looking, their toddler snatching flying near them Timcampy (Allen) or Teez (Tiky) or personal flying Order golem (Kanda and Komui) and starts chewing and licking it 🤭

THIS WOULD HAPPEN! Wait, hold up, listen

I don’t think it would be a big problem for Allen, Kanda, or Komui since the golems ain’t meant to cause harm. Even more, I think Allen and Komui would actually find it cute and Kanda wouldn’t care that much (still would take it out of the child's mouth 'cause disgusting).

Buuuuuut the Teez? That is like the Tyki equivalent of going for a glass of water and returning to find your child licking on a knife like, the panic Tyki would feel at that moment, I swear his soul would fall to his feet.

[supernaturalkickparty]

Anti Jared Stans- lol the way he cries in the pilot musty wail lololol

Regular fans- eh it's ok, it was a transition for him to go from Sam to Cordell. It'll get better.

And guess what, the show did get better and lasted four seasons.

The show meant so much to not just the cast but the crew too.

The show gave a boost to the Austin economy.

Everyone has spoken so highly of Jared and how the set was run from day one.

[lillysilverus]

The fandom is being extra stupid today.  I didn’t think that was possible.

[fandom-hoarder]

Oh look, jared haters just believing anything because they hate him. What a shock.🙄

"cancel culture killed walker"

-jared padalecki

[captainwidowspring]

🤨🤨🤨

I definitely agree, it really is wild that some people actually think that Nico was some meek innocent victim, or that John's reaction was unreasonable. I guess it's a testament to how effective the show's anti-John-Walker propaganda is, for it is hard to see how else so many people could become convinced of such a clear untruth. Indeed, it's similar to how in Civil War, another propaganda-heavy film, some people actually think Steve was the one who attacked Tony in Siberia, despite the fact that Tony was the sole aggressor. And heck, the efficacy of the anti-John-Walker propaganda is further demonstrated shortly after Nico's death; many people think for some reason that John started the fight for the shield, when it was clearly Bucky, and John literally said "You don't want to do this," when it became clear a fight was imminent. Propaganda is really no joke.

Perhaps the most frustrating thing about people acting like Nico was an innocent victim is the fact that he is particularly guilty. From the way many people talk about Nico, one would think he was a random civilian—indeed, the person cited above actually implies that he was a "defenseless noncombatant"—but he was literally a hostile enemy attacker. Now, @captainpikeachu nicely explained why all the Flagsmashers are blameworthy: "if a group of people lured you and your loved ones to a location just so they could kill you and instead got your loved ones killed, does it really matter who physically did the killing when they’re all there to help?" But Nico was much more involved in what happened than most of the other Flagsmashers were.

First of all, Nico played a very active role in the attempted murder of John. Minutes before the tables were turned, Nico had caught John and held him helpless specifically so that Karli could stab him to death. Nico knew full well what he was doing, and he did it deliberately. So it's not like Nico was just standing around chilling, he was actively trying to cause harm.

And this supposed innocent victim very nearly succeeded in taking John's life. It's a really good thing that John ended up deciding to take the serum—he had been agonizing over whether to do it—because this allowed him to confront the Flagsmashers on a somewhat more even playing field. Otherwise, Nico would have been able to murder John himself; he wouldn't have even needed Karli's help. It was only because John was able to so effectively fight back that Nico had to focus his attention on subduing John instead of being able to immediately go for the kill.

And indeed, the fact that the serum helped make it possible for John to hold out against the Flagsmashers for so long is the only reason that Lemar was able to rescue him, as Lemar saved John at literally the last possible second. It really looked for a moment there like John was a goner; that is why Karli got so mad when she was thwarted. If Lemar had been any slower, or John had been imperiled any sooner, Lemar wouldn't have reached John in time: and John's blood would then have been on Nico's hands, probably literally as well as figuratively. So the serum is a major reason why Nico's attempt to get John killed was unsuccessful, but even with that and the presence of Sam and Bucky, John barely survived the attempt on his life.

And second of all, Nico is also directly responsible for Lemar's death. Many people take Nico's cry of "It wasn't me!" at face value, and accept it as the truth, but it is quite thoroughly false. Nico might not have been the one to strike the killing blow against Lemar, but the fact remains that Lemar would not have been murdered without Nico's contributions. Indeed, Nico's attack on John is the reason why the murder attempt bore any fruit at all, because John had been doing a pretty good job of frustrating the Flagsmashers' assassination attempts before Nico assaulted him. But Nico's assault made John vulnerable, and was instrumental in creating the situation that got Lemar killed: for this was the reason that Lemar was forced to throw himself in harm's way, as well as the reason why John was unable to defend Lemar from Karli's subsequent wrath.

It would have been pretty clear that Nico was culpable in John's murder if Karli had successfully killed him, so it is unclear why people cannot see that Nico is culpable in Lemar's murder simply because the victim changed. While the person who ended up dead wasn't the one Nico had been aiming for, the death still happened as a direct result of his actions.

Thus, it's quite frustrating when people try to demonize John for what he did while absolving Nico, completely ignoring the fact that minutes before the incident Nico had been quite determinedly trying to kill John, and was only narrowly kept from succeeding. And those efforts directly led to Lemar getting killed, which is why Nico's claim of innocence would have been particularly galling. Nico simply received a taste of his own medicine.

So, unsurprisingly, that take which adopts the usual tired view that John is a villain while Nico is innocent is quite thoroughly untrue. For not only was Nico neither defenseless nor surrendering, but also, John did actually have jurisdiction in the situation.

First of all, Nico was far from defenseless. It's really quite maddening when people act like Nico was powerless just because he didn't have a weapon on him, for this is not even close to the case. Again, minutes before, Nico had been able to render John completely helpless—which he accomplished without the aid of any sort of weapon—and Lemar had just been killed, also without a weapon. A video nicely summarized why Nico was not defenseless:

"[W]hy do people act like this is Walker killing someone who’s unarmed?. . .We all saw what Steve and Bucky can do throughout the MCU. They can smash through walls, rip doors off their hinges, hold a helicopter in place, throw people around like ragdolls, and as we saw with Lemar’s death, can literally kill people with a single punch. How can you possibly claim that someone is unarmed when [they can do these things]? What’s to stop [Nico] from breaking out when he has the chance to do so, and continuing to help Karli? Which is exactly what he would do, because as we’ve already discussed, he is surrendering [not really but I'll get to that] because he has literally no other choice, not because he stopped because he felt guilty."

In fact, come to think of it, there is absolutely no reason why Nico could not have just grabbed onto John's shield and held it, instead of simply lying there and getting killed. As we saw, he's just as strong as John, so he would certainly have the strength to keep the shield off his chest: and there was nothing to prevent him from doing this, as he was completely uninjured (unlike John) and his arms and hands were not restricted at all. But of course, if Nico had put up such resistance to John, the show would have a much harder time demonizing John and acting like Nico was harmless. Therefore, they got around this by not showing Nico during the incident.

Not only was Nico not helpless, however, getting mad at John for killing an adversary that he had a momentary advantage over is quite hypocritical, for Sam did something similar earlier in the show. In the middle of the fight at the beginning, Sam blew up a helicopter that still had several unconscious bad guys in it. These people actually were defenseless, as they were out cold, and they no longer posed an immediate threat to Sam. So anyone who is angry at John should be angry at Sam too. But the people who bash John rarely bring this up: for because heroic music was playing, and because the bad guys were unconscious and so unable to scream or beg Sam to spare them, Sam killing enemies who were temporarily disabled is not seen as a bad thing. It's only a problem when John does it, apparently. Such blatant double standards really help demonstrate how influential framing can be.

Second of all, not only was Nico not helpless, but he was also not surrendering. For one thing, while Nico was running, he paused to hurl a concrete trash can at John: so it's not even like he was just fleeing, he was still attacking John as he ran. For another, when John managed to knock Nico over—which took several tries—Nico attempted to get back up not once but twice: once after John initially knocked him over, and then a second time which prompted John to put his foot on Nico's chest in order to keep him down. If Nico was actually interested in surrendering, he would have stayed down the first time, as repeatedly getting back up strongly indicates a desire to keep fighting.

And for yet another, Nico yelling "It wasn't me!" is not in any way indicative of surrender (nor is it even true). That was not an attempt to yield, it was an attempt to convince John that he was attacking the wrong person. (Even though he wasn't, for again, Nico was heavily involved in the attempt on John's life that ended up taking Lemar's, and was in fact the reason it was even possible; he is just as responsible for what happened as Karli.) The only thing that could possibly be considered an effort to surrender is Nico having his hands up: but since prior to that point he staunchly refused to stop fighting—throwing the trash can at John and not staying down—and the words he spoke as he made the gesture were trying to divert John's attention rather than actually surrendering, having his hands up was not enough to cancel out the all the other indications that he didn't want to surrender, especially since it wasn't even clear whether he was trying to surrender or just gesticulating. That is why people who want to surrender often put their hands behind their head, to avoid confusion. Considering how stubbornly Nico was fighting before, if he was yielding he needed to make that abundantly clear, and he didn't, not even close.

Third of all, John did actually have jurisdiction in the scenario; he was literally on a government-sanctioned mission to deal with the Flagsmashers. Handling the Flagsmashers was actually his responsibility, and the reason why he was fighting them in the first place. Indeed, it's not even like the government was mad at John for killing Nico, as that meant one less Flagsmasher for them to deal with; they were mad at him for giving them bad press. That is why they chose to give John an other than honorable discharge, for this meant that they would not have to go through the trial that would be required if they gave him a dishonorable discharge, and risk having unfavorable information come out. Thus, John got no chance to stand up for himself, and instead got quickly swept under the rug. Now, John tried to point out the injustice of the situation—"I only ever did what you asked of me, what you told me to be and trained me to do, and I did it. And I did it well," he said—but of course, the show wasn't done demonizing him, so it just ignored him and cut him off so that he would not get in the way of the attempt to discredit him. But in any case, saying that John didn't have jurisdiction in that scenario is completely untrue, because he absolutely did. Sam and Bucky were the ones who didn't have jurisdiction, and in fact they should have been wanted criminals for breaking Zemo out.

So yeah. The rebuttal to the ridiculous framing of Nico's demise that is shown above is quite accurate. John did not kill "a defenseless guy who was surrendering"; John killed a supersoldier who had just willingly and knowingly attempted to murder him (and succeeded but with the wrong person), and who showed no remorse for what he did, just panic that he didn't have the upper hand anymore. It really is insane how completely the propaganda has twisted many people's views of the situation.

[octuscle]

I’d like to know if you could help me! I want to be a professional open bodybuilder (just like Nick Walker, Derek Lunsford), but, at the same rate my muscles grow, so do my male musk (specifically sweat musk from my armpits and cock) - no shower, deodorant or anything else will clean/cover my strong smell - until the point people around me get dizzy with my musk, start to complain and ask me to leave the places. With more muscles and less body fat, more sweating and musk until it reaches a strong level that people start to avoid me from fear of my muscles and my intense gym musk! Could you help me with that? Thanks a lot!

It's always the same people who are unhappy. You're rich, you've inherited, you don't have to work. You look dazzling, you know the right people, you're always invited to the best parties. And you don't feel like it anymore? You want to change that? Do I have a free hand? Then I'll get started!

You're sitting with a few friends in your favorite bar and tell them about your plan. More out of politeness than anything else, everyone says it sounds very exciting. You loosen your tie knot and undo the top button of your shirt. Phew, that's how you get your breath back. But you still need some fresh air, it's too crowded and stuffy in here. And somehow you don't feel like going back to the sissies. You feel more like going home, maybe doing a few more press-ups and then going to bed. After a few steps, you take a deep breath. And the top button of your shirt is blown off your chest like a projectile. The seams of your suit trousers are dangerously taut.

In the stairwell of the magnificent old building next to the city park where you live, the first seams crack. Thank God you don't meet anyone. By the time you get back to your apartment, your slim-fit tailored suit is in tatters. Somehow you're not even surprised. You tear off what's left of your clothes and stuff everything into the garbage can. Even your underpants no longer fit properly and are thrown away. You go naked to your dressing room and do a few push-ups, then squats, then a round of sit-ups until you're drenched in sweat. You stand in front of the mirror. Yes, you've gone through a growth spurt. And you stink. Sweat and musk. Delicious. But you still take a shower. The towel smells awful after drying off. And you don't feel a bit cleaner.

When you wake up the next morning, your cleaning lady has opened all the windows and is airing out the apartment. When she hears your footsteps on the way to the bathroom, she comes around the corner and is about to ask you where this unpleasant smell is coming from. You almost collide. You are still naked, scratching your hairy balls while still half asleep. Your cleaning lady turns bright red with fright. Then she holds her nose. You smell your armpit and say with a grin, "Excuse me, Maria, I'd better go and have a shower". In the bathroom, the laundry basket smells like a football team's changing room. You jump in the shower, but it doesn't seem to do any good this morning either. Damn, you might as well go to your workout. At least everyone there smells of sweat.

Damn, that was a really good workout. You pose in front of the mirror. Your sweaty tank top on the floor. During the workout you were incredibly focused on the weights, only now do you realize how disgusted the other customers are looking at you

You check your reflection again. Holy shit, you look really good, what's wrong with them all? Probably just jealous. You pick up your tank top from the floor. Somehow it smells a bit. You hold it up to your nose. Yes, it's sweat and musk. Maybe a little intense. You love it. The smell makes your cock hard. The sweat stains on your sweatpants are joined by precum stains. You need to take a shower now. And wank.

When you check out, the receptionist looks at you in disgust. He puts some ointment under his nose and puts on a face mask. He informs you that the studio requires a minimum level of personal hygiene from its customers. Several customers have already complained. He asks you to come showered and with fresh clothes next time.

Yes, you smell bad despite the shower. You walk back home because you don't feel like complaining again on the subway. Normally a pleasant walk. But for one thing, your legs are really exhausted from training. On the other hand, you feel that you easily weigh 20 pounds more than you did yesterday. You look in the mirror of a shop window as you pass by. Fuck, yeah! You see the reflection of a serious amateur bodybuilder.

You're too exhausted to climb the stairs to your apartment. You get into the elevator. Mrs. Spencer from the floor below you shouts for you to hold the elevator and barely slips through the closing door with her daughter. She holds her nose in disgust. And her daughter, perhaps four years old, asks why the big man smells so bad. Phew, the elevator isn't big anyway. Today it feels even narrower.

That was all a few weeks ago now. You left your impressive apartment because the stuffy neighbors were getting on your nerves. The nagging was unbearable. You thought that the cheap apartment building where you were staying temporarily was really just a temporary solution. But there are a lot of guys living here who are like you: fuck the opinions of others, the main thing is that you grow up. Really big! When you walk through the front door, you take a deep breath. It must have smelled something like this in a Neanderthal cave.

Since you've been banned from your hairdresser, you cut your hair yourself. You like it, it looks even more brutal and masculine. Even in your hardcore gym, your stench stands out. But here the other musclemen envy you for it. Hehehe, and there's always someone who will even pay money to press his face into your armpit or suck your cheesy cock. Your life is great!

Pics found @antoinepaul and @maxx-magnum

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Oh, Lonely Bones, Have You Forgotten? Chapter 3

*Rolling in six months late with Starbucks* Did y’all say you wanted another 15k of angst? No? Well, I got you another 15k of angst. Sorry for the wait on this one folks! There’s been a lot going on in life and a lot of other projects and prompts! Next update should be quicker — plan is to finish this fic by the end of the year! Thank you @dear-monday for reading this over for me and assuring me that it was not 15k of utter nonsensical self-indulgent angsty wank, as usual she and the horny whatsapp group are saving my sanity xD And an ENORMOUS thank you to @kieren-fucking-walker for talking to me about Edwardian burial customs and cemetaries and giving me lots to go on when writing this! I still wouldn't got expecting bulletproof historical accuracy but it was truly so enlightening and inspiring and really shaped some elements of this story and made it more than intially planned, so thank you my love 💛 This is, as my opening bit suggests, mostly more angst. Heed the warnings of the tags/previous chapters, plus this chapter has a little more of a focus near the end on the sadness/circumstances of Edwin’s death and how his family handled it. So refs to teen death, to homophobia and hate crime, to family shame. There’s a section that switches up the format a bit, and which contains brief but supernaturally grisly instances of gore and body horror. There’s also a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it instance of ghostly suicidal ideation. Everything is sad and the chapter ends on more angst but I swear to you that there will be one more chapter, and all with be right. I am knocking Edwin down hard but I WILL give him a soft place to land. More commentary afterwards. In the meantime; are you sitting comfortably? Then we’ll begin 💛 Also on Ao3

"Oi, Edwin," said Charles, gaze affixed to the letter in his hand. "You speak ancient Babylonian?"

Edwin hummed. "I have a smattering."

"That'll do. Letter from Tragic Mick — says he's got a book might help, but there's no translation."

Edwin looked up from his well-thumbed copy of The Arcane Physician's Desk Reference. Over the last few days he'd read it so often he could quote large tracts of it verbatim. "You contacted Tragic Mick?"

"Thought we should pull whatever contacts we had," said Charles, picking his way over the chaos to give Edwin the letter. "Tried our magic shop, but Flimsy Steve wasn't picking up the phone."

"Unsurprising."

Charles snorted. "Leave off. He's a decent bloke."

"He's perfectly agreeable, Charles. I merely wouldn't trust him with anything time sensitive."

"Alright, he's a bit flaky." Charles had a visible mental debate on the best way to navigate around a teetering book stack, before rolling his eyes and phasing through it. "Not his fault about the hex, though, innit?"

"Hm, yes. The hex. Convenient excuse..." Edwin muttered. "If I could explain away my abysmal punctuality with bouts of vaporousness I'd certainly consider it."

"Heh. Yeah, does pull it out a bit much, doesn't he?" Charles chuckled, finally succeeding in his quest to reach Edwin. The office was in a dreadful state. Tidying up after the self-contained paranormal monsoon hadn't been a high priority. Nor had re-shelving the books, given they were bound to be pulled out again for double, triple, quadruple checking. Edwin was only grateful that the blizzard had been a spectral plane phenomenon. The thought of his entire library subjected to water damage was almost too much to bear.

Edwin himself was in a rather sorry state as well. He'd set up operations on the floor beside the trunk, after their discovery that proximity lessened the noise and the cold. At first he'd sat upright and cross-legged, to maintain some comforting sense of professional decorum. But as they had continued to hit dead end after dead end, he'd taken to lying on the floor. In part so he didn't have to keep seeing the sickly blue glow of his own skeleton every time he turned his head.

It shouldn't have felt uncomfortable, not to him. But in such close range to the bones, he was above averagely aware of his surroundings, even the hard floorboards at his back. Edwin wasn't sure which he disliked more; the discomfort, or the indignity. At some point in the proceedings Charles had dug a large, cuddly shark from his bag — acquired during the case of the Swedish poltergeist, if memory served — and propped it under Edwin's head like a pillow. It had helped with the comfort issue; though it had rather exacerbated the dignity one.

But comfort and dignity were among the least of his problems. More concerning by far was the fact that the bones, despite quieting down, had not in fact ceased to speak to him. Instead all their past phrases, the look at me see me don't leave me's, had been replaced by just one simple refrain. Quiet, soft as silk, neither demanding nor insistent. Merely persistent...

Edwin took the letter as Charles offered it down to him, skimming it quickly. The bulk of it, as usual, was a lengthy, hand-written tangent about Mick's woes and the majesty of the sea, but he soon found the section pertaining to their predicament. "Hm. I'm not sure we'll find anything of use in that text. I had the chance to peruse a copy some years ago. But at this point I'm willing to try anything. Beggars can't be choosers. Perhaps if we're opening inquiries with our Port Townsend contacts, we might consider asking Thomas."

"Who?"

Edwin re-folded the salt-stiffened paper. "The Cat King."

Charles' eyebrows arched, hands landing on his hips. "Oh, he's Thomas, now, is 'e?"

"Rolls off the tongue rather more easily, don't you think?"

"Since when d'you still talk to that tosser?"

Edwin rolled his eyes. For such a personable fellow, Charles could hold a grudge with the best of them. "We've a long-running game of correspondence chess in progress. Man's dastardly with a rook. But he is a rather seasoned magic user, not to mention his... intimate experience with witches. He could be a valuable source of information in this case."

"Let's try a few more things before we get Whiskers on the phone, yeah?"

Edwin sighed, passing the letter back up between two fingers. "Very well."

Charles tucked it under his arms as he crossed them, cocking his head to regard Edwin from on high. "Comfy down there?" It was said in a tone light and teasing; a tone that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Oh, yes. I'm luxuriating," said Edwin, dry as a bone. "I should do more of my thinking on the floor. Stimulate the little grey cells."

"Look at things from a different angle, yeah?"

Edwin peered up at him, his line of vision beginning directly beneath the point of Charles' chin. This shouldn't be a flattering angle for him, but alas, he looked as handsome to Edwin's eyes as he ever had. Must he never know a moment's peace...? "Yes, something along those lines. Although so far it's offering precious little in the way of fresh insight. And it —"

Charles gave him a pointed look.

Edwin sighed, and corrected himself. "He is... not helping."

Frowning, Charles squatted down beside him, bringing their faces closer together. His knee rested lightly upon Edwin's abdomen as it bent. With the illusion of awareness afforded to him, Edwin could almost feel the weight of it. Almost.

"He's still talking to you, then," said Charles, voice low; as if he didn't wish for the bones to overhear.

"On occasion," said Edwin, with equal caution. "On... fairly frequent occasion."

"What's he saying now? Still on the 'stay with me’?"

Edwin shook his head, before letting it fall to the side. Peering across the length of his whimsical pillow at the dark leather siding of the trunk. He let his eyes drift closed, let the soft susurration of the voice creep back into his mind unimpeded by distraction or resistance.

"He wants..." His fingers flexed on his chest. "He wants to be held."

Distantly, the phantom weight of Charles' hand alighted upon his shoulder. All the more frustrating for possessing the barest edge of tangibility. As if Edwin was allowed to sense the shape of him and nothing more.

"By anyone?" Charles asked.

A short, stabbing pain flared behind Edwin's eyes. He winced. "No. No, not just anyone will do, I don't think."

A door clicked, and a new voice chimed in: "Do you think you should hold them?"

Edwin and Charles both looked up at Crystal, who was propped wearily against the doorjamb leading to the small water closet. Aside from dealing with whatever human activities she'd had to carry out in there, she'd also clearly splashed her face with cold water. A few glistening droplets clung to her neck, and she had that touch of mania in her eyes that oft accompanied a minor shock.

She shrugged, arms crossed. "I mean. He told you to look at him, and that helped. Maybe you just need to do what he asks you to do..."

"It's... possible," Edwin hedged.

Unfortunately, Crystal did have a point. Based on prior evidence, there was every reason to believe that giving in to the bones' demands would alleviate Edwin's suffering. But for reasons he could neither name nor explain, he had the distinct feeling that to do so wouldn't end well for him. A feeling he suspected he wasn't alone in; raising the subject had caused Charles to tense up, his shoulders a rigid line of stress.

But they were rapidly running out of alternatives.

Edwin hitched himself up, sitting with a wince at the shadow of an ache in his spine. His shoulder bumped up against the open top edge of the trunk, and a small surge of anticipation from its resident rippled through him. Edwin raised his hand and, with a dry, apprehensive swallow, reached out —

It was stilled before it could get within three inches of the skeleton.

"Let's — let's keep digging a bit, yeah?" said Charles, fingers flexing visibly around Edwin's wrist. When Edwin looked up he found Charles with his eyes wide, and his ghostly countenance paler than usual. "Bet we'll stumble on something soon."

Edwin offered no resistance. "Yes. Yes, I daresay you're right."

Crystal seemed neither surprised nor overly upset that her idea had been rejected. Perhaps she shared their concerns after all. "I still have a few more magic shops to hit up," she said. "I can go try and shake down that Steve guy in person."

"Don't count on it," Charles warned her. "Slippery customer. He'll be under the door and away in two seconds flat."

"...Right. And, uh, I figured maybe Emma might have some ideas..."

"Emma?" asked Charles.

"The little girl," said Edwin. "With the squid."

"Oh!"

"Good idea, Crystal," Edwin mumbled, rubbing his brow. "She's been dead a long while, clearly has a working knowledge of the occult. Perhaps she's seen a curse of this ilk before."

"Jesus, I'm gonna go," she said, gravely. But she gave his shoulder a companionable squeeze as she passed him to claim her jacket. "Freaks me out when you're too nice to me."

Edwin scoffed. "Honestly, Crystal, you liken me to some sort of wicked stepmother. I'm not a drill sergeant."

"No," she said, shrugging into her jacket with a smile and a twinkle in her eye. "You're just a bitch. Look after him, Charles."

She sloped out of the office without a backwards glance, ignoring Edwin's protests and Charles' giggling. When Edwin turned his displeasure on Charles he was met with crinkled eyes and unrepentant cheer.

"What?" said Charles. He held his thumb and forefinger close together. "You are a bit."

Edwin scowled, toppling back onto his pile of blankets with crossed arms and poor grace. "Perhaps it's best we read in silence for a little while."

~

Days passed, and still no breakthrough.

Crystal was consuming inadvisable quantities of coffee on a daily basis, and had taken to pacing the hall outside the office. Her hair had ballooned to twice its usual volume under the stress of her fretful tugging and twisting.

Even Charles was showing the strain through his erstwhile bulletproof veneer of optimism. Edwin kept glancing up at him, and catching him staring back with a haunted look. As if he half expected Edwin to vanish in a puff of smoke before his very eyes. There was a marked increase in the frequency of grounding hands upon Edwin's arm, chest, shoulders; holding Edwin down lest he flutter away in the breeze.

Edwin, it had to be said, wasn't coping all too well, either. For the first time in a hundred sleepless years, he felt truly exhausted. He was burning the candle at both ends; as far as he was concerned if his eyes were open, he could be reading something. Though book research, generally something he found intriguing and invigorating, now had his weary eyes sliding off the page. And onto the trunk.

Always, always to the trunk.

Hold me hold me hold me please hold me...

Its calls never ceased. They waxed and waned, and at times softened to barely a breath, but always they remained; pestering, pattering, pleading. Crying out in the corners of his skull for him to come closer, closer, closer, to hold me please hold me —

As their research dead ends stacked up and desperation grew, so too did the temptation to succumb. It was, after all, as Crystal had said; if giving into the first demands had eased the way, surely there was something to be gained from giving a little more.

And yet somewhere, in the back of his mind, under the droning rattle of pleas and demands, it persisted. The niggling notion that if he were to give in, he'd surely come to regret it.

He wasn't alone in his apprehension. Just once or twice, his hands had strayed closer to the bones than usual — and each time they did, Charles' eyes snapped to them, wide and wary. If Edwin's own instinct to pull back hadn't sufficed, the dread on his best friend's face would have stayed his hand.

But every passing hour represented another frayed nerve, another chip in his resolve. Every whispering plea a grain of sand pouring down upon him, suffocating him slowly. Though he didn't wish to, he could feel himself beginning to buckle under the strain. Not even the small relief that came from facing the problem head-on, looking the remains of himself in his hollow eyes, was enough to mitigate the mounting horror of prolonged exposure. It was incessant. It was inescapable.

To be frank, he wasn't sure how much more he could take. If they didn't find something...

"FOUND SOMETHING!"

Edwin jumped — which, from his position on the floor, caused his body to lurch in a rather unpleasant jackknifing motion. Gathering his wits, he propped himself up on his elbows. "What?"

"Here!" Charles babbled excitedly, jabbing his finger to the page of the battered leather-bound book in his hands. "In this old apothecary's journal. Must've looked right past it first time, it's dead small."

He cleared his throat and read aloud, affecting — in Edwin's opinion — a needlessly exaggerated upper crust intonation. "'My 'esteemed' colleague in the mortuary magicks' — that's magics with a 'k', by the way. Proper old arcane stuff."

"Charles, the point," Crystal prompted.

"Right, yeah. 'My 'esteemed' colleague in the mortuary magicks recently positioned — no, wait — recently posited that in the event of sudden, traumatic demise in the presence of powerful magic, a soul might be rent asunder. A colourful theory, though I find his speculations on the ability of the same spirit to commit multiple hauntings dubious at best."

Charles grinned up at them, fairly bouncing on his feet in his excitement. "Author's a snooty git, but sounds like his mate might be onto something!"

"Holy shit," said Crystal, bounding up from the sofa to lunge for the book. "Charles, I think you might be onto something!"

Edwin likewise sprung into action, leaping from the floor and elbowing in to flick through the pages with Crystal. "Charles, that is brilliant. We must find the identity of his colleague. Perhaps he's done further study into the subject..."

"Name's gotta be in there somewhere — this bloke writes almost as much as you do," Charles teased. "Flip back a bit, might've missed it earlier in the entry..."

The pages grew rather busy with all of their hands pointing at them, poring over them, riffling restlessly back and forth. Edwin found himself at the centre of a rather tight huddle; Charles and Crystal half draped across his shoulders and conversing over his head.

"This guy's writing is the worst," Crystal complained.

"Apothecary's sort of a doctor, innit?" Charles nudged her — or rather nudged Edwin, who transferred the proxy-nudge to Crystal like the central ball of a Newton's cradle. "S'pose doctors have just always had shit handwriting, eh?"

"There!" said Crystal, jabbing the page. "That name."

Edwin followed her finger, squinting. They were both quite right — the handwriting was atrocious. "Let's see... Johnathan Harrington — oh! I'm familiar with him. Or her, I should say. Harrington was the nom de plume of one Sybil Crombie. I'm given to understand she frequently adopted a male alter ego to carry out her research undeterred. Her writings are supposed to be quite radical for the time, but they're wretchedly hard to come by..."

"Must be able to find 'em somewhere," said Charles — with a confidence implying that were it not possible, he'd go to great lengths to make it so. "Maybe Tragic Mick knows someone? Could hop through the mirror and ask him."

"No need," said Edwin, closing the book with a decisive snap. "I believe I know where we might find it."

~

"Charles, you must be quiet!"

Charles winced, straightening up the book pile he'd rather loudly upset with the toe of his loafer. "This place is bloody booby trapped. What kind of bookshop keeps half the books on the floor?"

"The kind that isn't overly interested in making sales," Edwin muttered. "Keep your voice down. The proprietor bears an inane grudge against me for some reason."

"Maybe 'cause you nicked his book, mate," Charles chuckled.

"I borrowed his book. I had every intention of returning it, he's quite unreasonable. Now, if he has any regard for organisation whatsoever —"

"Wouldn't bloody count on it."

"Then it must be somewhere in this section. Look for anything by Johnathan Harrington — quietly!"

Charles resumed his search, tiptoeing about the treacherous shopfloor with a wincing expression. He was, unfortunately, not widely renowned for his stealth. But with Crystal unable to mirror travel and Edwin likewise tethered to the office, Charles was their only suitable spy.

Edwin scowled at the mirror, at his hand disappearing into it. So far, Crystal hadn't tugged his wrist, so he could only assume the bones weren't yet causing a scene. It would seem that remaining at least partially connected to the office lessened their separation anxiety. Edwin was growing rather tired of having to dangle through a mirror portal, half-in and half-out, on a metaphorical leash. Honestly, if he had a penny!

He couldn't aid much in Charles' search, but he scanned the one bookshelf within his reach while Charles pored over the reverse side. He could see Charles' efforts through the gaps above the books; see his brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out between his teeth as his clever brown eyes flickered over the spines. Something tight and anxious in Edwin's chest loosened at the sight. Despite the direness of the situation and the insistent voice tugging on his sleeve, he felt assured. Safe in the knowledge that neither of them would rest until this case was solved. Not even Charles, who hated nothing so much as having to read lots of words very quickly, was going to leave this bookshop until they had what they needed.

"Not here," said Charles. "Gonna check the other shelves!"

"Quietly!" Edwin hissed after him; to which Charles responded with a lip-zipping motion and a sloppy salute.

Edwin closed his eyes, attempting to slow his breathing. Attempting to enjoy the moment of slight distance between him and the voice, though he could still feel it under his skin, as if it were creeping through his fingers and into his brain. He could feel his tension ratchet ever upwards with every passing moment. He couldn't be sure what was more abrasive on his nerves; the stealth mission, his inability to contribute, or the whispering bones. When calming breaths proved to be a lost cause, he focused instead on standing sentry; keeping his eyes and ears attuned to any sounds from beyond the bookstacks.

"Gotcha!"

Charles' too-loud, triumphant cry startled Edwin. His eyes snapped back to find Charles dragging a book from a nearby shelf and holding it up for Edwin's inspection. The title: Connective Tissue: Osteopathy and the Human Soul, by Johnathan Harrington.

Despite his misgivings, Edwin grinned. "Well done, Charles!"

"I say — is someone there?" came a voice from off, prim and peevish.

They both jumped.

"Shit," Charles muttered.

"Mirror, now," Edwin hissed, seizing Charles by the hand as soon as he scampered within reach.

Hand in hand, two ghosts and a very old and valuable book ducked back into the in-between — leaving Soho and the cries of the irate bookseller behind them.

~

November 1st, 1832: A Case Study, and a Confession

William Stoker, my friend and colleague, passed away earlier this year. Too young; a mere lad of twenty-four when he was taken from us.

His father is (or perhaps was) a friend of mine. As long as I'd known him, William (or Will, as I would come to call him) had always had a keen eye and a scientist's curiosity. When his father suggested I take young Will under my wing, I leapt upon the chance. It was a valuable experience for him; and a much-needed helping hand for myself. Frequently, Will would aid me in my research endeavours, no matter how unsavoury. A strong constitution is required in our field, and William possessed it in spades. Not even the more grisly aspects of the job could dampen his cheerful whistling while he worked — nor could my insistence that it was bad luck to whistle inside. He was far from a superstitious lad. For several years, he acted as my research assistant and, more commonly, dogsbody, with good grace and no complaints. Pride was of no concern to him. His only thoughts lay with the work.

It was a tragic and violent incident that ended William's life; an incident for which I hold myself responsible, at least in part. I could not have known, and yet even now I feel I should have. Somehow. I worry that day, that incident like a loose, aching tooth. Wondering if I overlooked the signs, somehow. Wondering if his death could have been avoided...

I sent William to collect something for me. Some samples; a selection of assorted vertebrae, to be exact. With the help of a local hedgewitch, Sally Cubbins — a long time associate of mine — I had been preserving them in a variety of herbal and chemical compounds, in order to observe reactions of the marrow. It should have been a simple task. Little did I know as I gave him his marching orders that Sally was in the midst of a delicate situation. A summoning, to be exact. One of the women in her locale was being harassed by a malevolent entity, a demon. One more powerful and more bloodthirsty than my poor Sally bargained for. Her summoning and dismissal went badly awry.

When I went to investigate Will's prolonged absence, I found him and Sally both. What was left of them, at any rate. Rent asunder atop a similarly broken summoning circle. To this day, I've no idea what became of the demon. Perhaps, when my own time comes, it will be waiting to drag me to damnation.

That gruesome scene was the last I saw of Sally Cubbins, God rest her soul.

It was not, however, the last I saw of William Stoker.

William's father asked that I prepare the remains for burial. Perhaps he wanted to assure me that he didn't hold me responsible. Perhaps he was simply too deep in his grief to seek other arrangements. Either way, I accepted without a thought. There was little left of Will; needless to say, an open casket was out of the question. But I did my best to make him presentable. I believed it to be the least I could do.

And later that evening, in my mortuary, William appeared to assess my work for himself.

(No doubt, many of you reading this just scoffed. But I shan't sidestep the matter. I have encountered a number of spectres in my time; in my line of work they are practically an inevitability. I have seen them, often, and consider them to be a manifestation and demonstration of the fortitude of the human soul. Though my detractors will no doubt continue to insist that the embalming fluid fumes must have gone to my senses. If you, dear reader, are likewise unconvinced, I would politely recommend you seek alternative literature.)

I had met many a phantasm over the course of my career, yet Will was quite unlike any other I'd previously encountered. He was recognisably himself, at least. But I had always found conversation with spectres little different from conversation with the living. They are by-and-large sensible, coherent, rational folk, simply seeking their end life's purpose. If they were a person I had previously met in life, I generally found their spirit to be no different in personality or demeanour.

Will, however, seemed... troubled. Deeply troubled. He had adopted a number of tics and nervous mannerisms, and a wildness of eye. When he spoke he was prone to saying things which were unreasonable, paranoid, frantic. And despite my suggestion that he take a constitutional, bid farewell to his friends, family and favourite places, my prompting fell on deaf ears. He exhibited a powerful reluctance to exit the mortuary.

I soon realised it was not the room to which he felt attached, but his remains.

Though I myself was still grieving, I was nonetheless fascinated by the situation, and decided to investigate further. The funeral, after all, would not be for several days yet. Besides which, I must confess a desire for distraction, for purpose — and perhaps some small absolution from the guilt of his passing.

Over the next several days, I took careful note of Will's moods and movements as they occurred. Any dips and troughs, any manic periods. Any strange phenomena I could notice connected to either himself, or his remains. I asked him frequently what he was thinking, or feeling (insomuch as a spectre is able to feel), and I recorded all that I could. This amounted to dozens upon dozens of pages of notes, likely insurmountable to most given my particular manner of writing, but I shall attempt to summarise the key points:

William complained often of pain, largely in his 'joints', and discomfort at minor physical sensations he should not, by rights, have been able to feel at all. Discomfort which increased in proximity to his remains. He also reported itchiness, headaches, and nausea.

William exhibited acute episodes of psychological distress. When I was able to get any sense out of him he reported feeling dread, anxiety, claustrophobia, and a feeling of being ‘hounded’. On more than one occasion I witnessed him having what I can only describe as an attack of panic. What good rapid breathing serves to a ghost, I've no idea. Aside from his acute episodes, William also suffered a near constant low-level psychological turmoil. He was prone to listlessness, melancholy, restlessness, and frustration. He would often tell me, with a smile short on humour, that he 'wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry'.

William was hearing things. A voice, a whisper. Something, somewhere, was speaking to him.

As you can imagine, I found this last revelation alarming. And there was little I could do to glean more information, as Will only let slip of this voice once and then proceeded to bury the matter. No doubt he feared himself mad, or cursed. No amount of reasoning could convince him to open up to me about the voice or what it was saying.

By the time the day of Will's funeral was upon us, I was no nearer to answers. And so I made a choice, out of desperation. As I’ve every intention that this entry be published posthumously, I can confess to you my sin.

Reader, I did not bury William's remains that day. I sent the undertakers a closed coffin, nailed tight, and warned William's father that his son's remains were in no fit state to be observed. That despite my best efforts, there was simply not enough of him left to reconstruct. I advised him, please, to hold onto the memory of his son as he was, and let his body claim its final resting place sight unseen.

I ask not for forgiveness, reader. Only understanding. You must understand that I already believed myself hellbound for my part in William's death, amongst myriad other indecencies and indiscretions in my life. If I was to face judgement either way, I decided I would do everything in my power to find answers first. If it comes as any consolation, Will endorsed my course of action. Although looking back, I wonder whether he was truly of sound enough mind to do so...

But that too is a question only God may answer, and I'm sure He will let me know in due course.

The remains, of course, had to be reduced; there was only so long I could keep a cadaver in progressing states of decay lying about without causing suspicion or ill health. It was a grim and unpleasant task, but within the week Will's flesh had gone the way of the incinerator, and only his bones remained in the mortuary. And what peculiar things they were; they had about them some strange energy, though I had no opportunity to find out if this was widely-noticeable, except to those already with the Sight for the paranormal. To my eyes, they were in possession of the faintest glow; and to my ears, on occasion, a soft, susurrating rattle.

With Will's remains safely in my possession, and his spirit in permanent residence, I observed both over the following weeks. I did, of course, continue urging Will to take his leave, say his goodbyes, seek his own absolution. But he staunchly refused to do so. He became a shadow to my work, much as he had been in life — though by all accounts he was a mere shell of his former self.

In death, more so than any spectre I'd ever met, Will was short-tempered and morose. Though his old self, the lively young man I'd considered a close friend and worthy apprentice, clearly still dwelled within the spectral form. I glimpsed him from time to time, in fleeting moments of lightness and candour. Whatever it was which held Will in its grasp, it had neither erased nor altered the heart of him. He still had a smile on his lips for me, still whistled his jaunty tunes long into the night, albeit with a new edge of mania. He was not a man changed or possessed, but a weary soul under considerable strain. This I believe, even now.

I did my utmost to ease that strain upon him, but found there was little I could do. He was bedevilled by forces beyond my ken, and I felt powerless to aid him in any way that mattered. Though to the best of my ability I kept him company, lifted his spirits (if you'll pardon the play on words). I spent many a long night in the mortuary, playing cards with the deceased. I was deeply comforted to find that despite his quite alarming personality shifts, he was still an inveterate cheat. Always an ace up his ghostly sleeve.

Despite my best efforts, his temperament worsened. And though he continued not to confide in me, I knew that mine was not the only voice in his ear. Something was still speaking to him, whispering to him, things I could only speculate upon. And so often when he heard that voice, when his countenance drew tight and his jaw clenched, I would find his gaze drawn to the covered unit where his own remains now resided.

I became convinced that the bones had become possessed in some fashion. I suspected the demon that had slain Will and my dear Sally was to blame. Perhaps it had been too weak to step into the mortal world from its summoning circle, and had instead taken refuge in the remains of its victims. I called upon all of the occult knowledge I had amassed over the years to try and oust any such unwelcome guest, but to no avail. If only Sally had still been with us, perhaps... but no. No matter what exorcisms I conducted, no matter the counter-hex or cleansing spell, the thing residing in Will's remains held fast. Burrowed in, anchored to the marrow, as surely as if it had belonged there all along.

I explored other avenues, of course. Raided my library and my journals, passed the scenario as a hypothetical amongst my friends in occult circles. I explored the possibilities of paranormal parasites, of life echoes, of curses and corruptions, but no theory held water and no counter yielded results.

All the while Will, God help him, continued to deteriorate. Day by day he grew more frantic, more preoccupied. Often I saw him lingering near his bones with a strange, mad look in his eye. I might even go so far as to call it murderous. Whatever had taken residence in his bones, it had not granted him a moment's peace in weeks, and he was wearing thin.

I had formed a new theory, although to this day I have no true manner of verifying it. It is not, after all, as if I can secure Will or the thing in his remains for thorough interview or cross-examination. But it was, and remains to this day, my theory. The only cogent explanation for these wretched happenings that makes any sense with the facts. I theorised that somehow, perhaps due to the violent and intensely magical nature of William's demise, a part of him was separated from the whole. Perhaps a spirit can be propelled from a physical form with such ruthless immediacy as to leave a small piece of itself behind.

Well, I see no reason to beat about the bush. If you wish to call me mad, I'm sure you've already reached that decision with yourself. I believed, and continue to believe that William was, in effect, carrying out two hauntings at once.

The lion's share of his soul, the person most easily identifiable as the Will I'd known, lay outside his remains, as is the norm with spectres. He was still thoughtful, intelligent, able to follow and carry conversation. Able to reminisce upon his life, able to form complex arguments and hold nuanced opinions.

The piece he'd left behind was, I fear, severely lacking in any of these traits. It's debatable whether it could even be said to be in possession of a personality. Based on what little I'd managed to eke out from Will about its way of speaking, it seemed to me a shrivelled, stunted thing. An essence comprised merely of a single want, a single need. It did not have within it the capacity for reason, for comfort or conversation. It cried out in his mind like a hungry child, insensible to any and all things but that which it craved. There was no reasoning with it, no bargaining, no way to soothe it. Nothing, except to give it what it desired.

Now, here is where the tragic end of this tale writes itself. For you see, though Will was my friend, and confided in me about a great many things, he would not disclose the exact nature of the fragment’s request. I believe it scared him, or shamed him. Rendered him vulnerable in a way his scattered soul was simply not equipped to handle. I pleaded with him to tell me exactly what it is the voice wished, what it said, what it would keep saying, but he would not confess. Not even to me.

How I wish he had.

For all my expertise, all my tools and skills and hard-earned knowledge of the anatomical magics, I was powerless. Powerless to do anything to change his fate. Or at least, this is what I tell myself; but as I take responsibility for his death, perhaps I merely wish to absolve myself of his suffering thereafter.

As the days and the weeks wore on, Will closed himself to me. His world narrowed to a pinpoint; to the bones. Always the bones. I would see him standing beside the drawer where they lay, staring into it whether it stood open or closed. At times when I had them pulled out and resting upon a pallet, desperately seeking any clues I might have missed, he would circle them. Pacing, edging closer, closer, hand outstretched; ultimately pulling back with a hair's breadth to spare. I considered locking them away for good, removing them entirely from his sight, but what good would it do? To a spectre, wood and metal are hardly a deterrent. Though I considered the merits of building them a box of iron, something even a ghost would hesitate to cross.

I had no wish to hold his remains hostage, however, so instead I tried to talk to him. Tried to encourage him to different pursuits. But there was nothing I could hold his attention or interest with. There was nothing else, not anymore. All William cared about was those bones. He would stare at them with fascination, with yearning, with revulsion writ plain across his expression, his fine-featured young face now carved and haggard. He hated them; and he needed them.

And one day... he touched them.

I will never forget it so long as I live, and I will carry it thereafter into damnation. The scream that tore from him, violent and visceral, more animal than human. Nor will I forget the sight of his arm — his strong, steady arm, which had once fetched and carried for me without the slightest tremor — as it withered, liquified. As his spectral flesh loosened from his frame and dripped like hot candle wax down an invisible pathway; following the hollow shape where once resided the bones of his arm, his wrist, his fingers. Before I could act or react, the effect was spreading; shoulder, chest, neck. Face. Before my very eyes he melted, oozed, his liquid remains drawn to the bones like water to a spigot, like gas to a vacuum.

And before I could even think to scream, William Stoker was no longer.

Afterwards, the remains lay... well. I do not wish to say dormant. Evidently, they are no such thing. Energy still thrums within those bones, clear as day to those with the eyes to see, but it is of a more benign disposition now. It no longer wishes harm upon any who might come near; I suspect if it wishes harm, it wishes it only upon itself. I tried over the years to do my research, find a solution, to do everything in my power to draw poor Will out of his prison, but I never succeeded.

He never rematerialised. No more did he appear in my mortuary to fret or pace or cheat at cards. No more did I hear his whistling into the night.

But sometimes, from the dusty iron lockbox wherein his pitiable bones reside in the mortuary to this day, I can still hear his screams.

May God have mercy on his soul. And on mine.

~

Edwin's voice trailed off. It seemed to hang in the air like a curse long after the fact.

Hunched forward in the opposing desk chair, Crystal sat looking distinctly nauseous. "Oh, my god..."

Charles — perched, as ever, upon the desk itself — was white as a sheet and, for once, at a total loss for words.

Clearing his throat, Edwin closed the book with great care. "Well," he said, clipped. "That, at least, was... pertinent to the case."

"Edwin..." Crystal began, face pinched in concern.

In an explosive burst of motion, Charles was over the desk and on his feet in a metaphorical heartbeat. Three long strides had him over to the trunk, to the whispering bones; and a sweep of his arm had the lid slamming down upon them like a portcullis.

Edwin winced, gritting his teeth as the mild hum in the back of his head spiked into a distressed, cutting wail. "Charles, please —"

"You're not touching 'em!" Charles snapped, picking up the enchanted lock from the floor and slipping it through the shank. It rattled and grated; his hands were shaking. "You're not getting anywhere bloody near them!"

"Believe me, Charles, I've no intention of it," said Edwin, rising from his seat. His own hands felt rather unsteady as he braced them upon the desk. "But it does help to mitigate the effects if the trunk is kept ajar."

But Charles was shaking his head, hunching his shoulders. It was only when Edwin heard the sound of a slight sniffle that he recognised what was happening.

His heart clenched. "Charles..."

Charles swiped a hand angrily down his face as he lurched upright. When he rounded on Crystal, his eyes were dark with a shadowy smudge of dissolving kohl. "We nearly let him touch them," he barked. "Earlier, when we —"

"I know, Charles, I know," she said as she stood. "But we didn't. You didn't. Charles."

She walked over to him, bold as brass despite his bristling demeanour, and took his face in her hands. "He's fine. He's fine."

Edwin, feeling like an interloper despite being the subject of distress, hovered at the desk. Fists clenched, knuckles braced together; grounding himself against his own spectral solidity the only way he knew how. "Charles," he repeated, softer. He sounded altogether too close to weeping himself.

In a blink, Charles was back by his side — and his arms were around Edwin like a vice. "I'm sorry," he babbled, breathing the words in a rapid patter against Edwin's neck, voice choked with tears. "Fuck, Edwin, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Perhaps it was proximity to the remains or simply a rawness of emotion, but... Edwin could almost feel him. Trick himself into believing he could feel Charles' weight in his arms, rich and real.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," Edwin uttered, soft, yet stern. He returned the embrace, clutching the nothing that was everything in his arms. "You held me back, Charles. You saved me again."

He squeezed him tight, for all the good it would do. "Thank you."

Charles seemed in no hurry to pull away — and frankly, neither was Edwin. So he allowed himself to hold and be held a few moments longer, clinging to Charles like a port in a storm.

Meanwhile, behind Charles' back and in the corner of Edwin's vision, Crystal had begun to pace.

"Okay. Okay, so. So this has happened before. That's good, right? Means we're not totally fucking alone, here," she muttered, tugging at a flyaway curl of her hair. "We just — we just need to think about this. Sybil, John, whatever didn't know what the bones wanted because that guy wouldn't talk to her, but we do, right? Edwin, you've told us everything, right?"

"I've told you the whole of it," he replied. It came out slightly muffled in Charles' shoulder.

"Good. Great, okay, so we're not flying blind. We just — look, she said it was like, a haunting, right? Like his spirit was..."

"Split in two," said Edwin, quietly.

The look she cast him over Charles' shoulder was gratingly sympathetic. "Yeah. Yeah, so fine. It's a haunting. So how do you stop a haunting?"

"It depends," said Edwin.

"Unfinished business," Charles cut in. He inhaled through his nose as he pulled back, and pulled himself (mostly) together. "Sort out the unfinished business, sort out the haunting. More often 'n not."

"Great," said Crystal. "So we find whatever unfinished business the piece of Edwin trapped in those bones has, and we finish it."

Edwin snorted, scratching his cheek where it had been pressed to Charles' neck. Though he could scarcely feel a bit of it, he already missed the embrace. "You make it sound so very straightforward."

"I mean, isn't it?"

"It's not as if we can interview the client," he sniped.

"Oi," Charles mumbled, ever the peacekeeper — but his heart wasn't in the admonishment. His hand, however, was in Edwin's hand. As if he could no more bear to break the contact than Edwin could bear to lose it.

"No, but it can't be anything complicated, right?" She clicked her fingers. "She said that piece of his spirit was like, it was a fragment. Like it wasn't intelligent."

Edwin bristled.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not saying you're not intelligent. Idiot."

"How silly of me to think such a thing," he said icily.

"What I mean is — that you, the one in the box, it's like, base, right? That's what she said. No reason, no personality. It's barely conscious. Right?"

"Right," said Charles, nodding to himself. "Right, so he's — he's not gonna be wishing he'd composed a bloody symphony or anything."

"Exactly. Nothing complex. We've just gotta find whatever basic, boring, any-amoeba-can-do-it thing that he wants and... give it to him. And then he moves on and the haunting stops. Right?"

"In theory, yes, it could be as simple as that," said Edwin. "Although we mustn't discount the possibility that what it wants is..."

Though he'd absorbed the images as text on a page, they flickered through his mind on a vivid reel, crimson-tinted frames of celluloid horror. Images of his own arm twisting, warping, bubbling. Bleeding away from him in a roiling mass of terrible tallow, into the empty vessel of his howling bones.

He swallowed. "A reunion..."

"Nope," said Charles, flat, with a decisive shake of his head. "Nah. Nah, we're not. No. S'not that. There's gotta be something other than that. Hasn't there?"

"Yeah," muttered Crystal, answering his pointless tag question with an even more pointless platitude. "Yeah. Sure. Gotta be."

But she shared a look with Edwin behind Charles' back, a worried one. One he returned with a grim set to his jaw.

Neither one of them spoke another word for fear of upsetting Charles — or speaking the terrible truth into existence — but it lingered nonetheless. Lying unspoken between them, as large as the box of bones and all the more ominous a presence. The terrible elephant in the room.

Maybe there is no other way.

~

"So." Edwin turned on his heel to face the gathering as his chalk scraped a decisive line beneath the words 'Unfinished Business' on the board. "Let us have it. Any notion that springs to mind. At this juncture, there are no wrong answers. What could he want, what could he need?"

Charles and Crystal sat assembled on the floor, watching him and the board like tall, bedraggled schoolchildren with poor posture. Stationed dutifully between Edwin and the trunk — which had been propped open again, on his request. He needed to think, and it was damnably difficult with his bones having a tantrum.

"Gotta be basic, yeah?" said Charles, scratching his nose. "Right, so what's like, the most basic thing people can want?"

"Sleep?" said Crystal, on the tail end of a stifled yawn.

Edwin rolled his eyes, but dutifully jotted it down.

"Food?" Charles offered, hopping aboard her train of thought. "Um, water...?"

"Sex?" said Crystal.

Edwin, halfway through making note of the previous suggestions, gasped in indignance and turned upon her. "I absolutely do not consent to anyone attempting... that with my skeleton." He wrinkled his nose. "I'm not even sure how one would go about such a thing..."

"Bet there's a few people online who'd have ideas," she muttered.

"I dread to think. Hm. Perhaps there are some wrong answers, after all," he said curtly, deigning not to write it down. "Let's rule that one out for the time being. Any others?"

"Cash?" Charles suggested. "We could lob a few tenners at 'im?"

Edwin closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Let us call that Plan F."

"You know, there is a way we could get the answer straight up," said Crystal, voice quiet and eyes to the floor. "Straight from the horse's mouth."

"Crys..." said Charles, a gentle warning.

"I could read them," she blew past him.

"You heard what that journal said," Charles argued. "They'll melt the bloody flesh off your bones!"

"I'm alive — pretty sure that was a ghost special." She turned to Edwin. "You agree with me, right? It's the fastest, most bulletproof way to figure this out."

He did agree, and he opened his mouth to say so. But then he made the mistake of looking directly at her; at that now-familiar glint of reckless determination in her eye.

Edwin sighed. "I agree with your assessment. But I agree with Charles, as well. It's a risk. We must exhaust all other avenues, first."

He saw Charles let out a breath he'd been holding, a spark of gratitude glowing warm in his eyes. It was a suitable balm to the caustic ire of Crystal.

"We've been here days! How long did that guy last before he caved, like a month? I know you say you're fine, Edwin, but you're not fine! Look! You're doing your — your thing!"

She pointed to his hands — he followed her gaze, scowled, and pointedly unclenched his fists, letting them fall to his sides.

"And you're still twitching," she said. "They're still in your head, right?"

ClosercomeclosercomecloserlookatmeholdmeCLOSER —

"I have it quite under control," said Edwin. "And even if I did wish to succumb, I'll hardly find the chance with the two of you watching me like hawks."

"But I could —!"

"Crystal," he said, voice like a sharp rap across the knuckles. "You are of far too much value to us to risk when we haven't exhausted all other options, and that is final."

She blinked, mouth flopping in a flabberghasted, fish-like manner.

"Yeah," said Charles, softly. His hand found hers, cupping over her smaller digits upon the office floor. "What he said."

Crystal looked to him, then Edwin, with eyes that looked suspiciously damp. Oh, good heavens, no. He simply couldn't bear it if another person were to cry in front of him today.

Edwin cleared his throat. "Well." He brushed down his rumpled shirt. "Now that's dealt with —let us return to the task at hand, shall we?"

"Right, yeah. Unfinished business." Charles frowned, tapping his fingers on his knee. "Mate..."

"Yes, Charles?"

"I'm thinking, yeah... If we find out what his unfinished business is," he said, jerking his thumb towards the sealed trunk at his back. "And he moves on. Does that mean... Since, y'know, since he's you..."

"That I would move on with him?"

Charles exhaled, a ragged sound, and nodded.

Edwin swallowed. "We... mustn’t discount the possibility."

A possibility which hung heavy in the air between them, grey and charged like a storm cloud. Edwin could see the panic in Charles' eyes — recognised it intimately for it matched that rising in his own chest. A thin, taut thread of terror strung between their unbeating hearts. A thread which neither one of them wished to snip.

"We don't have a choice," Crystal cut in, quiet. Almost gentle. "Edwin's sick. And he's gonna keep being sick. If it gets bad, if his bones... absorb him."

She chewed on her lower lip, and looked Edwin solemnly in the eye. "Then we lose you either way."

He closed his eyes. "We have to try."

"Yeah," said Charles, the weight of the world in one little syllable.

Edwin waited to face the blackboard before he opened his eyes once more. He couldn't bring himself to meet Charles' gaze; he'd only want to run and hide in it. "So. What else have we —"

"Oh, boys!"

The three of them startled like gazelles, whirling on the new voice. That was no surprise appearance of the spectral postman — that was the unmistakable voice of —

"Ah," said Edwin, sheepishly straightening his back and attempting to do likewise with his rumpled shirt. "Good evening."

The Night Nurse stood, in all her crispness and cleanliness, at the heart of the veritable bombsite of their office with an air of horror. "Is it, Master Payne? Because it hardly seems to be the case from where I'm standing! What have you little delinquents been doing — I was gone for less than a fortnight!" She frowned, and consulted her watch. "I was certain I’d accounted for your terrestrial timezone…"

"Long story," said Crystal. "But we've got a situation."

"I can see that, young lady. Would one of you care to elaborate?"

"We found Edwin's..." Crystal's eyes flickered to him, uncomfortable.

Edwin sighed. "My remains. We found my remains." He gestured to the trunk. "Stashed and forgotten in the attic at the school where I... yes."

She leaned over neatly, knees and back unbending, and peered into the trunk. For just a moment, her stern expression softened somewhat. "Oh. Wee lamb..."

Edwin blinked, the gentleness of that designation altogether a little more than he was prepared for. He found himself unsure what to do with it, so he put it down on the floor and backed away slowly with a clear of his throat. "Yes, it's been a... trying few days."

"There's something about 'em," said Charles. "We think they're sort of... haunted."

"They're making Edwin sick — keeping him here, talking in his head," added Crystal.

"Found some notes about it happening to someone else." Charles picked up the book from the floor at his side and tapped the cover. "Basically, we don't sort them out, Edwin's fucked."

"Thank you, Charles," Edwin muttered.

"I see," she said, taking the book from Charles and flicking through it. Though she merely riffled through the pages as if she were shuffling a deck of cards, Edwin had no doubt the information found its way into her brain somehow. An enviable talent. "And how do you intend to 'sort them out'?"

"Unfinished business is our best bet so far," said Crystal. "But it's gotta be something super basic. Something unconscious."

"And I take it burial didn't work?"

Edwin looked at Charles. Charles looked at Crystal. Crystal, wide-eyed, only shrugged.

"We... have not attempted burial," said Edwin, carefully.

The Night Nurse stared at him, eyes slightly bugged, before they narrowed. "You haven't. Tried. Burial?" she said, voice clipped, stilted. Sharp and precise as the rhythmic snip of a pair of sewing scissors.

"Well, um, no — but, it was gonna be next on the list!" Charles lied.

"Children," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with two immaculate fingernails. "In the event of cursed or haunted remains, proper burial is almost always standard protocol! Did any one of you think to read the Lost & Found Guidelines and Procedures manual that I gave to you?"

Edwin, abashed, shifted his weight and steepled his fingers. "I... gave it a cursory glance."

Edwin had read some dry texts in his time, often with interest and even some pleasure, but even by his standards that tome had been... a difficult read. He'd wished fervently, as he did most every day, that Niko had still been with them. How she'd managed to read that book at all, let alone absorb and decode its convoluted contents in a handful of hours, remained one of life's great mysteries. A truly uncanny affinity with the text, as if she'd written it herself.

The Night Nurse scowled. "Well. Chop chop, then — kindly locate a suitable, respectable burial site and crack on. And once you've got that sorted out, clean up this mess; we can hardly invite clients into this pig sty."

She cursed under her breath, in a language too old for even Edwin's linguist's ear, as she picked up the briefcase by her feet. It seemed to weigh a tonne — possibly a non-figurative one. "Now. If that's all sorted out, I've accrued a lot of paperwork from the conference. I'll be attending to that in my study and I would strongly advise you not interrupt me." She huffed a frustrated exhale through her nose. "I do hope that irksome landlady of yours hasn't re-ordered all of my pens, again..."

And with a sharp snap of her fingers, she was gone once more. Folding through space and time neat and sharp-edged as an origami crane, she teleported to the top floor, and the other disused apartment where she'd set up her own office to distance herself from 'the youth'.

The three of them left behind stared at the empty spot, where her stiletto heels had pinched small matching dips in the floorboard.

"Well," said Charles. "Seems as good a start as any, yeah?"

"Yes," said Edwin, tightly. "I'm amazed we hadn't thought of it."

"I was, uh. I was kinda joking, before, with the mirror and stuff, but..." Crystal furrowed her brow. "Are we like, actually stupid?"

Edwin jotted down burial on the board, and underlined it thrice. "Best not to dwell on it."

~

Edwin and Charles had become quite familiar with London's so-called Magnificent Seven. Unsurprising, given their line of work. Cemeteries and the engravings therein were a treasure trove of useful information when it came to helping the unquiet dead move on.

In fact, they'd visited the sites often enough to form extensive opinions and pick favourites. Edwin's preference was for the peace and quiet of Nunhead, or the fascinating architecture of West Norwood. Charles, on the other hand, had taken a shine to the overgrown, ramshackle remains of Tower Hamlets.

"Almost like it's barely a graveyard anymore, innit?" he'd said of his fondness once, as he bent to inspect another fragment. Many of the gravestones had become so broken, so weather-worn and algae-crusted, they were barely distinguishable from protruding roots in the undergrowth. "Practically a jungle. Like a proper adventure, yeah?"

Edwin let him have his fun, but truth be told, he took some dislike to their outings to that particular cemetery. He'd not attended a service there in life — few in his family would have deigned to be buried in London's east end — but he'd visited, on occasion. Usually at the behest of his aunt, who'd insisted a stroll through the grounds was good for the mind and soul.

"Around here, my boy, you're never more than a stone's throw from a dead person, a real person, or a parakeet."

At nine years of age, Edwin had found that statement rather perplexing. At a hundred and twenty, he'd decoded two of the three. 'Real' person, he imagined, referred to the working class in the area, the sort of people Aunt Florence spent the majority of her time with, despite her brother's best attempts. And after thirty years in the company of one Charles Rowland, Edwin couldn't agree with her more on that point. Edwin was, simply and unequivocally, a better and happier person for knowing him. As to the benefit of being among dead people, perhaps she'd been referring to the good psychological practice of acknowledging one's own mortality, in order to make peace with it.

He was, admittedly, still baffled as to what an invasive species of parrot could provide for his mental acuity. He suspected she'd just thrown them in the mix because she enjoyed the colours, and respected the rule of threes.

Memories of an aunt he wished he'd tried harder to understand set aside, the cemetery was still not an easy place for him. Unlike much of London, which looked so different from his day it could be mistaken for a new city altogether, the cemetery had few modern additions. The last hundred years were marked only in growth and destruction. The shellings of the nineteen forties had shaken the stones loose, and nature had crawled in through the cracks. It was a place where each long year of his absence from the world lay plainly marked, like chalk notches on a cell wall.

Fortunately, it was not to Tower Hamlets that Crystal's internet led them, but to Kensal Green. Edwin was rather embarrassed about being unable to recall the cemetery or plot location himself. But in life, he'd visited it only a handful of times, for funerals or family pilgrimages. Over the course of seventy years in Hell, he'd lost far more vital information from his life than a burial site.

To be truthful, which cemetery it was mattered little to Edwin. After a week of confinement, he was just grateful for the outing.

There was the question, of course, of what to do about the bones and their separation anxiety if Edwin were to leave. But Charles outright refused to leave Edwin alone with them, so a temporary solution was devised. An effective (if inelegant) workaround.

Charles gave a low whistle. "Mate. This whole bloody plot's yours?"

"My family's, yes. My great, great grandfather's investment, if I recall correctly." Edwin went to give his bowtie an anxious tug, only to remember he wasn't wearing it. Lost in the dreadful haze of the last week. He settled for adjusting the collar of his shirt. "He was always quite adamant about being buried away from 'the rabble'."

"'Course he was," Charles snorted.

"So, what are we looking for?" asked Crystal, rubbing her arms. The sky was heavy with the threat of rain, and going by her chosen attire the weather must have been fresh for July. "Like... just a big enough patch to start digging?"

Edwin tutted. "Crystal. The onus is on a proper burial; we can hardly tip my mortal remains into a hole in the ground."

"I'd dig a nice hole," Charles joked, nudging Edwin with his elbow. "I'm great at digging holes."

He had mastered quite a technique over the years, but that was by the by. "There might be a grave waiting already," said Edwin.

"Like an empty one?" said Charles.

Edwin nodded. "It wasn't strictly orthodox, but I recall a similar arrangement when my Uncle Cuthbert perished at sea."

"Okay," said Crystal, rolling her shoulders and switching on her torch. "Let's get looking. I don't wanna be the only visible person digging up graves when the sun comes up."

"Check them all, thoroughly," said Edwin. "I did die rather young. It's possible I share a headstone with... with my mother."

Crystal and Charles set to — but not before casting him another worried look or two. Edwin was rather tiring of those. Just because he was being plagued by malicious forces beyond their ken didn't mean he needed to be mollycoddled.

When Edwin lifted his lantern and took a step towards the nearest headstone, he winced. Then scowled. "Oh, shush," he snapped, giving the trunk a sharp kick with his heel. It skittered a little on the wonky wheels of the pilfered airport luggage trolley to which it had been haphazardly lashed. "I'm hardly going far."

"Careful, Edwin!" Charles called out in a panic.

Edwin rolled his eyes. "I am being careful."

"It's definitely closed, yeah?" Charles persisted.

"Yes, Charles."

"Got your gloves on?"

"Yes, Charles."

"What d'you want him to do?" Crystal chimed in from the next row. "Wear a hazmat suit?"

Charles left a worrying pause. Edwin couldn't see his face at a distance in the dark, but he could see it in his mind's eye. The raised brows, widening eyes, the considering dip of his head as he thought 'actually...'. Absolutely unacceptable.

"Charles," said Edwin, firm. "Less fussing, more searching, if you don't mind."

He grumbled, of course, but his torch beam flitted away and his crunching footsteps resumed.

Though it would be more efficient to aid their efforts, Edwin decided to hang back, standing vigil over the box of bones. He'd hardly be an asset to the search party with a migraine.

Besides, if he was being honest, the idea of stumbling across a familiar name graven into ancient stone was... troubling, to say the least.

And if was being genuinely honest, more troubling still was the idea of being untroubled. It had been so very long since he'd seen his parents, his aunts and uncles and cousins. What little he remembered of them existed in his head only as fleeting snatches of memory. He'd written down facts about them, names and dates and habits and views, but in the end that was all they were. Facts. Impersonal jottings on a piece of paper. Seventy horrific years in Hell, followed by thirty in a situation comparable to a personal heaven, had put all that came before quite out of mind. It was only their recent excursions that had begun to dredge up the past; hauling the pitifully small shipwreck of his mortal life out into the light of day.

Edwin sighed and leaned on the trolley handle. In the lantern glow, the silhouettes of his family's tombstones crouched dark and dubious. No names visible, no detail, only vague forms, pitch black and hunching like a murder of silent crows. He closed his eyes against them.

His bones whispered urgent, incoherent litanies; there was little to do but bob upon the tide, and watch the distant torch beams. At some point, the one denoting Charles scurried over to meet Crystal. They might have been whispering to one another, but Edwin didn't hear, Couldn't hear. Hard to hear much of everything beyond that insistent little voice, breathing its pleading words into his ear.

Hold me hold me hold please hold me...

"Edwin?" came Charles' voice, creeping closer behind twin beams. "Got a problem."

"That doesn't fill me with confidence," said Edwin, opening his eyes slowly. Feeling as if he was coming up from underwater. "The last time you said that in a graveyard, the problem was zombies. And quite a lot of them."

"No zombies," said Crystal, hustling into view side by side with Charles like a two-headed creature in the gloom. Charles' earring flashed in the lantern glow before his worried eyes had the chance to catch up. "But..."

"But...?"

Charles puffed, raising his arms in a sharp shrug before letting his hands fall to his sides with an audible slap. "We can't find you. Anywhere."

Edwin frowned. "Are you certain?"

"Yep. Found an Edward Payne," said Crystal. "But he died in 1909."

"My grandfather," said Edwin, absently. He went to the funeral. He thinks...

"Yeah, well. Closest we've got." Crystal crossed her arms uncomfortably. "There was... we found your mom's stone, but. Your name wasn't on it."

Edwin closed his eyes and exhaled, slowly. "Right. Well. I thought this might be an issue." He adjusted his coat. "If they labelled me a disappearance, it's possible they never had any sort of funeral."

"That's bollocks," was Charles' immediate and incensed response. "No memorial? Not even a bloody stone?"

"Could it be someplace else?" asked Crystal. "Do you have, like, family scattered across the country?"

"This was our plot for generations. We had a branch of the family in the north, but why they'd memorialise me there I haven't the faintest. We scarcely even visited." Edwin's leather gloves creaked, fist braced to fist. "However..."

"What?"

Edwin cleared his throat. "Well. There is, of course, the chapel annexed to St. Hilarion's. I seem to recall a small graveyard in the vicinity."

Even in the low light, Charles looked distinctly ill. "You reckon they buried you there?"

"Evidently, Charles, they didn't bury me at all," he said. "But if there's anywhere else a memorial might be..."

"Great," said Crystal, in a bitter, biting tone that communicated the exact opposite. She sounded about as happy about the lead as Edwin felt. "So. Guess we're going back."

"I suppose so."

"Do we have to?" asked Charles, plaintive. "I mean — no rule saying we have to bury you where your old man put your grave marker, is there?"

"Strictly speaking, no," said Edwin, peevish. "But in the absence of an alternative plan, I think it important we do everything in our power to execute this one flawlessly. It is as I said, only a proper burial will do — and regardless of your hole-digging technique, Charles, I doubt disposing of me in an unmarked pit in the woods is liable to solve anything."

Crystal inhaled sharply.

Charles stared at him, stricken. "Christ, Edwin. I'd fucking never. You know I'd never."

Edwin sighed — a dry, rattling sound. "I know. I... I apologise."

Silence hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable. At least, Edwin imagined it did. For him, silence was a long-lost friend; he'd not met a silence these last days that couldn't be filled with the hushed, manic whispers of the dead.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, massaging his temple. "I'm... I'm not myself."

Dull, distant pressure brushed his hand aside; and Charles held his shoulders and met his eyes.

"You're fine, mate," he said, voice low, urgent. "Just under a bit of stress, yeah?"

Edwin took a slow, steadying inhale, and looked at Charles — even though a part of him wasn't wholly sure he had the right to do so. Charles' signature eyeliner was faded, the neat arcs reduced to dark smudges, making his eyes appear sunken and bruised. It was a little affectation of his, a tell, like misty breaths and uncontrollable shivers. The true emotions peeking through the cracks. He looked about as haggard and overstretched as their poor living colleague did.

And it was all Edwin's doing.

He gathered himself, insomuch as there was anything left to gather. "Well. Mustn't dawdle," he said, giving Charles' arm a brief pat before stepping back from his hands and taking hold of the trolley. "Let us hasten to that chapel while the night is on our side."

Crystal glanced between them both, then evidently decided whatever she wanted to say wasn't worth it. "Fine." She huffed as she collected up an armful of shovels and torches. "Jenny's gonna be real stoked about how many places her van's been seen loitering around tonight."

She tromped off towards the borrowed van in question, looking for all the world like a rather dejected and unsuccessful grave robber. Edwin supposed it did look a bit suspicious, from an outside perspective. Certainly Jenny would have had words to say, if she knew what they were up to. But Jenny was otherwise occupied tonight, and Crystal had a newly minted driver's licence, so there'd been little point bothering her. Crystal disappeared over the grassy verge, leaving Edwin and Charles alone with a couple more shovels and a restless cart of bones.

Charles gave Edwin another worried look, and reached for the pull handle of the trolly. "Let me take those for a bit, mate," he said.

Edwin shook his head and tightened his grip. "They'll make a fuss."

"Well, they can bloody lump it for a minute, can't they?" said Charles. Firmly, but with care, he pried Edwin's finger's from the handle and replaced them with his own. Edwin winced in anticipation of a flare of pain that never came. For whatever reason, for the time being, the temperament of the bones remained stable.

Exhaling slowly, Edwin flexed his fingers. "Thank you," he muttered.

"S'alright." Charles was watching him, all too shrewdly. Shrewdness bore a rather unique flavour when Charles wielded it. Neither cutting nor cruel; it was simply an expression which asked if all was well, and saw right through to the real answer. "Did you..."

"Did I?"

"Did you wanna..." Charles bit his lip, and shrugged. "See anyone? Say anything? Seeing as we're here." He nodded towards the hunching shadows. "With them."

Edwin looked at his feet.

"You don't have to," Charles hastened to assure him. His free hand landed, with that reassuring Charles-signature firmness that carried even through the intangible ether, upon Edwin's shoulder. "Just thought I'd ask, yeah?"

Edwin turned his head to the grave plot. Generations of his family, from before his time, and after. Each as dead as he, or moreso. He imagined Aunt Florence was here, somewhere, despite her cemetery preferences. Uncle Cuthbert. Grandfather Edward. Mother. Father.

The names rang clear as a bell, graven across his memory in his own hasty handwriting. Etched year by torturous year in Hell into the pages of books and the dust of the walls lest he forget; lose the familiar syllables to the sands of time.

The faces to go with them?

Edwin pressed a hand to his chest, to the outline of his notebook where it lay tucked against his heart. The impression of a family crest. A singular tether, a constant reminder. A tribute, like his frantic scrawlings, to the name. Nothing more.

"I... think I'd rather not linger," he said, shamefaced, looking at Charles' hand — if only to avoid his eyes. "If it's all the same to you."

He watched Charles release him. But not without a squeeze, and a slow trail of his hand down his arm. As if to prolong the non-touch as long as possible.

"Say no more, mate," he said, low and achingly kind, as he shored up his hold upon Edwin's mortal remains. "Say no more."

He followed in Crystal's footsteps, towing the trunk and its contents with care and attention. Edwin followed, and did not look back. Perhaps it was for the better, that they'd found no grave waiting to receive him.

He had no wish to be buried amongst strangers.

~

Returning to St. Hilarion's even once had been quite enough for Edwin's nerves. Twice was pushing it. But needs must when the devil drives. And with his own bones now found — and apparently happy to keep their interference to a low, droning whisper whilst being towed along in Charles' steady hand — at least there were no extreme supernatural weather conditions to contend with.

The chapel, as well, was an altogether less familiar area of campus. Edwin had spent his fair share of time there, of course, for Sunday service amongst others. But the headmaster in his time had preferred to conduct assemblies elsewhere, and so the chapel became an infrequent haunt. And a relatively peaceful one, considering his bullies had to torment him very, very quietly, lest they incur the wrath of this God fellow. Or, more pressingly, the wrath of the bishop with the sharp eyes and cutting tongue. He never raised a hand to them himself, but was always quite happy to recommend any ne'er-do-wells for punishment from the school staff. As a result, Sunday service was somewhat of a sanctuary in Edwin's week, which he'd enjoyed greatly; even if the boredom threatened at times to choke him. But he daren't attempt to hide more interesting reading material in his prayer book. Just because he was rarely a target for the bishop's ire did not mean he didn't carry a healthy respect for it.

Much like the rest of the school, the chapel had been well-kept since Edwin's day. Though he wondered if it saw as much use in these enlightened times. Did they still herd the boarders in the door every Sunday? The grass outside was short and freshly chopped. He experienced a moment's pure nostalgia for the fragrance that always erupted about the school when the groundskeeper had been out and about with his little push-mower. That bright, green, fresh scent that bled through the open windows of the classroom on a summer's afternoon, a stark contrast to the smell of books and bodies and the throat-clagging chalk dust. It wasn't often Edwin so keenly missed his sense of smell, but that had always been one of his favourites. Remembered with a vivid fondness not even afforded to his own immediate family.

Being buried on school grounds was certainly not ideal; but buried under fresh cut grass, that he could abide.

"Well," Charles muttered. "This shouldn't take long."

In contrast to the sprawl of Kensal Green cemetery — and even the relatively small subsection of the Payne family plot — the St. Hilarion's graveyard amounted to a mere handful of scattered stones. It seemed relatively few new additions had sprung up since Edwin's time.

"Good," he said, dryly. "They must not be haemorrhaging students at a breakneck pace."

Charles tossed him a wry grin. "S'pose we're special then, eh?"

"Wait," said Crystal. "Charles, is one of these yours?"

He shook his head. "Nah. I'm over Croydon way."

Edwin's gaze snapped to him. "You are?"

"Yeah. Found out a while back." He shrugged, but his expression had clouded. Somewhere behind his eyes, a distant rumble of warning thunder. "Should've been cremated, really. Always thought, 'cause of mum... but, well. Dad had to go and steamroll that, didn't he?" He kicked a clump of loose sod at the side of the cobble path. "Just like he always does. Can't not have it his way, can he?"

Edwin wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that rhetorical. If he were Charles, someone more at ease with the practice of offering comfort, he might have reached out to touch him. But he was no such thing.

"Charming man," he muttered instead, tongue dripping venom. And that, at least, coaxed a wry smile from Charles' scowling lips.

"Right then. Better get looking, hadn't we?" said Charles, as he gently passed the trolley handle back into Edwin's hand, fingers lingering in the changeover. "Be careful, yeah?"

Edwin smiled, tightly, and offered Charles a torch. "Of course."

Charles took it, and he and Crystal marched grimly towards the grave plots. Crystal, Edwin noticed, walked in close step, and gave Charles the reassuring squeeze that Edwin himself had failed to provide. He averted his eyes, glowering at the infernal trunk he was once more saddled with.

It didn't sit well with Edwin. Waiting. He liked to be pragmatic. Not in Charles' sense of the word, of course — impulsive decisions were neither his preference nor his specialty, and he was loathe to charge into a situation unprepared. But preparation in itself was a form of pragmatism, and Edwin had been feeling woefully understocked on both these past few days. When the only resources they had to hand were a single book and the odd scattered diary entry, it made it rather difficult to contribute in any meaningful way to the case. It hadn't even been his idea to fasten the trunk to the trolley — at most, he could claim credit for holding the tape.

Well. He'd had quite enough of waiting. Squaring his shoulders, he took a firmer grip on the handle. "Come along, then," he told his bones brusquely. "Let us see what we can see."

The wheels of the luggage trolley were not well suited to grass and dirt. Edwin wove a very slow, very stilted path across the green, full of routine stops to disentangle the axles from tangles of loose cuttings. But he made it, eventually, to the yard, exchanging a glance with Crystal as he went. She made no efforts to stop him, for which he was quietly grateful. As she continued to inspect the smattering of stones in the southernmost stretch of the small yard, Edwin surveyed the ones closer to the gate. Many of which were clearly too modern to be his, but it made sense to leave no tombstone unturned.

He was directing his gaze away from the carving of a lamb upon an older stone, when something caught his eye. A single name amongst a jumble of them.

His breath caught.

"Edwin?" Charles called, his voice very distant, rising in budding concern. "Edwin, I still can't see you anywhere, mate..."

"Me either," added Crystal.

Edwin didn't look at either of them; cold to his very soul. "I can."

He heard rather than saw their approach, Charles and his insensible loafers skidding in the dirt alongside the confident crunch of Crystal's sturdy boots. The noise stopped abruptly when they reached his side; and silence reigned as they read what was written.

"Shit..." Crystal muttered.

"Edwin," said Charles, quiet. "What's this about?"

"I don't know," said Edwin, his own soft voice roaring like a waterfall in his ears. "But I can make an educated guess."

The stone which bore Edwin's name was not a dedicated gravestone at all. What it was was a tall, distinctive structure, carved in the image of a celtic cross. A better word for it might be cenotaph. Beneath the most prominent engraving on the plaque, the fairly boilerplate 'IN PROUD REMEMBRANCE', a list of names. Edwin's peeked out from within it, almost timid. Eighth down in the roster, amongst a handful of others. All familiar, some more than others. The name Simon Fairfax stood out somewhat.

Charles took a knee in the dirt beside him, reaching out. His gloved fingertips traced Edwin's name in the brass. "Mate..."

It took Edwin some moments to find his voice again.

"Act of God," Edwin parrotted, dully. "Covers all manner of sins, does it not?"

Crystal squatted at his other side, arms folded on her knees.

Edwin wondered who'd originated this rather ingenious cover. The school, or his family. How long had his parents waited, he wondered. How hard had they looked. Did they know, from the moment news of his disappearance reached them, that this was how they'd explain it away? Or did this happy coincidence not occur to them until some time later?

It was rather easier to explain, wasn't it? No uncomfortable questions to be fielded about where Edwin was last seen, or with whom. About why he could have been a target for abuse at the hands of his peers. About what he and at least one other of the boys who'd disappeared that night had in common. An easy explanation; and an easy, expeditious route to a noble death.

He laughed, cut-glass sharp. "How convenient."

"Shit..." Crystal muttered. "Shit. Edwin, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, no, don't be. It's the kindest thing, is it not?" he spat, fingers tightening to a bruising grip on the trolley handle. "I should be thanking them, really. How thoughtful of them to spare me the embarrassment."

"Edwin..." said Charles.

"Really, what a kindness. What a gracious act of self-sacrifice to cover up the truth of the matter for my sake." The words were coming thick and fast, now, but he hadn't the wherewithal to care. He had dead lungs with no need for oxygen, and no shortage of acidic vitriol to burn. "It must have been so very difficult for them, to stand in front of all our friends, relatives, all of father's business associates and lie. Poor Edwin, ran away with his chums to join the front lines. Fought valiantly, or so we heard. How brave of him, that hard-headed, foolish boy. How tragic to see a fine young man cut off in his prime. Oh, but not to worry. At least he died a hero's death, him and all of his little friends. At least he died defending his country, and not in the school that we sent him to, screaming, begging. Pinned against his will, writhing on his back and sobbing like a wretched little Mary Ann!"

The hated words, like a bitter incantation, broke the spell. The red haze bled from his vision and soon, all that was left in its place was sorrow. So old, so aching it could be felt, quite literally, in his very bones.

Closer closer closer please closer...

He dropped the handle, uncaring for how they cried, how it hurt in his head and his heart. How a small, broken part of him wished, shamefully, to throw himself upon them and melt like wax just to make it all stop.

Hold me. Please hold me...

But he sat petrified, a statue among the stones, between Crystal's hand at his elbow and Charles' on his shoulder. Bound inescapably to the terrible moment and so he did the only thing he could think to do. The only thing he felt capable of doing.

He wept.

~

Minutes ticked, inexorably, into hours. A light rain fell, staining the weathered cenotaph a deeper, slicker grey. A stone effigy of a darkening stormcloud.

It was when the sky had wept its fill, when the rain had left behind only a glimmering beading upon the neatly trimmed cemetery grass, that Edwin's tears likewise subsided. He blinked up at the dawn's gloaming.

"Hey," said Crystal, quiet. He looked at her; her jacket was sodden and her curls had been tamped down by the persistent, penetrating drizzle. She hadn't complained once.

Edwin found, with a somewhat detached sense of surprise, that he was as drenched as their living friend. His blazer was heavy with water, his knees damp and grass-stained. A slick forelock of his hair had split from formation to curl, limply, in his vision. He looked to Charles and found he, at least, was dry. But the slight tremor of his hand, the soft puffs of vaporous air from his lips denoted a worry he was simply keeping a tight lid upon.

With a ragged exhale, Edwin wiped his eyes. How strange, to not feel the water, and yet to see his fingers come away wet. "I'm sorry."

Quick as a flash, Charles' hands were upon him. On his neck, cupping his jaw, turning Edwin to face him. Edwin had never so deeply craved something he couldn't have in his life; he wanted the warmth of Charles' hands. Wanted them to ward off the ice settling upon his very soul.

"Oi. You have nothing to be sorry about," said Charles, serious as the grave.

Edwin breathed in, slow and shuddering, and nodded. His hand found Charles', and held on tight.

"Are you okay?" asked Crystal. Then, with an audible wince: "Shit, of course you're not okay. I mean, like... physically, are you okay? You look..."

A droplet of water broke from the tip of Edwin's flyaway hair. "Like a drowned rat?"

"Uh. Yeah. Kinda."

Edwin shook his head. "They're — this near to them, it's like I can..." He shivered. "Everything feels very... close."

"Hey, now. You're alright. You're okay, yeah? Here." Charles shrugged out of his coat, and draped it over Edwin's shoulders. "It's alright, mate."

It made precious little difference, of course, being draped in a piece of ghostly wool. He'd much rather Charles have kept it for himself, to stave off his own spectral chill. But he clutched it tight to his chest, nonetheless.

"So what now?" asked Crystal, bleakly.

Edwin had no answer for her.

"Could try burying 'em with your family, anyway," said Charles. "Make a grave ourselves. A proper one."

"It won't work," said Edwin, softly.

"Why not?" asked Crystal.

Edwin wasn't wholly sure why it wouldn't, but it wouldn't. He'd felt the unrest of the bones at the very suggestion, in the back of his mind. As if an invisible hand had grabbed at his head and yanked it back by the scalp.

"They don't want to be there," he said, gathering Charles' coat tight around him. "He doesn't... I don't."

Crystal rubbed her face. If there was any of her eye cosmetic left behind from these frantic days, it had been washed away by the rain. "Would here work? I know it's not like, a real grave, but..."

Edwin, considering it, stretched out a shaking hand and sank his fingers into the wet, unresisting dirt beneath the stone. The pain was as immediate as it was pronounced. Less a pull of the hair, and more of an icepick to the frontal lobe. "No," he grit out through clenched teeth, falling back on his haunches in the grass. "No, no, here... here won't do, either."

"Maybe they don't even bloody want to be buried." Charles threw up his hands in frustration, before raking both through his hair. "Christ, not got much to go on, have we?"

Silence hung in the air following his outburst, taut and trembling; until Crystal snipped the thread. "But we could."

Charles' gaze snapped to her. "No."

"What choice do we have, Charles?" she argued. "If there's no grave, and if they don't want us to make one, then — then we've gotta find out what they do want. And I have a way to do it."

"It's too dangerous," he said, bringing his hands down to his thighs with an impact for emphasis. "Right, Edwin?"

Edwin looked at her, and she at him. She raised her eyebrows.

"It is too dangerous," he agreed, barely above a whisper. "And I cannot ask you to do it."

She hesitated, then put her hand on his arm. "But you want to ask me."

He nodded.

She nodded in return. "Then I'll do it."

"Crys..." Charles mumbled.

"Charles," she said, in a tone that took no prisoners. "Open the box."

He glanced between them, fists clenching fretfully on his knees. But one look at Edwin's sorry state, and he seemed to make his uneasy peace with the idea. "Alright. Alright..."

It was hardly a quick or elegant process, laying the trolley down flat and cutting through the yards and yards of heavy-duty duct tape with Charles' pocket knife. Some cursing was involved, and Edwin considered, briefly, that perhaps they ought to have adjourned to the office for this part. But it was too late now. The trunk's mummifying wrappings lay in mangled shreds about the grass, and Charles had the padlock in hand. He cast Edwin one more wary, terrified glance, before he willed it open with a click and let it fall to the ground with a damp and anticlimactic squelch.

The trunk swung open with its customary ominous creak. That faint blue iridescence from within shone upon the weathered planes of the cenotaph, and on each of their harrowed faces. Still vibrant in the pre-dawn light, not yet drowned by the encroaching sun.

Crystal climbed to her knees, shuffled closer, and propped her elbows upon the edge of the box. Her face was sallow in the direct glow of the contents, her eyes disconcertingly enormous.

"Careful..." said Charles, visibly twitching with the effort of not pulling her back. "Just..."

"Don't die?" she muttered.

He chewed his lip. "You've still got a life to lose," he mumbled.

She looked at him with a weary kindness, then. Tucked away somewhere in the wry uptick of her smile. "I'm not gonna." She glanced between him and Edwin as she reached out, tentative, naught outstretched but her littlest finger. "Guess you're both stuck with me."

Edwin's breath hitched. He extended his hand to her. "Crystal..."

But she closed the distance, first; her finger brushing like a kiss upon the crown of Edwin's bare, hollow skull.

The effect was instantaneous; her eyes clouding into perfect white pearls, her mouth falling open. Edwin half expected her to scream like a banshee, or start speaking in tongues but it was far, far worse.

She started crying.

It was a hideous sound, wet and wrenching; the sort of crying that had to escape through the mouth lest it force itself through the ribs instead. Edwin's blood ran cold.

"Crystal, that's enough now," he pleaded, trying — and failing — to keep his voice level against the rising panic. He reached to touch her, but hesitated — what if he only need touch the bones by proxy to fall into their trap? "Crystal, let go, please —"

Charles had no such considerations. "Crystal!" he hollered, throwing himself at her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "Crystal, stop it, now!"

He pulled, and her hand parted from the skull.

She inhaled sharply, her eyes flashing back to normal in the space of a blink. The tears, however, continued to roll.

"Crystal. Crystal, you alright?" asked Charles, frantic. He'd yet to release his hold upon her, rocking her back and forth with his own restless motions.

She sobbed, burying her face into Charles' arms.

Edwin swallowed, and inched forward. "Crystal. What did you see?"

"Oi! Give her a sec!" Charles defended.

But Edwin could feel it, already, the bones and their insistence creeping back into his mind. Maddeningly inscrutable. If Crystal had managed to get even a glimpse...

"Crystal, please," he breathed, hushed and intense, crowding closer. He took her trembling hands in his, letting Charles' coat fall from his shoulders to the ground. "Please, Crystal, what did you see? What does he want?"

When she finally looked at him, he wished she hadn't. Not even in his lowest moments had he ever felt such pity in her gaze.

"He's so lonely," she said, sounding very small and very broken, very little like herself at all. "That's all. There's nothing else he wants, nothing else he knows, he just." She sniffed. "He just doesn't want to be alone anymore."

Hold me please hold me...

Edwin slumped, a dead weight. Cold and heavy as the stones which surrounded them.

“How long… How long will I have to stay with him in order to make him… happy? Do you think?”

"It's been in front of us the entire time," he said, voice ringing out hollow in the cold snap of the graveyard air. "It was so obvious, we just..."

Before my very eyes he melted, oozed, his liquid remains drawn to the bones like water to a spigot, like gas to a vacuum.

"I just did not wish to see it."

He saw Crystal's hands squeeze his, unfeeling. She may as well be across the universe.

"Edwin..." said Charles, low and urgent. His hand reached out past Crystal, going for Edwin's shoulder, where it belonged.

Edwin flinched. "Don't."

Charles froze.

"I'm sorry," Edwin whispered. "But please don't."

He couldn't bear it, another empty embrace, another grip without weight or warmth. To touch Charles without feeling him. Not now.

His pitiful, cadaverous heart couldn't take one more drop.

~

Dawn crept up on them, a silent hunter; rosy claws touching upon three harrowed faces in a graveyard. Each as young, as open, as lost as the next.

Somewhere in the woods, the first blackbird of the morning began to sing.

~~

Thank you to all who've bookmarked, subscribed, and especially commented, love you loads, until next time 💛

[breckstonevailskier]

When you take away the biased framing against John, it becomes clear that Sam only is seen as the "good guy" because he has Protagonist Centered Morality on his side.

Watched the Thunderbolts* Trailer and….

Hyped for the movie and all but I got reminded of this one thing that annoyed the crap out of me when I watched Falcon & The Winter Soldier..

The way that John Walker was treated in and out of the verse! He deadass didn't even do anything bad!

From the jump he was humble about being Cap, he made it clear was wasn't trying to replace Stev, he tried to be friendly and work with Sam & Bucky, and most importantly this was a position pushed onto him! But Bucky, Sam & the Fans somehow saw him as some kind of egomaniac who needed to be taken down a peg.

Dumbasses getting upset over him using a Gun like Steve wasn't using one in the first Avenger. He’s Captain *America*! Not Batman!

“Oh, he killed a defenseless man in broad daylight!” He killed a Super Soldier Terrorist who just a minute ago was trying to kill him and helped kill his best friend. The only reason the Gov turned their backs on John was because it happened in public and they wanted to save face.

“Him getting beat up by Sam & Bucky was so satisfying!” 1. They barely won that and they were jumping him! 2. Sam & Bucky were petty assholes to him the whole time they knew him just because he was assigned a position that Sam refused. Sam ran a support group for Vets with PTSD, he should've been more understanding when it came to John!

John was legit just doing his job. Sam & Bucky were the ones who made shit worse, they helped Zemo, the man who killed the King of Wakanda & single-handedly broke up the Avengers, escape from prison then helped the Power Broker, who was the cause of the issue with the Flag Smashers, get a direct connection to Government resources.

The Writers and Media pushed the narrative that he should be hated even though he didn't do shit and I hope he gets some kind of Justice in Thunderbolts* but I doubt it.

[walker-extended-universe]

[violetngrey]

A part 2 to the Charlie walker 10 things?? Maybe they go on a date or something?

well it’s definitely something

part 1

# :: 𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 🫧 - 𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒎𝒂 𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒃 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒆

after yesterdays flirtatious conversation charlie had with you he couldn’t get you off of his mind

he kept replaying the whole thing in his head over and over

“you don’t have to lie to me to talk to me” you laughed

“who said i was lying”

you just laughed and smiled “i’m y/n”

“i know”

you’d awkwardly gotten up and left after and he could just hit himself as it was the perfect opportunity to ask you out

he spent days thinking about ways to talk to you again all while you sat quietly in the back of the club

recently you’d been missing some of the clubs sessions and charlie had started to get concerned

after class had ended one night he went to seek you out

vaguely knowing where your locker was he made sure to not get in anyones way

there you were

smiling and laughing with another boy

this struck something within charlie he didn’t know he had

“heyyy y/n, i was just looking for you” he decided to put his hand round your waist

risky move

the other guy, much taller than charlie looked rather confused as it’d seemed she been flirting with him back

“hey charlie, you’re late” you gave him a look

the other guy ended up skulking off after a few of charlie’s diabolical looks

he quickly took his arm back and turned to you

she just thanked him and said the guy had been bothering her for a while now and doesn’t like coming down this corridor anymore because he know this is her locker

something about him wanting to take her out on the town next week

so that’s why she wasn’t coming to cinema club recently

it was his fault

he’d pay for that later

“how about i take you out instead”

charlie blushed a lot more recently

“only if you want to of course”

y/n seems to blush a lot round him

tucking her oh so soft hair behind her ear she agreed

charlie would be picking her up on friday night from her house for a date

just one more day to get through until then

he definitely went home that night and had a victory wank

it’s not like he hasn’t done it before over her but this time there was progress

he’d completely forgotten he used to stutter over kirby just six months ago when she teased him and now he’s not bothered at all

robbie definitely noticed

kirby seemed to notice too

she started making conversation with him more

trying to get him to talk about movies with her and jill often

he was definitely nervous if he should get you flowers or not

friday rolled around way too quickly for charlies nerves to settle

especially after he’s had such a busy thursday

he already knew your address so it was only a matter of time

a button up shirt, nice jeans and converse and charlie felt sick

he’d never felt this way before

always racking his hair back

red roses were presented upon opening your front door

“just like the movies”

he’d pick a fancy restaurant as he had no idea what you liked

getting there just in time, the reservation didn’t go through

you guys ended up driving to the local shop and buying strawberries, chocolate and some random junk food

you both sat eating them in the boot of his car

he ended up melting the chocolate with his lighter and you both had chocolate covered strawberries

as you smudged a bit on his cheek and he retaliated by throwing half a strawberry at you

which got onto your clothes a little

“i’m sorry, okay! how was i supposed to know you’re weak to strawberries”

you scoffed and got the tissues out the front door pocket

you heard a shuffle and a bump from charlie in the back causing you to look up

he was shoving something back into the boot underlining

you thought he definitely skateboards

abandoning the tissues and taking it out of his backseat you rushed up to the boot of the car

he just looked surprised

he didn’t skateboard

he stood there teaching you and helping you not fall off around the parking lot

by the time you could somewhat push by yourself charlie would retreat to the car

he was still nervous

he called it a night rather suddenly as you guys left the parking lot

the red had started to drip out the underside of his car

at least the guy won’t be bothering you anymore

please support me by reblogging / commenting / liking my posts! it means so much to me!

I love anyone’s requests so much and it gives me even more ideas and inspiration to come up with more.

[captainwidowspring]

Those were some amazing points you made about Walker being needlessly framed as a bad guy by The Falcon and The Winter Soldier's narrative. It definitely is not unlike Wanda and other members of Team Cap being vilified in Civil War. Morally speaking, I'd say the whole act of Walker bludgeoning Nico is similar to Cap using the shield to disable Tony's suit, right down to the fact that they were using force against someone who still very much posed an active threat (Tony being just a bit more obvious an active threat given how he was actively trying to murder Bucky).

Thank you!

You are definitely right that John using the shield on Nico and Steve using the shield on Tony are both similar in that the shield was being used to subdue an active threat. And funnily enough, another similarity between those two moments is that the shots of Steve and John bringing the shield down on someone below them both served the same purpose: they were both intended to turn the audience against the shield-bearer even though the shield-bearer was not acting unreasonably. This was done by playing up the apparent helplessness of the person who the shield was being used on, despite the fact that both people had come very close to killing their respective shield-bearer, and were still a significant danger to them at the time of the shield's use. Though obviously this manipulation was done with more intensity in John's case, and so was more successful.

Now, due to the fact that Steve and John used the shield in such a similar way, people love to compare the Siberia fight and Nico's death scene: and all too often, people who like Steve but hate John will point to Siberia as an example of why John is not as good a Captain America as Steve. However, the problem with this is that while the actions taken by Steve and John are similar, the circumstances surrounding them are not. Despite the surface-level similarities of the two situations, there are also major differences, so comparing them is really not fair. There are two main reasons why the situations are not directly comparable.

(1) Tony hadn't killed Bucky. He may have blasted Bucky's arm off and then kicked him in the head, but Bucky was still alive, and could recover from this. Thus, while Steve was certainly very angry, he was not filled with the blinding rage and anguish that Bucky's death would have caused.

And we saw how clearly furious Steve was at Tony just injuring Bucky, how it gave him great strength despite his exhaustion and serious injuries: so it's like, if Tony had actually managed to kill Bucky, would Steve have been able to stop at just disabling the suit? If Tony had murdered Bucky and robbed Steve of his best friend, of his longest-running relationship, of the person who had been a heimat (home-place) for as long as he could remember, of the last remaining person who knew Steve before he became Captain America, of the last remaining person who had been with him in the 1940s, after he had literally just gotten all of this back—all while Tony knew full well that Bucky was not to blame for the supposed reason that he had been trying to murder him—would Steve really have been able to control himself enough to spare Tony?

Meanwhile, John had just lost Lemar; Lemar who was his friend who fought beside him, who he trusted with his life, who he probably couldn't imagine his life without, who was one of the few people with whom he could just be John and not Captain America. Unlike Bucky, Lemar wasn't just badly injured, he was completely dead. And Nico might not have been the one to strike the killing blow against Lemar, but he played an active role in the murder, as he is the reason that Lemar had to save John in the first place, and he prevented John from being able to defend Lemar from Karli. So he was definitely not innocent.

Then to add insult to injury, Nico yelled at John, "It wasn't me!" even though he played a major role in Lemar's murder. And Nico being the one to say that would have been particularly insulting to John because he is the one who prevented John from being able to do anything other than watch while Lemar was killed. This is what causes John to lose it and kill him, as if you watch the scene it's clear that John made no move to harm Nico until after he said that. It would be like if Tony killed Bucky and then had the audacity to say, "I didn't mean to!" even though such a claim would be demonstrably not true.

Thus, Steve when he got the upper hand over Tony was not forced to deal with as much emotion as John had to when he got the upper hand over Nico. Tony had merely injured Bucky, not played a part in his murder like Nico had with Lemar, and Tony also did not go on to say something that would salt Steve's wounds, the way Nico did to John when he sought to minimize his role in the incident. So Steve already had a huge advantage over John in that respect.

(2) There was also the fact that Tony is just a normal human. This meant that all Steve had to do was disable the Iron Man suit in order to decisively end the fight. That was obviously not the case for Nico, as since he was a supersoldier, he was just as strong as John and could not so easily be rendered harmless. Indeed, people often seem to conveniently forget that just a few minutes before Nico had been holding John completely helpless, and would have been complicit in his murder had Lemar not stepped in, so Nico was by no means outmatched by John. Perhaps John could have tried to knock Nico out, but if the helicarrier battle in The Winter Soldier is anything to go by, supersoldiers don't remain unconscious for very long. So unlike Tony after his suit had been disabled, even though John had Nico on the ground, Nico was still very much capable of threatening John, and hard to safely neutralize. Despite John's advantageous position, there was no easy way for him to quickly and decisively subdue Nico. And indeed, if Tony was a supersoldier and so disabling the suit did not remove the threat he posed, Siberia would have been a very different story.

What also gave Steve an advantage in the situation was the fact that Tony was wearing a metal suit. This way, Steve had ample opportunity take out his anger on the armor without hurting Tony. Indeed, while Tony and Friday were discussing Steve's fight pattern, Steve appeared to be blindly pummeling Tony rather than actually trying to defeat him. And after Tony kicked Bucky in the head, Steve furiously punched Tony's armor three times before he used his shield to disable it. Considering that his goals at that point were to take off Tony's helmet and break the arc reactor, neither of which could be effectively accomplished by punches, this appears to be a calculated effort by him to release enough of his built-up fury that he could restrain himself enough to spare Tony.

However, there was obviously no equivalent conveniently available way that John could harmlessly take out his rage toward Nico. And it's definitely worth wondering whether Steve would have been able to control his anger as well as he did had he not gotten the chance to let some of it out first.

Therefore, Steve had much less to deal with than John did, as well as a safe way to release some of his anger. This is why trying to use Siberia as an example of why Steve is better than John is disingenuous, because Steve was dealing with much kinder circumstances.

The following would be a much more directly comparable situation. At the beginning of the Siberia fight, when Tony tries to missile Bucky in the face and Bucky turns it aside, the redirected missile causes a section of the building to collapse. Now, a few moments before this, Tony had produced some ankle-cuffs from his suit and put them on Steve. Steve managed to get out of them, though, which was very lucky because he had been in the section of the building that was collapsing.

However, imagine that Steve hadn't in fact been able to get out of the cuffs, and so had been crushed to death by the falling debris. Now, imagine that shortly after this, Bucky managed to get into a position where he had the upper hand over Tony (and for the sake of direct comparison, suppose that his suit was still somewhat functional, so he was still a threat). If Tony then panicked and yelled, "I didn't mean to!" and Bucky then lost it and killed him, would Bucky subsequently be demonized for it?

Honestly, probably, but there are plenty of people who would be able to forgive Bucky for being off-balance from his best friend's death, especially since it would be easy to see why Tony yelling what he did would have caused Bucky to lose it. It would also probably be easy for many people to see that Tony said "I didn't mean to!" because he was afraid of what Bucky would do to him, and not because he wanted to surrender, was actually remorseful about Steve's death, or had even lost his desire to kill Bucky. In addition, while people might be able to extend sympathy toward Tony due to the fact that he most likely didn’t actually mean to kill Steve, this would not obscure his responsibility for Steve’s death. While he might not have intentionally or directly killed Steve, he would still be responsible for the fact that he had been trying to kill Bucky, and this would undermine the sincerity of his claim because he had been aiming to kill, it was just that the wrong person ended up dead.

It is therefore quite frustrating that many people cannot extend the same compassion to John, when that is pretty much the situation he was in. He was just as off-balance as Bucky would have been after his best friend's death—while subsequently being further unbalanced by an insulting half-truth that his adversary uttered—and Nico was just as guilty as Tony would have been. While Nico saying “It wasn’t me!” might have been true in that he wasn’t the one who personally ended Lemar’s life, it was still the case that his attempt to murder John directly contributed to Lemar’s death. And it is clear that Nico was only upset because the person who ended up being killed was not the one he had intended—he would have been quite fine with it if John had perished—and the person he had actually been aiming for had regained the ability to fight back.

And Nico yelling, “It wasn’t me!” was no more an attempt to surrender than Tony’s words would have been. It was just him trying to absolve himself of responsibility for the situation he had helped cause. And his lack of intention to surrender is further demonstrated by the fact that he tries to get back up multiple times. The second time John hits Nico with the shield, he falls over. Nico then tries to get back up, so John hits him with the shield again. He tries to get back up yet again, so finally John puts his foot on Nico's chest to keep him down. It is only then that Nico yells, "It wasn't me!" This is not the behavior of someone who is interested in surrendering, this is the behavior of someone who is terrified that they don't have the upper hand anymore. If Nico had wanted to surrender, he would have stayed down the first time.

If we're looking for an analogous scenario that involves Steve, though, a much more closely comparable situation would be to see how he reacted after he thought Bucky had been killed. And even just a surface-level look at the situations reveals the fandom's hypocrisy. When, after Bucky had supposedly been killed by a member of the terrorist organization he and Steve were fighting, Steve vowed not to stop "until all of Hydra is dead or captured", people had no problem with it, even though only the one Hydra agent was involved in Bucky's apparent death. So Steve doubtlessly killed plenty of Hydra agents who were not even present at Bucky's fall to avenge him, but this was not seen as troublesome. Yet, after Lemar is killed by a member of the terrorist organization he and John were fighting, when John kills one Flagsmasher, who played an active role in Lemar's murder, minutes after he had been forced to watch the murder while being restrained by that same person, he is suddenly completely evil?

In fact, reflecting on Bucky's fall further reveals the fandom hypocrisy, for the Hydra agent is exactly as responsible for Bucky's death as Nico is for Lemar's death. After all, all the Hydra agent did was knock Bucky from the train, which Bucky initially survived because he managed to grab a handlebar. His "death" came when the handlebar gave out before Steve was able to grab him, which is not at all the Hydra agent's fault.

However, if Steve was subsequently shown killing that Hydra agent, even if the Hydra agent tried to deflect the blame and cried out, "I didn't mean for that to happen! I was just following orders!" it is not likely that people would then be all like "Steve is such a monster!!! He killed someone who is not entirely responsible for Bucky's death!!!!!" For while the Hydra agent might not have been the only one responsible for Bucky's "death", he clearly played a major role, and had still been previously been trying to kill Steve.

Indeed, it is pretty obvious how ridiculous trying to defend the Hydra agent would be, so it's baffling that people cannot see how ridiculous it is to try to apply that same argument to Nico. Just as Bucky's fall from the train could not have happened without the Hydra agent, Lemar's murder could not have happened without Nico's contributions. And just like the Hydra agent was previously trying to kill Steve, Nico had previously been engaged in trying to kill John.

Of course, people's lack of willingness to forgive John might be partly caused by the fact that The Falcon and the Winter Soldier was hating on John from the beginning, while neither The First Avenger nor The Winter Soldier (nor The Avengers (2012) or Age of Ultron) extensively hated on Steve. This way, even though there was significant hatred directed toward Steve in Civil War, it was somewhat tempered by the previously balanced portrayals. John unfortunately had no such advantage.

Thus, while it is not hard to see why people are tempted to compare the Siberia scene to Nico's death scene, acting like one is worse than the other is misleading, for they are too different to provide an accurate comparison. More comparable examples can be thought up, and these are very revealing.

[foulfirerebel]

That makes too much sense.

Both Agent Walker and General Ironwood are really similar characters I think.

Both are well respected and relatively well liked military men who take great pride in their military and are subtly to overtly dismissive of civilian elements.

Both are men who want to establish communication with the rest of the world, but they made communication harder on themselves. Ironwood by closing Atlas off & Walker by refusing to go backwards.

Both are men who very much want to be heroes, to be saviors but whose skills and personalities lead them to choosing violence and force as their first response to problems.

Both are men who hold another ally in incredibly high regard, (Konrad & Ozpin) but whom they turn on when they need a scapegoat.

Both are men who cannot, will not , admit when they are wrong; they are instead, excellent at justifying whatever immoral decision they make. Be it shooting refugees or shooting their own citizens.

Both are men who directly and indirectly, intentionally and unintentionally cause mass death amongst civilians. Walker by his general penchant to shoot first, as well as using the White Phosphorus and destroying the water; Ironwood by cancelling the evacuation, shooting down evacuation ship and trying to bomb Mantle.

Both have narratives heavily defined by their desire to be a hero and their unchecked, unrestrained bullheadedness leading them down a path of murder and death. One they refused to admit they've been on until seemingly or at least potentially realizing it before they die.

("Was it? None of this would've happened if you'd just stopped. But on you marched. And for what?"

"No, you have sacrificed everyone else! You closed the borders, you squeezed Mantle until it broke!")

They're also both meta commentaries on the military industrial complex, military adventurism and military as saviors narratives.

So uh yeah, wow, there were even more than I realized.